NOTE: This bonus chapter contains SPOILERS and is meant to be read AFTER finishing Keyholder (The Wells of Power Book 1)
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Bidding the shining Kingdom of Vrelia goodbye left a bitter taste in Azariah’s mouth. Soon, this would be over. Soon, he would deliver Octavia to King Bastian Jasper and be free. But more and more, the idea of freedom at the cost of handing the Keyholder over to such a wicked man made Azariah question if he was actually going to finish the job.
But he wanted to live. He so desperately wanted to live. And for that alone, he would do it. He had learned to cope with his demons. He could learn to cope with this too…
Azariah encouraged his horse to move next to Octavia’s, and the two of them rode side by side in the afternoon sun. Azariah kept staring at her. Everything about this woman drove spikes of grief through him, but he simply had to hold out for five more days. He would guard his heart against her for a little while longer, and then he would do his best to forget that this had ever happened. He didn’t want to consider the alternative, because if he allowed himself to care, then he would be in real trouble.
No. He wouldn’t let himself feel anything for her. The cost of that was too high.
He forced himself to speak. “It’s another five days to Zoharth.”
Octavia glanced at him and took a deep breath. “I suppose you’ll be glad to be rid of me.”
Azariah didn’t respond, but he also couldn’t help the misery that claimed his face. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, his stomach churning uncomfortably. He didn’t want to do this—and a part of him wanted to tell her that. He wasn’t delivering her to Zoharth willingly, but he wasn’t going to chance breaking through the walls he had carefully crafted around his heart. There was no point in sharing anything with her, because he knew if he did, it would only make this harder.
Octavia continued to stare back at him, and in her eyes, there was something poignantly unspoken, like words of great importance were on the tip of her tongue, ready to fall from her lips.
But then she turned away from him.
She gave her horse a swift kick, but just as the creature began to canter, a wild rustling sounded from the trees all around them. Abruptly, soldiers on horseback emerged from the pines, and Azariah’s pulse spiked. He gripped the reins of his horse, pulling hard to stop the animal in its tracks.
The ambush surrounded them quickly, and the moment the number of men surpassed fifteen, Azariah knew there was nothing he could do to protect Octavia.
He drew his sword anyway, prodding the chestnut horse in front of Octavia’s white horse. Swords flew from the sheaths of a group that was now sixty strong.
As Azariah’s gaze darted from the soldiers’ red garb to their metal armor, recognition twisted his stomach, and the person that caught his attention next slammed fear through his body like an anvil being dropped onto his chest. A bald man with a thick gray mustache, piercing gray-blue eyes, and a deep scar cutting across the right side of his face rode forward from the small army.
No…
It couldn’t be…
Azariah’s lungs constricted as Pierre Zarqel’s eyes landed on Octavia, and then Pierre’s lips split into a cruel smile. He pointed a parcel of waters directly at her chest, there was a flash of blue, then he tucked the vial into his crisp red vest.
“Hello, Keyholder,” he crooned. He gave a quick nod to his men. “Restrain them.”
It was as if Azariah had been sucked back into one of his nightmares. The horde on horseback closed in, and though Azariah attempted to fight them off, he couldn’t prevent Octavia’s horse from being separated from his.
He clashed swords with the nearest man, but that was all he could do before his weapon was yanked from his hands and he was forcibly shoved from the horse.
He fell to the ground—hard—and his wrists crashed into the dirt. He could hear Octavia screaming, and this made his chest seize. A singular and all-consuming thought attacked his mind: he had to save her. Whatever was to become of him, he had to fight for her. It was a feeling that claimed every piece of him, so he prayed to the gods for strength as he leapt to his feet.
Drawing his fist back, Azariah slammed it against a man’s lower jaw, causing him to fall straight back, but then a mob of soldiers surrounded him. A sharp blow landed on the back of his head, he dropped to the ground, and immediately, he was swarmed. The men began to kick him, and pain spiked through his torso. Boots connected with his ribs and back and arms—one even caught his lower lip, splitting it open. Over and over again, the men kicked him, and the blows felt like fire. He curled into a ball, shielding his face, but it did little to temper the assault.
“STOP IT! STOP! Don’t hurt him!” Octavia shrieked.
Pierre’s voice came out loud and harsh. “I said restrain him, not kill him!”
The mob dissipated at the command, and all Azariah could do was gasp. Pain riddled his body as rough hands hauled him up, which made his lungs spasm and his head swim.
Chains clinked around his wrists, and two large men held him steady as Pierre dismounted and walked up to him. There was a strange look on his brutish face, and then his lips parted as his gray-blue eyes grew wide.
“Take his mask off,” Pierre instructed.
The man to Azariah’s left tore the mask from his face, and there was a deafening silence. For the first time in three years, Azariah Ronan and Pierre Zarqel were standing face to face, only a foot apart, and the depth of pure rage that stirred in Azariah’s soul brought strength back to his limbs despite the beating he had just endured.
For several seconds, Pierre couldn’t speak, but then a sick pleasure crept over his features.
“Azariah Ronan,” he said in a slippery voice. “As I live and breathe.”
Azariah launched himself at Pierre, and the men restraining him nearly toppled to the ground. With all of his might, Azariah attempted to wrench himself free so he could tear Pierre’s throat apart with his teeth.
The soldiers, however, managed to keep their grip on him, and a violent blow landed against his stomach, causing him to double over and groan.
One of the men holding Azariah nodded up to the commander. “Pierre, you know him?”
Pierre traced his fingers over his thick gray mustache, a sinister look of pleasure befalling him. “Yes, I know him. We’re rather well acquainted. Aren’t we, Azariah?”
Azariah gritted his teeth and tried to charge at him again, but this time, the men holding him were ready, and they kept him back.
“You have the Keyholder?” Pierre mused, glancing at Octavia. “In the name of what Kingdom, may I ask?”
Without hesitation, Azariah spat in Pierre’s face.
A fist connected with his gut, and Azariah fell to his knees in the dirt, taking the soldiers to the ground with him, but still, they didn’t relinquish him. If anything, their grips tightened.
Pierre slowly wiped the saliva from his face, peering down at Azariah with an amused smile as he was yanked back to his feet.
“Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
He strode over to Octavia, who was now restrained between two soldiers as well, and he snatched her mask away, causing her to inhale sharply.
Once again, a look of pure shock radiated Pierre’s face. He stared at Octavia like he was unable to believe his eyes, and then his attention landed back on Azariah. A sinking feeling crashed through Azariah, and it took all of his self-control not to break down.
Pierre saw the resemblance too…
A horrible gut feeling told Azariah that things were about to take a turn for something far more sinister than he had bargained for.
“She’s the Keyholder?” A devilish grin split Pierre’s mouth so wide that all of his teeth showed, and a dark laugh escaped his lips. “Oh my… this must be absolutely killing you, Azariah. The gods of old are surely playing with you.”
Azariah’s heart pounded in his chest relentlessly as he fought against his body’s desire to throw him into complete panic. He had suffered years of torturous thoughts, imagining what a moment like this would mean for him—if his capture ever came—but never in his darkest dreams did Azariah think that someone like Octavia would be involved.
Not her. Not with someone like Pierre. Not with everything that had happened. Oh gods, this couldn’t be happening…
“Well, well! This is my lucky day, boys!” Pierre shouted. “Two bounties for the price of one: Azariah Ronan and the Keyholder.”
Pierre’s piercing eyes roved over Octavia, and Azariah’s stomach clenched. He had seen that look before, and he knew exactly what it meant.
Pierre grabbed the chain that linked Octavia’s wrists together and yanked her forward roughly, turning her around and pinning her up against his body so that her back was to his front. Pierre’s right arm snaked around her waist, and his left hand curled across her neck. Octavia whimpered, held in the invasive embrace.
Just witnessing Pierre’s hands on Octavia’s body pushed him into rage. He wanted to rip Pierre to pieces.
“What do you think, Azariah?” Pierre buried his nose in Octavia’s hair, inhaling deeply. “Shall I have my way with her too?”
“If you touch her—” Azariah began with a growl.
“You’ll do what? Kill me?” He gripped Octavia tighter and chuckled, pulling her back a few paces. His nose still lingered against her hair. “You already had your chance, Ronan. You won’t get another.”
Abruptly, Pierre released Octavia and shoved her toward the men who had held her before. They clamped their hands back over her arms, and Pierre cupped her chin.
“In the name of King Joda Akoni, you now belong to the Kingdom of Xadia, Keyholder.” Pierre’s gaze flicked back to Azariah, and an evil smile lit his face. A chill swept Azariah’s skin, and his heartbeat thudded wildly out of control. “As for you, Azariah. You now belong to me.”
Pierre gave a sharp whistle and threw his pointer finger up in the air.
“Let’s move, boys! Back to camp. And keep your eyes sharp. We don’t want to lose our precious little Keyholder.”
Pierre took his hand and slowly stroked the side of Octavia’s face. She shrank back at his touch, and Azariah let out a strangled yell.
“Pierre, I swear to the gods—”
One of the men struck Azariah full across the face, and his vision swam. Pain jabbed up through his skull, and he groaned, spitting blood on the ground from his split-open lip.
“Gag him,” Pierre instructed. “Put him in the wagon. I want four men guarding him at all times. Do not underestimate him!”
More men surrounded Azariah, and they dragged him through the trees until he couldn’t see Octavia anymore.
There was no mercy in the hands that gripped his body, and Pierre’s men made quick work of hauling him away. The chains left his wrists only for his arms to be wrenched behind his back, and then the cuffs returned, biting into his skin as they clamped back into place. Someone took a strip of leather and jammed it between his teeth, knotting it tight. He bit down against the gag as blood from his split-open lip got onto his tongue.
It tasted like metal and earth.
Pierre’s men lifted him into the back of an open wagon and shoved him down so that he fell sideways. Unable to catch himself, he slammed his shoulder into the wood. Four men climbed in after him, taking seats around him, and all of them had their daggers in hand. It was at this moment that Azariah succumbed to the overwhelming hopelessness of his situation.
Pierre had captured him. After three years of evading the man who had ruined his life, Azariah had finally fallen prey to his clutches. There was no way out this time. He was going to die—and Pierre would take his time too. Azariah was sure of it. There was no chance under the heavens that Pierre Zarqel would offer him the mercy of a quick death.
Fear physically throttled him, stealing the breath from his lungs.
Suddenly, the wagon jerked forward. This caused Azariah to pitch sideways onto his stomach, bumping into the legs of one of the men guarding him. A hard kick slammed into the side of his abdomen, and he grunted through the gag.
Laughter chorused around him, and then the same man’s foot pushed up against his shoulder, rolling him from his stomach to his back so that his own weight pinned his chained hands.
The man kept his boot pressed down on Azariah’s chest, and he leered at him with wicked delight.
“I’ve heard of you, bounty hunter,” he breathed with a horrible smile. “I know exactly who you are. Commander Zarqel is going to tear you limb from limb, and all of Xadia’s war camp is going to listen to your screams.”
Azariah couldn’t help the visceral fear that stole through his entire body. He had to stop himself from slamming his legs into the man who leaned over him. The retribution for a move like that would no doubt end with a blade embedded in his flesh—in a place where it wouldn’t kill him, of course, because taking that pleasure from Pierre would be a death sentence.
He weighed his options, but he could come up with no way out of this. It wasn’t simply a matter of fighting off the four men who watched him with their weapons at the ready. It was also the fact that a mob on horseback surrounded the wagon.
Even unchained, Azariah knew he could do nothing to escape them, so he simply lay there on the floorboards, doing his best to breathe so he could maintain some semblance of level-headedness. Falling apart would only make what was about to happen to him far worse, and he would not give Pierre Zarqel the satisfaction of watching him break.
But as the wagon kept moving and the heat of the sun beat down on him, Azariah’s thoughts pushed him into a state that fractured what little resolve he had left.
Octavia. My bounty to be delivered for a price. She is my freedom. It doesn’t matter. It can’t matter. Don’t look at her like that. Don’t. You can’t care. You can’t do that to yourself. Not again. Especially not with her.
Everything he had been telling himself to guard his heart against her dissolved into pieces, shattered like the shards of a broken mirror.
Octavia. Just thinking about her in Pierre’s possession made his chest feel like a hollow cavity. He was sick to his stomach. What unspeakable things would Pierre do to her? What lies would Pierre tell her about him? It drove him mad to think that he couldn’t protect her. This was so much worse than any of his nightmares.
They rode for hours in the heat, and soon Azariah’s jaw began to ache from the gag. His body hurt too, and all the while, he lay on his side in the back of the wagon, unable to sit up—and not for a lack of trying. The movements he had attempted had been met with cruel blows from his captors, so he had simply given up.
It was only when the trees began to thin out and the air turned bitterly dry that they finally slowed. He still couldn’t see anything beyond the wagon, but he could hear the sounds of the war camp. Soldiers conversing. The crackle of fire pits. The soft bray of horses. And then Pierre’s loud grating voice sliced through the air somewhere to Azariah’s right.
“Secure our extra guest at the stake. Keep him guarded!”
The wagon moved on, but it wasn’t long before it stopped. The four men who had been watching him now hauled him to his feet.
Everywhere Azariah looked, there were canvas tents and soldiers, but when he saw the tall metal stake sticking out of the ground at the center of the camp—and the chains that were soldered into it—another wave of dread seized him.
His captors dragged him across the dirt as if he was fighting them tooth and nail, though he didn’t resist them solely to avoid the wrath of another beating. He felt the chains leave his wrists, and then he was pushed up against the stake. The instant the ankle cuffs were locked in place and his wrists were once again secured to the chain tethered midway up the metal, Azariah Ronan knew that only his body would leave this place…
The thought drove his breathing to turn shallow and his pulse to thunder. He gritted his teeth against the leather in his mouth, and in desperation, he sent a prayer up to the gods for help. He also prayed for Octavia, but it felt useless.
The four men who had chained him there took their respective corners to guard him. All Azariah could do was wait for the inevitable moment when Pierre Zarqel would stand face to face with him again.
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Waiting chained to the stake was torture. With the hot sun above, a deep ache in his body, and an uncomfortable thirst growing on his tongue, it was hard to keep his wits about him—and it was nearly impossible to keep his mind from imagining what was happening to Octavia.
He had thoroughly examined his surroundings, but she was nowhere in sight. All he could see were tents and fire pits and soldiers, most of whom gave him leering looks as whispers of his identity spread through the camp like wildfire.
“It’s Azariah Ronan.”
“Who?”
“The bounty hunter.”
“The man who scarred Zarqel.”
“King Joda wants him—dead or alive.”
“He won’t live past the fall of the darkness.”
“Commander Zarqel is going to relish this.”
It was difficult for Azariah to maintain his composure. He was trying to come to terms with his own death. What an impossible thing to think about. But beyond that, Azariah repeated to himself that he would not give Pierre the satisfaction of seeing him crumble. He would die as the unbreakable bounty hunter—a thorn in Pierre’s side. He would not lose his resilience or spirit…
It took less than an hour for Pierre to appear, and the moment Azariah saw him, his lungs seized involuntarily within his chest. Immediately, his whole body experienced an alarming icy sensation. No amount of tortured imagining could have prepared Azariah for the reality of this moment, and it took all of his strength to keep standing.
Pierre walked all the way up to the stake. Slowly. Deliberately. With a manic and delighted look in his eye. He stopped three feet away from Azariah—far enough so Azariah couldn’t reach him even if he pulled the chains taut.
The two men stared at each other, and Azariah couldn’t help how labored his breathing sounded from the gag.
Let it be quick, he pleaded to the gods. Let my death be quick.
“Azariah Ronan,” Pierre whispered. “My infamous foe. In the flesh.” An eerie grin saturated his face, and he folded his arms across his chest. “You’ve cost me quite a lot of time and men. But I knew if I persisted, one day I would catch you. And now, here you are. At long last.”
Pierre cocked his head to the side, and his ruthless gaze bored into Azariah. He drew closer to the stake, close enough for Azariah to grab if he were quick enough.
“Octavia is such a pretty name, don’t you think? She’s quite a spirited thing.”
Hearing her name from Pierre’s mouth made Azariah’s stomach sink all the way to his toes, and his pulse charged through his veins like a raging storm. Pierre’s barbaric delight deepened, and he leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from Azariah’s.
“I enjoyed every second of ravishing her just like I enjoyed ravishing your bitch of a wife.”
Azariah moved like a flash of lightning, yanking against the chains as he grabbed Pierre’s front. He slammed the thick part of his forehead against Pierre’s jaw, causing him to reel back, but it was the only move Azariah could make before the guards pulled Pierre from his grasp.
Azariah let out a strangled yell. There was shouting. One of the men struck him across the face, and his left ear began to ring.
“STOP!” Pierre barked.
Pierre shoved the guards away, pulling his red vest straight and brushing himself off. He spat blood into the dirt from a puncture wound on his tongue. It seemed Azariah’s assault had caused Pierre to bite down hard enough to draw blood, but otherwise, he appeared unscathed.
Pierre’s feral eyes darted from his men to Azariah, and he let out a long breath as his hand went to massage his jaw. There were several seconds of complete silence where Azariah felt like he couldn’t breathe properly.
There were so many things he could conceive of Pierre doing next. What horrible torture did this man have planned for him? But far worse than that, he couldn’t stop thinking about Octavia and the vile things Pierre had just done to her. How hurt was she? What else was Pierre going to do to her? How long would Pierre draw this out before he killed her too? The very idea of him prolonging that kind of torture against her made Azariah’s heart fracture in his chest. Pierre’s grudge against him would make things exceedingly worse for Octavia because of Rebekah…
The helplessness and despair he felt standing chained against the stake stole away another piece of his resolve.
Pierre’s upper lip curled to expose his teeth, and then he nodded to the guards. “Remove his gag.”
All four men approached him at once, and even though he was chained hand and foot, they gripped his arms to prevent him from repeating any kind of assault as they obeyed Pierre’s instructions. Rough hands attacked the knots on the strip of leather jammed between his teeth, and then the gag was pulled from his mouth.
Azariah coughed, his jaw aching down to the bone as the guards retreated to their spots around the metal stake. Azariah couldn’t help his body’s heightened state of stress, and his eyes began to water. He stared at Pierre as Pierre stared back at him, and then his voice came out strained and thick with sorrow.
“What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” Azariah’s breath shuddered. He could not hold back the questions that had eaten him alive for the past three years. “Why me? I was a loyal subject to King Joda, a respected member of my community, an honorable gods-fearing man! I had never hurt a soul in my life before you. I had never done anything to warrant this. I was not a thief. I was only ever a man who wanted to serve my Kingdom and live my life in peace. Why—” Azariah paused, attempting to collect himself. Even though he had repeated in his mind that he would not break, the idea of it felt impossible right now. “Why have you done this to me?”
The jeering laughter that flitted through the air all around him made his skin crawl, but his attention never wavered from Pierre. Pierre’s cold look was void of all compassion, and when he spoke, there was only hatred in his piercing, yet quiet tone.
“It’s quite simple,” he said. “You had something I wanted. Something I wanted to make mine. And I never lose what’s mine. You’re not special, Azariah. It could have been anyone, really, but it happened to be you. Because of her. Had Rebekah not rejected me so harshly—so resolutely—had she not publicly humiliated me, I may have forgotten about her altogether. But that day in the bakery…” Pierre’s jaw tensed. “To throw such a fit. To make such a scene over a compliment about her dress. I only wanted to know her name, but she wouldn’t give it. And then she had me thrown out of the shop like a dog, so I decided that I would make her mine, and that nothing would stop me. Not even her husband.”
Azariah swallowed against a dry throat, and grief tore through his chest like a branding iron. But rage also sweltered underneath it. He wanted to kill Pierre with his bare hands. He wanted to watch the life leave his eyes.
“The gods see everything, Pierre,” Azariah gritted out. “And your soul will not escape judgment for the things you have done. Only wrath awaits you. The gods are judging you, even now.”
Pierre laughed. “The gods have favored me in all I’ve done. Even today, their good fortune shines down upon me. I have the Keyholder, and I have you. Xadia is on the brink of victory. The darkness will fall, and Xadia will control the waters from the Well of Eternal Healing. Nothing can stand in my way!”
Pierre took a step closer, although he maintained enough distance to keep out of Azariah’s grasp.
“What was it like to see Octavia for the first time?” he asked with sickening glee. “What was it like to be given the job of hunting down and capturing the very ghost of your past, Ronan? You think the gods are judging me? Take a hard look at the woman they’ve brought into your miserable life. You couldn’t let Rebekah go, could you? From the moment you chose to pursue me—from the moment you killed all of my men—the gods have been laughing at you. Only death and destruction have followed you since that day. And Octavia is the cruelest joke of them all.”
Pierre’s words felt like a punch to the gut, and Azariah’s mind flashed back to the first time he had seen Octavia’s face. The shock of that moment had ripped the breath from his body, and it had made him want to curse the gods. It wasn’t fair.
Pierre sneered at him.
“Tell me, Azariah, do you care for her? Or have you been unable to pick up the pieces of your own heart since the day your blade cut through my body?”
Azariah pulled against the chains, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped down his temple in the overbearing heat of the sun. He felt crushed by the amount of rage pulsing through his veins. It was like molten iron flowing through him, unbearable and strengthening all at once.
“I’m going to relish having Octavia by my side,” Pierre continued. “She will never be free of me, and every time I enjoy her for as long as I allow you to live, I will make sure you know it.” His snarl was as black as the darkness. “The Keyholder. Xadia’s symbol of favor from the gods above. All mine. I’m so glad it was you who delivered her to me.”
Azariah’s chest hurt from how fast his heart pounded against it, and he curled his hands into fists. “Let Octavia go. Please. You have me. That’s all you’ve wanted for the past three years. Me. Do what you will, but leave her out of this. Your quarrel is with me, not her. Our history is with Rebekah, not her. She wants to walk through the darkness for all of us. You don’t need to force her to do it in the name of Xadia. She isn’t going to run away from this! Please! Surely you know the darkness is an enemy to everyone. This is bigger than Xadia. Bigger than us! Let her stand for all of us, or humanity may perish as a result. Don’t you know what Hritza has taught us? Can’t you see it? The gods of old put the darkness in place as an everlasting reminder of what humanity’s greed can do.”
Azariah’s hands shook.
“Gods, Pierre, if you have any light in you at all, take out your vengeance on me in full measure, but spare her. I am begging you!”
The lack of response that followed this was bone-chilling. Azariah couldn’t get a read on Pierre’s face. It was as if a shadow had veiled his features, schooling his expression into neutrality. The haunting gray-blue eyes of his worst enemy held him there. Torturing him. Keeping him hostage.
“She is now a part of my vengeance in full measure,” Pierre taunted. “She’s not going anywhere. Octavia is mine, Azariah. But don’t worry. I won’t beat her like I did Rebekah. I’d like to keep her alive.”
Abruptly, Pierre turned and walked away, leaving Azariah chained there in a stunned silence. For several seconds, all Azariah could do was breathe. Pierre hadn’t laid a finger on him. Not even a single blow or cut. Of all the things he was expecting to happen upon their reunion, it wasn’t that.
The guard’s cruel words replayed in his head: “Commander Zarqel is going to tear you limb from limb, and all of Xadia’s war camp is going to listen to your screams.”
A mixture of relief and dread fought for dominance inside of him. Something else was going on. Something with Octavia. He was sure of it. Nothing else could possibly explain Pierre’s behavior. The manic vengeance Pierre held for him was still very much present, but it seemed that it was being held at bay.
Three years of hunting him only for no immediate retribution to come?
But as soon as he thought this, Azariah knew that what he was going to endure in this place would be far worse than physical pain. Pierre may not have taken his blade to Azariah’s flesh, but he had already done far worse. He had violated Octavia. He had laid his hands on her body and took a piece of her for himself, and that tore Azariah to bits.
Pierre hadn’t done it for the sole purpose of wanting her either. He had done it to torture Azariah. He had done it because Octavia looked like Rebekah.
Tears pooled in his eyes, and he clenched his teeth to stop them from falling down his dirt-stained cheeks. How much more would Octavia have to endure as a direct result of him? How had the gods allowed her to fall between his and Pierre’s dark and deadly history?
Regret stole through him. He should have taken Octavia to Hritza when she had asked him to. Then none of this would have happened, and at least he would have done something worthwhile with his cursed life. King Bastian’s potion didn’t matter anymore—not when Azariah would die by Pierre’s hand anyway.
Pierre was right. Death and destruction had followed him everywhere, and now Octavia was paying the price…
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It was late afternoon when Pierre returned to the stake, but it wasn’t seeing Pierre that slammed fear through Azariah like an iron spike, it was the fact that Pierre had gathered the entire war camp. Soldiers crowded around the place where he was chained. In all directions, he was met with cruel looks and callous voices.
His stomach curled. What was Pierre about to do?
Azariah felt the solid metal stake at his back, and he leaned against it, solely to try and steady the shaking that had claimed his entire body.
Pierre stood a dozen feet away, and when his cold eyes locked onto Azariah, he smiled a horrible smile. Then he raised a hand to quiet the crowd, and everyone fell silent.
“My fellow Xadians, today is a glorious day!” he called out in a loud voice. “I have gathered you together to share victorious news. It is my pleasure to announce to you all that we have the Keyholder, and she has agreed to walk through the darkness to claim the Well of Eternal Healing for Xadia!”
Pierre threw his hands up to the heavens, and cheering erupted from the soldiers.
“But the gods have not stopped their abounding favor there.” He gestured toward the metal stake. “After three long years of searching, I have finally captured the thief and murderer, Azariah Ronan.”
Loud taunting hissed from all around him, and Azariah felt his strength leave. Had the gods actually favored Pierre? He didn’t want to believe it, but maybe it was true. Maybe the gods had abandoned him because of the dark things he had been forced to do to survive since becoming a bounty hunter.
The very thought of that drove Azariah’s desperation to new heights.
“Many of you have heard the tale of the scars I bear,” Pierre continued. “And many of you have also heard the stories of the elusive bounty hunter who could not be captured or killed. What arrogance and brazen defiance to build up a reputation like that! Azariah Ronan, the once well-respected metalsmith of Xadia, has mocked the bounty King Joda put out on him since the day it was issued! But here the thief stands—captured at last, as I knew he always would be.”
Jeering chorused through the soldiers.
“I vow before the gods, and in the presence of all of you as my witnesses, that I will return the favor Azariah’s blade bestowed upon me that day. At the fall of the darkness, Azariah Ronan will die for his crimes against King Joda and the noble Kingdom of Xadia.”
The cheering that tore through the camp was deafening, and all Azariah could do was stand there and try not to crumble. It crushed his spirit to know that his fellow countrymen had all succumbed to the lies Pierre had spun about him. These people were from his home. Some of them he even recognized. His forge had served them well. He had been a part of this community, and he had never cheated or taken advantage of a single soul. But they hated him for things Pierre had done in secret. None of them knew, and none of them ever would…
Everything in him wanted to cry out against this. The urge to fight the injustice of it all built like a fire in his throat, but Azariah knew that nothing he could say would change his fate. No one would believe him, and he would likely be beaten into silence if he tried to speak. So he didn’t. Instead, he cloaked himself in the hardened exterior he had grown accustomed to so that Pierre would not be able to see his despair.
“It is also my great pleasure to make another announcement,” Pierre boomed, and the chatter of the soldiers died down. “Not only has the Keyholder agreed to walk through the darkness in the name of Xadia, but I have decided to garner her favor further.”
Pierre’s gaze intentionally left the crowd and fell on Azariah. “For the greatness of Xadia, and for the everlasting blessings from the gods themselves, she is to become my wife. And when we seal our union, no one will question Xadia’s authority over the Well of Eternal Healing. With the Keyholder in Xadia’s service, by my side, all of the other Kingdoms will bow to us!”
The outrage that stole through Azariah caused him to pull against his chains until they dug into his wrists. He yelled. “PIERRE, YOU—”
A fist cracked against his cheekbone so violently that stars crashed across his vision. Pain exploded through his face, and he nearly collapsed from it. Everywhere there was laughter. It bellowed in his ears and tore through his senses.
Gasping, Azariah did his best to stay upright, but his head felt like a lead weight, and a strange tingling had entered his limbs and face. He could feel blood rushing to the place where the guard had struck him. He blinked, trying to clear the spots of white and purple that were dancing in and out of view. The ground itself looked like it was swaying.
Suddenly, hands clamped down on his shoulders and forearms, and the next thing he was aware of was Pierre’s face inches from his own. The guards held Azariah steady.
“What a strong reaction to such a simple word,” he simpered. “Wife. Does that bother you, Azariah?”
Azariah ground his teeth together, and although his head still swam, he struggled against the guards in an attempt to grab Pierre, but they held him in place.
“This time I’m not taking what’s yours, am I? In fact, I bet you’ve been distancing yourself from Octavia the moment you laid eyes on her. Isn’t that what a good bounty hunter does? Rid themselves of the ability to care so that the job is easier?” Pierre’s tone turned into a growl. “Octavia doesn’t belong to you!”
“She doesn’t belong to you either!” Azariah gritted out. Hatred roared through his chest, and it pushed boldness into his tone. “And when you release her to walk into the darkness, she will not return to you. She will be free. Of all of us! There is nothing to bring her back to this gods-forsaken place.”
A small surge of hope sparked into his heart. The darkness. No one could follow Octavia into it. Not even Pierre. She could open the Well and then run away, hiding herself from the evils of the men who sought her. Azariah knew his death was inevitable—and he also knew that Pierre had already done unspeakable things to Octavia—but she would be free of Pierre soon. The very nature of the threat that bore down on them all demanded it. This was what his mind would cling to as he endured the final days of his life.
Pierre searched Azariah’s face intently, and he grew quiet. Pensive. “Oh… you don’t know, do you? Oh my…”
Pierre shuffled his stance in the dirt, putting a hand to his chin. He stood there in silence. The unspoken tension between them stretched on and on…
Without warning, Pierre threw his head back and laughed, causing Azariah to jump. It was a mocking, hair-raising laugh that sounded worse than nails scraping against stone. Pierre stepped away from Azariah, and then flicked his hand toward the guards. “Let go of him.”
The rough hands that gripped him vanished, and the guards retreated to their spots around the stake.
Pierre’s authoritative gaze swept the soldiers gathered around the stake, and he bellowed, “Back to your duties! DISPERSE!”
The crowd scattered quickly at the commander’s order. Only the four guards remained.
With one last look of loathing, Pierre said, “I’m going to savor breaking you down to nothing before my blade ever touches your flesh, Azariah Ronan. You have no idea what’s coming.”
He turned on his heels and walked away.
Once again, Azariah was stunned that Pierre still hadn’t laid a finger on him. What possible reason could he have for waiting until the fall of the darkness to exact his vengeance? And then another thought pushed its way to the forefront of his attention. Pierre’s comment of: You don’t know, do you?
What was he talking about? Know what?
As he searched for an answer, the last thing he said to Pierre jarred through his thoughts: There is nothing to bring her back to this gods-forsaken place.
No…
The realization hit Azariah like an avalanche, and his mouth turned ashen. He could feel all of the blood drain from his face. Octavia would come back for him.
Azariah’s resolve fractured. No. She wouldn’t. Would she? How could that possibly be true? He had kidnapped her. He had taken her away from her home and held her against her will. He had never wavered in his mission to take her to Zoharth. He had hardly even spoken to her.
But the more he considered it, the more he realized that it must be true, and the small inkling of hope he carried for Octavia’s freedom withered like a plucked flower under the rays of a scorching sun.
Azariah’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he licked his cracked lips. The burning heat of the day was leeching the life out of his body, and he was desperate for water. He directed his attention to the guard standing to his left.
“I need water,” he said. “Please.”
The man turned toward Azariah and in a gruff voice said, “You’re not getting a drop unless Zarqel allows it.”
That was the last thing any of the guards said to him for the remainder of the day. Azariah didn’t see Pierre again. No one spoke to him. No one gave him any food or water. And no one even acknowledged him as his legs finally gave out from pure exhaustion.
Azariah’s arms were pulled above his head by the chains as he collapsed, and the cuffs dug into his wrists, but he couldn’t find the strength to stand another minute. Hunger roared through his stomach, his body trembled, and his thirst was ravenous.
Perhaps this was how Pierre intended to break him. Slowly. Without a drop to drink or a morsel to eat. And as the day faded away into night, all Azariah could think of was Octavia.
“Please,” he whispered to the gods. “Protect her.”
----------
It was the early morning chill that stirred Azariah from his fitful sleep. His hands were completely numb, and due to the lack of blood flow, he couldn’t feel his arms at all. With an uneasy breath, and a great deal of effort, he managed to get to his feet. His arms were like dead weight against his sides—useless and limp—and when the blood rushed back into them, it felt like a thousand needles stabbing his flesh.
He gasped from the discomfort, and it took several minutes of flexing and clenching his fists to get rid of the numbness. The sun had not yet fully risen, and he still had four guards standing post around the stake, but it was a new set of them now.
His lower jaw began to tremble, and he shivered. His thirst, which yesterday was deeply uncomfortable, was now wildly out of control. He had been through some harrowing situations as a bounty hunter—and they had all served to improve his tolerance for hunger, thirst, and pain—but the desert made things starkly worse. It was a ruthless environment, and Azariah knew there was little chance of staying composed the longer his physical needs were denied. This was pushing him to his limits, and soon those limits would break.
“I need water,” he croaked to the man standing directly behind him.
There was no response, and when Azariah swallowed, it was maddening. How long could he endure this without resorting to begging for relief? And how long would it be before Pierre came back to taunt him again? Or perhaps do something worse?
“Hey! Get out of here, boy!” one of the guards barked.
The loud and sudden vocalization caused Azariah to startle, and he jerked against his chains, his pulse spiking. A boy with dark brown skin, curly black hair, and sunken-in brown eyes darted away from the stake. Azariah hadn’t even noticed him before the guard had shouted.
Azariah’s eyes followed the boy as he slipped between two tents and out of sight, but after another minute, the boy peeked his head out again, peering at Azariah with a somber expression. The two of them stared at each other in the rising light, and then the boy turned his attention down to his hands, chewing on his lower lip. In his palm, he carried a small wad of open cloth, and inside of it, there was a block of cheese.
“I said get out of here!” the guard shouted, marching toward the boy. “Or you’ll get a beating!”
He vanished from sight quicker than a puff of smoke, and the guard returned to his post at Azariah’s side. Was that boy trying to sneak over to feed him? Azariah kept his gaze on the spot where the boy had run away, hoping that he would reemerge, but he didn’t.
As the sun climbed past the horizon and the heat of the desert returned, Azariah’s hunger and thirst only grew. He tried to occupy his mind with prayer. With breathing deep. With closing his eyes to block out the sight of the soldiers who walked past him with loathing stares.
Don’t break. Don’t crumble. Don’t lose your dignity.
Another hour passed. And another. The sun was higher in the sky, but it wasn’t noon yet. Azariah could tell by the angle. His head began to throb, and a new wave of shaking claimed his body until he couldn’t stand any longer. He sank to the ground to relieve his legs, which pulled his arms above his head again.
The heat was torture. His thirst was torture. Thinking of Octavia was torture.
He had tried to push her from his mind, but no matter where his thoughts wandered, they always landed back on her. He sent another prayer to the gods for her protection because it was all he could do. He prayed with all of his heart that when the darkness fell she would not return for him. But as his imaginings took hold, an onslaught of different lies from Pierre kept surfacing in his mind. Pierre could have told Octavia anything about him. There was so much that Azariah wished she knew now that they were both under Pierre’s thumb.
He would just have to trust in the gods and trust in her—that she would realize that coming back to this place was the worst possible choice.
Again, Azariah prayed, “Please don’t let her come back here. Please put me from her mind.”
Saying the last sentence aloud broke a piece of him. He had tried so hard not to care about her, but his circumstances had finally forced him to admit to himself that he did. Why the Keyholder had to be her was a mystery he would never know. He had always believed that the gods played a hand in the lives of those who revered them, but this was beyond anything he had bargained for. Why did it have to be her? Anyone else would have been easy. Any other bounty would have truly freed him from King Bastian. He could have delivered the Keyholder with a callous heart and clean hands. But he had been conflicted about Octavia from the beginning.
He had vowed to himself the day Rebekah died that he would never care about someone like that ever again. He couldn’t do that to himself. He had used up all of his tears on another love, and there was no room for Octavia. None.
But somehow… there was. He didn’t want there to be. But there was.
She had made him care. Somehow. Some way. Octavia had made him care. And that scared him to death.
When Pierre walked up to the stake just before noon, it took all of Azariah’s self control not to beg him for water. He wanted to dissolve and plead for mercy. He was truly on the brink of giving in, but he knew that begging in front of this man would only deeply please his sick and twisted side, and no water would come of it.
Azariah stared up at Pierre from his collapsed position in the dirt.
Pierre seemed on edge. His mannerisms were a bit jerky as his fingertips took an irritated swipe at his mustache. He eyed Azariah with disgust, shuffling his stance over and over again. Everything about him was like that of a rabid animal. He looked like he wanted to stab Azariah—or kick him—but no blow came as the two men continued to stare at each other.
“I had a little chat with my future wife this morning,” Pierre stated. He let out a long breath. “It seems she’s from Omari. Tell me, Azariah, what kingdom were you bringing her to? Who was paying you to deliver her?”
Azariah’s cracked lips parted. Octavia was lying, and this gave him hope. He didn’t know the conversations that had transpired between her and Pierre, but at the very least, this piece of information told Azariah that she was making calculated choices for her own survival.
When Azariah didn’t respond, it appeared that Pierre had to hold himself back from striking him. His upper lip curled, and he shuffled his stance again.
“Which kingdom, Azariah? Who else has their hands in this game? I know more people are after the Keyholder. I’m not foolish enough to think Xadia is the only kingdom vying for the Well.”
Still, Azariah didn’t say anything. Instead, he lifted his chin up in defiance and gave Pierre the coldest look he could muster.
“Very well then, if you won’t talk, then you must excuse me while I go back to my war tent and have my way with her again. Maybe that will loosen your tongue.”
Pierre turned to walk away.
“No, wait!” Azariah’s breathing grew shallow, and his legs and arms shook from hunger, but he forced himself to stand. This stopped Pierre in his tracks, and he turned back to face him.
“Zoharth. King Bastian Jasper. He’s the one who hired me.”
Pierre’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and an amused smile played on his mouth. He chuckled. “That fool. Zoharth’s army is nothing compared to Xadia’s.” Pierre’s gaze fell to the dirt below his feet, and he muttered something under his breath that Azariah couldn’t catch. His hand was to his chin, and his eyes narrowed, as if he were considering something.
Once more, the wild thirst on his tongue nearly pushed Azariah to beg Pierre for water. It was an all-consuming thought. He felt like he was going to die, but he would not ask. Instead, Azariah turned his desperation to another plea for the woman at Pierre’s mercy. He had to try again. One last time. Before the circumstances of his capture forced his mind to slip into a state beyond logic or reason.
“Let her go, Pierre.”
Pierre exhaled softly and shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe Azariah’s gall. “Still fighting for her, I see. Well… I advise you to save your breath, and what little strength you have left. You’ll need it for what I have planned for you, bounty hunter. I told you already, Octavia is mine. And I never lose what’s mine. Xadia is on the cusp of greatness. Soon Xadia will be the greatest kingdom on earth!”
Pierre started to walk away again, but Azariah called out after him.
“You think that Xadia will escape the wrath of the gods for claiming the Well of Eternal Healing like this? Do you truly believe Xadia is untouchable? You have a chance to do this right, Pierre. Don’t repeat history! Hritza burned for its greed. Let Octavia walk through the darkness for all the kingdoms. Let Xadia lead the charge of creating peace over this. Let us facilitate sharing the waters as they were always meant to be shared. That’s how Xadia can become the greatest of the kingdoms!”
Azariah stepped forward two paces until the chains held him back, and he felt shame once more for how he had ignored Octavia’s wishes to go to Hritza outright. He should have listened to her.
“You don’t have to lead Xadia in Hritza’s footsteps. Let your grudge against me stand. I accept my death. I accept whatever it is you have for me. But please, let Octavia go. Don’t anger the gods any further than you already have, Pierre. You mock them! Forcing the Keyholder’s loyalty to Xadia is wrong. You know that I’m speaking the truth.”
The look of unadulterated spite that filled Pierre’s face was grotesque. Pierre advanced on Azariah and then stopped just beyond his reach. His eyes grew wide with mania, and he ground his teeth together, balling his hands up.
For a moment, Azariah thought Pierre might actually punch him this time, but still the blow did not come. Pierre’s breath was strained.
“The moment she enters the darkness, I’m going to tear you to pieces!” he snarled. His voice rose into a rage, and he screamed at Azariah. “I HAVE NOT MOCKED THE GODS!”
All around the camp, the soldiers who were within earshot stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to the stake. There was a deafening silence that followed this, and a vein against Pierre’s neck ticked in a raging rhythm as his face flushed crimson.
“I think I’m going to enjoy a long afternoon in my war tent with my future wife. Really take my time with her. And maybe this time, I’ll make her cry loud enough for you to hear it!” Pierre swept his hands out in a grand gesture and gave Azariah a mocking bow. “I’ll see you later, Ronan. And when I do, I’ll bring my blade.”
“PIERRE!” Azariah bellowed, his chest heaving. “Mark my words! Your judgment will come!”
Pierre’s evil sneer transformed his face into something beast-like. “Yours will come sooner.”
As Pierre stalked off, Azariah let out a broken yell, yanking against his restraints with all of his might. The metal cuffs bit into his wrists, and pain shot through his skin, seeping down to his bones. He sank to his knees and then fully collapsed against the metal stake, drained of all hope. Abruptly, his hearing turned oddly sharp, as if he could already hear the sounds of Octavia’s screams. The very thought of her enduring more torture at the hands of Pierre spurred Azariah’s will to fight. He wanted to run to her. He wanted to rip Pierre apart and watch the light snuff out of his soulless eyes.
But there was no escaping these chains…
Azariah’s heart felt like it was trying to wrench itself from his chest, and stars popped around his peripheral vision.
“Help me!” he cried out to the gods, peering up into the bright desert sky in anguish. Azariah could not temper the desperation in his voice—and he didn’t care that the soldiers around him could hear his prayer. In his mind, he thought of the one moment in his life where the gods had responded to his prayers in full measure. It was when he lay dying in the dirt after Pierre had taken Rebekah. In that moment, the gods had given him supernatural strength. And he needed it again. “Please! Oh gods, please! Help me! I need you!”
One of the guards turned to him, and in an ice cold voice said, “The gods can’t hear you.”
----------
The stars that splashed across the vast desert sky reminded Azariah of the mountainous town of Xadia. His home. It always had a breathtaking night sky. The stars seemed to dance through the heavens, rich in their radiance, free to wander and make their own path. He wondered if this was the last night sky he would ever see…
He sat slumped against the stake, his hands and arms turning numb from the way they were angled above his head. He had no strength left in him, and his eyes kept falling shut. But still, he fluttered them open to glimpse the sky.
The beautiful sky.
Azariah had made a habit of closing his mind off from thoughts of Rebekah. It was always easier that way. He had shielded his heart from the pain so that it dulled over time. He had done so much to dull it. Bounty hunter. Uncatchable. Unkillable. You can’t go home. Don’t think of her. Don’t dwell on it. Take the next job. Take the next job. Take the next job. But not tonight. Tonight he let go of the toughened walls he had built with blood, and as they crumbled to the ground, all of the happiness he had ever experienced with her came flooding back to him.
He stared at the stars and thought of Rebekah. Of her laugh and of her smile. Of how her presence always lit up his spirit and gave him a sense of belonging. She had always made him feel worthy of love, even when he was having the worst day. He thought of the years they were together and of the home he had built for her—of the life he had wanted with her. The only shred of hope Azariah clung to now was that he would see her soon. Soon. And all the pain he had endured since her death would be nothing but mist, lost to the mortal realm as he entered the eternal one…
Through his half closed eyes, Azariah caught sight of movement between two of the tents. He squinted through the dark as the dim light from the fire pits cast moving shadows over the war camp.
It was the boy he had seen early that morning. He was back, peering at Azariah with curious eyes, and he looked thin. Sickly. The boy crept forward, still keeping himself hidden against the side of one of the tents just beyond the stake.
In the boy’s hands, Azariah once again saw a cloth with a block of cheese. Just seeing food drove Azariah mad with hunger, and he swallowed uncomfortably. The boy’s eyes were darting nervously between the four soldiers who surrounded him, and Azariah chanced a glance at them as well. They were still awake, but they looked tired, their focus skewed.
Everything beyond the tents and around the stake, however, was open. If the boy was going to sneak him food, Azariah couldn’t conceive of how it was going to happen without him getting caught.
Azariah locked eyes with him again, and the boy pressed his thin lips together. It was clear from his mannerisms that he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Several minutes passed in which the boy made no move. But he stayed vigilant, his gaunt face settled with determination.
Azariah was puzzled. It seemed that the boy was starved enough to need the cheese himself. In truth, Azariah couldn’t understand why the boy was trying to help him, but he was grateful nonetheless. He only hoped the boy might pluck up enough courage to walk across the dozen feet of space between them and give him the morsel.
Suddenly, the night in Xadia’s war camp grew thick with silence.
There was no crackling from the fire pits. There were no soft snorts from the horses—no subtle breeze either. Even the distant murmuring of conversation had snuffed itself out, casting the camp into stillness.
Silence. Absolute and utter silence.
Nothing in all of Azariah’s life had ever sounded like this…
A chill wormed through his skin, and it stiffened the hairs along the back of his neck. He lifted his gaze from the boy’s face to the horizon above the tents, and what he saw caused his entire body to freeze. His eyes grew wide, and his mouth parted in horror, but try as he might, no sound could escape his throat.
There, creeping across the desert, was a frothing wall of pitch black tar. It churned in the distance, brewing over the horizon to blot out the stars. The darkness. Azariah was staring into the pit of the darkness. And the fear he felt paralyzed the lungs within his chest and stopped his heart for a beat.
It was only when a snakish extension of black shot out from the base of the wall to streak into the camp that the utter silence of the phenomenon shattered like glass. A scream split the night air as a soldier a few yards from the stake burst into a puddle of blood and bones upon contact with the ashen plague.
Azariah found his voice at last, and he cried out at the top of his lungs. The four soldiers around him screamed as well. Then the entire camp collapsed into shrieks as the very ground beneath them shuddered with the force of an earthquake.
A roar curdled the war camp, and the wall of darkness shot out more tendrils of black. The guards who had so faithfully kept by Azariah’s side during his captivity now fled, leaving him behind.
Azariah leapt to his feet, the sheer terror of his situation surging strength back into his weakened body. He desperately wrenched at the chains. He tried to force his wrists through the cuffs, but the metal pierced his skin, unyielding and cold.
Another strand of darkness shot so close to him that he could feel the whoosh of air it created. It claimed a man who was running away, and boils consumed his face. Then his skin chaffed away, dissolving him into ash until he was nothing more than soot against the sand.
More roaring tore through the camp, and it was so loud that Azariah clapped his hands against his ears to temper the force.
Boom.
The earth trembled, and Azariah nearly dropped to his knees, but he managed to keep himself upright. Everyone was running for their lives, and not a soul looked toward him. Not a single man who passed spared him a glance, even though he screamed for their help. Even though he begged them to unchain him. Even though he threw his entire weight into pulling against the stake for freedom.
Tents were overturned in the panic. Horses whinnied into the chaos. Feet pounded against the ground. And all the while, the wall of darkness continued its path of devastation, slinking across the sand to claim the lives of all it touched.
He was going to die chained like a dog to this stake. The darkness would feast upon his flesh, and he would cease to exist. It was said that not even the afterlife awaited those who fell prey to its clutches—that the darkness consumed its victims so completely that not even their souls could survive it.
With a desperate cry, Azariah tried again, straining with all his might to pull free from the restraints that held him in place, but there was nothing he could do. No one was going to save him.
Abruptly, a blur of a figure tackled him around the waist, and he gasped. It took him a second to register the face of the person who stood before him, but when he did, his heart leapt within his chest.
“Octavia!?” he cried over the roar of the wind. He could scarcely believe his eyes. She was here. Right in front of him. “What are you doing? Escape this place!”
“I’m not leaving you!” she yelled. “I have the key to your chains!” She fumbled with a small metal object. Her hands were shaking so badly that she could scarcely keep her grip.
Bang.
It felt like the earth had cracked open, and both Octavia and Azariah fell. Octavia landed flat on her stomach while Azariah’s arms were yanked upward by the chains as he fell. Pain tore through his shoulders, and he let out a strangled yell. He tried to get up, but it felt as though his arms had been wrenched from their sockets. Octavia spat blood onto the ground in front of him and then launched herself to her feet.
Her arms wrapped around his waist to help him stand. Then she dropped to her knees to attack the cuffs at his ankles. One cuff popped open. Then the next. But when she stood to unlock the cuffs at his wrists, he gasped, and his eyes grew so wide he feared they might fall from his skull. This caused Octavia to turn around.
A prong of black was crawling across the ground toward the metal stake, billowing like smoke and frothing like boiling water. It was less than a second from reaching them, and Azariah knew she would not be able to free him in time…
This was it. There was no way out for him. Octavia’s self-preservation would cause her to dive out of the way—he was certain of it—and the darkness would claim him, tearing his flesh into nothingness.
But she didn’t move.
Instead, he felt her body press up against his own. He felt her hand grip his arm. And with a scream, Octavia stood directly in front of him, thrusting her left hand forward, palm open to the darkness.
The key burned bright like the stars, and the darkness halted its trajectory. The snakish extension seemed to sniff at Octavia like a snarling monster. It lingered there for the briefest moment, and then it dove to the right, diverting its path around the metal stake to claim a soldier who was limping away. The man screamed as the blackness wrapped around his torso, and blood burst from his eyes and mouth, killing him instantly.
Azariah’s whole body shook. He could hardly breathe…
Octavia shoved the bronze key into the cuffs at his wrists, and after a few seconds, she was able to pry them loose, freeing him from his bonds.
Azariah locked eyes with her, and a surge of disbelief and awe overcame him. She didn’t move out of the way. Octavia had shielded him, and she had done it without hesitation.
Immediately, he took her hand in his own, squeezing it tight, and the feel of her skin grounded him, pulling determination into his heart. An overwhelming sense of protection stormed through his body. She had saved him, and now he would save her.
“Run!” he cried.
The two of them took off through the chaos of the camp, and as they sprinted, his hand never left hers. They darted around fire pits and leapt over discarded canvas material. The rumbling of the earth continued, building like a storm of death.
Azariah stumbled, nearly falling, but Octavia kept him upright with the sheer ferocity of the grip she maintained on him.
In the distance, the open expanse of desert before them was dotted with trees. This would be their path of escape.
Cries shrieked from behind them, but Azariah dared not look back. The squelching sound alone was enough to keep his legs pumping despite his body feeling like it was on the verge of collapse.
Hundreds of feet slammed across the ground. Hundreds of people fled for their lives.
Wham.
A man slammed straight into him, and Azariah’s hand was torn from Octavia’s. In the panic of the stampede, Azariah fell, tumbling across the ground. He rolled twice until he came to a halt flat on his back. Gasping, he sucked in several uneven breaths. Pain skewered through his chest from the force of the impact, and for a few seconds, all he could do was lie there as his pulse raged into his ears, dampening his hearing.
The chaos continued all around him, but it was muffled. His vision tilted. Splotches of purple floated around him, splashed across the night sky. He had to get up, but his head was spiraling. His body was not responding…
“KEYHOLDER!” someone yelled. “It’s the Keyholder! She cannot escape! Grab her!”
“Azariah! Azariah, help me!”
It was Octavia’s scream that pulled his head from the fog. It dug into him like a dagger, and the fear of losing her shot energy through his limbs. He gritted his teeth, rolled to his hands and knees, and pushed himself up.
He could see her struggling against a group of soldiers, putting up so much of a fight that they lifted her from her feet, dragging her away from the darkness as she kicked and screamed. The group buckled from her efforts, falling to the ground.
“Get off! Let go of me!” she screeched. “AZARI—”
One of the men pressed his hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, and the group lifted her from her feet once more.
Azariah charged, grabbing the nearest soldier by the scruff of his tunic, and then he let his fist crack full force against the side of his head. The man dropped, knocked out cold, and Azariah’s fists flew again, pulling the men apart until Octavia was free. He clamped a hand over her arm, pulling her upright, and then he took her hand in his own again.
“Run!”
They headed for the trees. The mob was starting to disperse as some soldiers peeled off to the left and others to the right, but Azariah kept them running straight, and though his lungs were on fire and his heart was beating wildly beyond his control, he pushed them forward.
Hurtling into the trees felt like a miracle from the gods above. The pines sheltered them as they continued to flee, and now that they were gaining some distance from the immense wall of darkness, the sounds of the groaning and quaking earth began to lessen.
Still, they did not stop. Azariah pulled Octavia forward at a relentless pace. They ran and ran until there was no one else around them.
Azariah felt a tug.
“Wait!” Octavia cried. “Stop! I—can’t—breathe—I—”
She pulled her hand out of his and fell to the ground on all fours, her chest heaving. Azariah stood there a moment, his eyes darting around the thick trees to spot any potential assailant. Then he stooped down low, examining Octavia, but she didn’t seem to be fully present.
She was gasping and digging her nails into the dirt.
After a minute, she seemed to come to, and she peered up at him. He grabbed her hand, hauling her up again. He wanted to collapse from how weak he felt, but if he did that, Azariah knew he might not get up again. “We must keep going. We cannot stay here.”
He stared at her, completely out of breath. She was so close to him. He was keenly aware of the feel of her breath against his neck. She stared up at him, her eyes fixed on his, and for the first time in three years, Azariah Ronan allowed himself to feel something other than grief.
His cracked and bleeding lips parted, and affection for her stirred in his chest. She had rescued him. Despite everything he had done to her, she came back for him. She stood in front of the darkness itself for him when he didn’t deserve it. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know how. He almost reached a hand up to brush away the strands of brunette hair that tickled her flushed cheek…
Abruptly, Octavia’s knees buckled, and she fell into him, grasping at his shirt. He steadied her, keeping a firm grip on her upper arms until she could gain back her footing.
Their brief moment had come to a close, and now survival thrust itself back into Azariah’s mind.
“Can you keep running?” he asked.
She peered up at him. “Yes.”
He gave her a stiff nod, and then held out his hand. She took it, and together, they continued to flee through the night, away from Xadia’s scattering army, away from the rattling wall of darkness, and away from the clutches of Pierre Zarqel.
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Deep in the forest in the aftermath of that night, surrounded by a ragtag group of sixty men who had fled with him, all that replayed in Pierre Zarqel’s mind were the last words Azariah had spoken to him. Pierre, mark my words! Your judgment will come!
He had scoffed at those words. Laughed at them.
Never once did he entertain the idea that they would actually come true. Pierre had ensured that Xadia’s war camp was far enough away from the darkness to be safe. He had sent scouts out every day to confirm it. The gods of old were surely at work—only a fool would say otherwise.
But Pierre absolutely refused to believe that this was his doing. His actions were not to blame. Something much larger was at work, he could feel it.
The darkness had ruined everything.
The Keyholder. Azariah Ronan. Both slipping from his grasp like sand falling through his fingertips. The rage he had felt charging into his war tent only to find a stake with empty chains and Octavia nowhere in sight…
And when he had sprinted back into the pandemonium of the camp, the place where he had chained the bounty hunter was vacant too.
Losing them festered wrath deep to his bones. He should have killed Azariah when he had the chance. He should have taken his blade and sliced open his flesh to spill his innards on the ground at his feet. He yearned to hear Azariah’s screams. He had dreamed of hearing him beg for mercy. Three years of hunting him, only for an act of the gods to steal him away.
He tore at his clothing, letting out a guttural growl.
Pierre gritted his teeth as he sat in the dirt with his men. They had stopped only for a small respite, most of them too out of breath to stay on their feet. In a few minutes, Pierre would order them to continue their flight. Then he would need to regroup, assess their losses, and try to find more survivors.
But for a little while longer, Pierre allowed his thoughts to run feral. He clenched his fists together and ground his teeth, curling his upper lip. He cursed Octavia for the wish she had enticed him with. He could have had his revenge on Azariah and his way with her if he had not been so foolish.
Now he was left with nothing—not even a parcel of waters to track her.
Azariah’s voice echoed in the back of his mind. Only wrath awaits you.
“No,” Pierre growled.
He gazed up at the night sky, where patches of starlight were visible through the pine trees, and he hardened his heart against the events that had unfolded. He would not let this discourage Xadia’s mission for the Well of Eternal Healing. He would make Xadia great. He would become their savior. He would do everything in his power to accomplish it.
The fact that he couldn’t become the Keyholder himself would not dissuade him.
“Octavia,” he whispered in a sing-song, lingering on the syllables of her name as if tasting them. He glanced through the thickly shrouded forest, and desire lit within his chest, craving to be unleashed. It ran through his blood like the enticing waters from the Well of Euphoria, kindling his determination to keep what he had decided to make his own. “I vow to the gods, I will not stop until I have you. I will find you again.”
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