My defensive posture loosens with a breath.
I’m coming, Digby.
Chapter 41
AUREN
I follow a step behind Midas as he leads the way out of the ballroom and into the great hall. His guards are waiting for him, and they peel away from the wall when they see us coming, falling in behind with matching strides.
I’m a pulped mesh of exhaustion, yet corners of anxious anticipation sharpen my edges. Even with the food I’ve eaten, I can feel my body weakening with every step until I have to look down at my feet to keep them moving.
Midas takes me out of the great hall, down a corridor and to a set of stairs. I try to memorize the path so that I can relay it to Lu later in case she hasn’t found the way yet, but it’s a struggle to pay attention because of how drained I feel.
I squeeze my stinging eyes shut and then miss a step from my lack of concentration. Luckily, my ribbons help catch my fall.
“Careful, Precious,” Midas murmurs.
I take my time down the steps, gripping the railing in a tight hold. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I blow out a breath of relief.
I’m tired. So tired.
A brisk cold in the air makes me shiver, and I take a second to look around, though aside from the shadowed lighting, the space is unremarkable. Just plain and gray, like a servant’s passageway.
Midas keeps walking down the corridor, and I swipe my hand over my forehead to get rid of the sweat gathered against my hairline. “Are we close?” Even my voice sounds weary.
“Yes, we’re here,” Midas tells me, and I jerk my head up to look as he comes to a stop in front of a plain wooden door.
He nods to one of the guards, and the man steps forward with a key, shoving it into the lock. My heart is pounding in my head, in my temples, in my veins.
I feel so sick with worry. Or maybe I’m just plain sick. Too much power use has left me to feel like every drop of gold my skin created was me slowly bleeding out.
I try to push past the feeling, but it just keeps getting worse, my limbs tingling, my vision bending.
When the door swings open, Midas looks at me with a smile and then strides inside, while I gulp in a breath and tell myself to get my shit together. Stumbling forward, I pass through the threshold, because I don’t care how sick I feel, nothing is going to keep me from seeing Digby. Not even myself.
As soon as I’m inside, the guards close the door behind me to leave us in privacy.
I take two steps before coming to an abrupt stop.
My mouth opens in a soundless pant, eyes sweeping over the dimly lit room of plain gray floors and walls, a crescent window too high to reach, a cot on the floor.
I blink, trying to register what I’m seeing, though it’s difficult past the haze that’s descended in my mind.
“Digby?”
The steps I take forward are like slogging through deep sand, each lift of my feet a weighted struggle. My vision has gone tunneled, drops of black ink staining around the edges.
When I reach the bedside and look down, my stomach slants like the steep pitch of a roof, meant to make everything slip off before it can settle. My legs and face both crumple, and the only reason I stay upright is because I manage to catch myself on the wall, palm abraded against the stone as I stare down in horror.
The man lying on the bed is unrecognizable.
It’s not skin I’m looking at, it’s a map of mottled bruises showing where each injury travelled, the passages that took them from black and blues to yellows and greens. Swollen cheeks, split lip, fingernails gone black, and gray hair darkened by grime and plastered against his forehead.
My hand slaps over my mouth like I want to stifle the agony that courses through me, but I could never cover that up.
Because Digby is broken.
This is not the man I remember. This isn’t my strong, gruff, stoic guard. The person lying on this cot is a mess of injuries and pain, skin too many colors to count. If it weren’t for the wheezing from his lungs, I would think he was dead.
My wet eyes begin to drip, tears scalding my cheeks as my world tilts. My hands hesitate over him, hovering over his tattered and filthy uniform, the golden fabric tarnished and torn. I’m too afraid to touch him in case it causes more pain, so I reach out with one ribbon to gently brush against his arm.
“Why is he like this?” I ask, my voice coming out in a hoarse whisper, though it thunders in my chest. When I don’t get an answer, I round on Midas, but spinning that fast makes my dizziness worse. “What did you do?” I’m able to shout it out this time, the thunder audible as it rents through the air.