Ansar presses his left palm against an indentation in the center of the door. It swings open, revealing a vast chamber.
It isn’t just an ordinary chamber. It’s a natural cave, with stalactites hanging from the ceiling and mineral deposits shimmering in the walls and the natural stone floor.
I recognize them at once.
Serpenstone.
It’s little wonder they’re able to keep Aralya contained in here. The sheer amount of serpenstone in this cave is staggering. It affects me too, dulling my senses, making me sluggish. It’s as if a heavy weight is pressing down upon my shoulders. I almost drop to my knees.
But I’m fortunate to be half-human. The serpenstone doesn’t affect me as badly as it would if I were a pureblooded vampire.
It must be dampening Ansar’s magic, too.
“Go inside.” I prod him in the back with the tip of my blade.
Ansar enters, and I follow.
And stop dead in my tracks as I catch sight of her.
For the first time in my life, I encounter a pureblooded dryad.
At last.
Relief surges through me. It’s really her. She’s alive.
They’ve locked her in an infernal cage—made of dampening iron and inset with thousands and thousands of serpenstone gems. The structure is domed like a birdcage and large enough to contain a person at full height.
She hangs suspended from the top of the cage, her wrists and ankles bound in dampening shackles, her body clad in rags and bound again in shimmering threads, into which more tiny serpenstones have been woven.
Her eyes are closed.
Her expression is almost peaceful, but twisted into a slight grimace, as if she’s in silent agony.
I stare at her.
It’s impossible to draw my eyes away.
She isn’t like anyone I’ve ever seen before.
She’s so very clearly not of this world.
Her hair is verdant green; the color of emeralds, of lush jungles in the rain. It’s so long it hangs down to her ankles.
Her skin is like polished oak, luminous and ageless.
And in her ageless features, there are unmistakable echoes of Finley.
My chest tightens.
This woman has endured so much. I can’t bear to see her like this.
“Ansar,” I say softly, both awed by the dryad and disgusted at what they’ve done to her. “You will release her life-thread. Now.”
He laughs. “You know why I can control her like this? It’s because she’s half-dead. It’s the only bargaining chip I have. You really think I would release her so easily? As I told you before, you take her place in there, and I’ll release any thread you want.”
“All right.” I sheath my sword, releasing him.
Ansar spins around in surprise. “What are you—”
But I’ve already moved. I reach the cage and wrap my hands around the bars, pulling them apart. The metal yields easily. I step through the gap I’ve created and walk right up to Aralya.
She doesn’t move.
Is she aware of me? Can she hear anything? Or is she completely oblivious to the world?
I grab the cords wrapped around her body and tear them away.
“Stop,” Ansar cries in the background, but I barely hear him.
He’s found a way to bind her to him using Death Magic. All this time, he’s been siphoning her power to create his undead armies.
Could he really sever her life-thread?
Not if I get to her first.
I glance over my shoulder. Ansar glares at me and holds up his hands. Slowly, deliberately, he plucks one of the red threads, pulling it out.
A low, guttural moan escapes from Aralya’s throat. Her voice is thin and weak, fading to a whisper.
I glance at her in alarm. The hollows of her cheeks have become sunken. Her smooth skin is shrivelling right before my very eyes, becoming desiccated and cracked, like a parched tree.
I need to get her out of here—out of this vile cage, which saps even my energy.
I pull out my dagger and turn, flicking it through the air. It lands in Ansar’s left shoulder.
He lets out a howl, and for a moment, Aralya’s moaning ceases.
Good.
He’s distracted.
I reach up to rip off the dampening irons encircling Aralya’s wrists.
I crush the metal with my hands. Even through my leather gloves, it burns as if I were wrapping my fingers around hot coals.
She collapses into my arms, her body as light as a feather.
I gently lay her on the floor and do the same to the shackles around her ankles, moving as fast as I possibly can. I’m starting to grow weak. I can’t afford to stay in this cursed thing much longer.
It’s staggering to know that Aralya’s had to endure this infernal contraption for years upon years. If I’m feeling this way—head pounding, vision dimming, body sluggish—I can’t imagine how terrible it must be for her.
Gently, I take her into my arms and tear out of the cage; out of the serpenstone-studded cave itself.
I take her into the outer corridor, moving far away from the magical seals and dampeners—until my own vision starts to clear.
We’re in a dark part of the tunnels, where it’s silent and the floor is bare swept earth.
I lay Aralya down. Her face looks weathered. Her body has become worryingly frail. In just a short amount of time, Ansar has drained so much vitality from her.
Her lips are slightly parted.
I bite my own thumb, drawing blood. Then I gently place the pad of my thumb against her lips.
It’s time to wake up. I’ll take you out of here, Aralya.
I can’t help but feel reverence when I look at her preternatural face. She’s the mother of my precious bonded one.
Kaithar and Ciel told me my blood was a gift. They’ve been saying it all along. I was in denial; unwilling to accept what I truly am—until my mother spelled it out for me.
Bless her soul.
Kaith and Ciel were right.
My blood heals.
It’s counterintuitive. Considering that vampires are of the direct line of the Goddess of Death, one might think that shouldn’t be the case.
But my blood breaks seals, and it’s always been able to chase away death.
Suddenly, I understand.
I’m a Child of Hecoa. My ancestors are descended from the Goddess herself. And when I died and went to the underworld, the Goddess of Death gave me a drop of her essence.
But my power isn’t death.
It’s the absence of it.
My blood doesn’t give life. It simply reverses death.
Finley is life itself, and she sustains me.
The ground beneath my feet begins to tremble.
It worked.
Green eyelashes flutter.
Then her eyes snap open, and I’m looking into twin pools of glowing green, and for a moment, her gaze is the most terrifying thing in the world, because it’s filled with wrath, but as she catches sight of me, her eyes soften.
She knows.
“Don’t be afraid,” I say gently.
“Afraid?” Her voice is deep and resonant; inhumanly so, like a chorus of a thousand voices distilled into one. “Why would I be afraid of you, sweet child?”
“You must understand that I’m nothing like the others—the ones that captured and hurt you. And…” I hesitate, unsure whether I should reveal something so vital lest she become protective. “I’m bonded to your daughter. I’m here on her behalf, to set you free and bring you to her.”