She remained silent. The emperor flicked his wrists, and the guards sheathed their swords.
“I believe I have further use for you, my witch. You will be kept here until the child is born. If it is the child of a Darkan it will stay here...and you will be allowed to leave.”
A ragged moan of pain and denial slipped from her. She struggled to her feet, and Lachlan wanted to howl at the damage. Those with power should never abuse those weaker than themselves. And they had toyed with her. Cutting into her skin with their blades. She bled from a multitude of cuts. If she had been fated to die, a clean death would have done the job.
She dipped into a clumsy bow and then departed. He followed her, cloaking himself in absolute darkness. Three guards also followed at a discreet distance. She made her way several floors down, before turning left along a long lonely corridor. The witch stopped at an iron door and waited. One of the guards inserted a key, the door swung open, and she entered.
It was a small airless room, the lone window high almost to the ceiling. Stark, cold, grey concrete constructed her prison. A lone narrow cot was pushed against a corner, and the room was void of a fireplace. She hobbled over to a small table, took up a pouch, opened it and collected a pungent smelling herb. She slowly mixed the herb into some liquid she had in a chalice, muttered under her breath, and drank it in a long swallow. Before his eyes, a few of the smaller cuts stopped bleeding, but she still appeared pained. A chill blanketed the room, and she grabbed the thin quilt and wrapped it around her shaking shoulders, lowering herself onto the edge of the cot.
Harsh, broken sobs spilled from her. She did not tarry in her sorrow, squaring her shoulders and resting hands on her stomach. “I’ll not fail you,” she promised softly. “How stupid of me to run from your father when I sensed his might. He is a power to be reckoned with my darling, and he can help protect us from the coven, and the emperor. I am so petrified to reach out to him. His kind are monsters.”
The small mound of her stomach rippled, and a choked laugh escaped her. “But not you, my sweet, you are no monster,” she murmured. “Half of me is within you too.”
A dark curiosity bloomed, taking root too rapidly for him to crush. Lachlan stepped from the shadows.
She paled alarmingly, came to her feet slowly, facing him, breathing roughly. Her power rode the air, and the walls of the room contracted and settled. “Who are you?”
“I am an Archduke of the Darkage.”
Raw fear chased her features. Her eyes flared wide before she inhaled deeply. “Lies. I sense no demon within you. But you stepped from the shadows. How is this possible?”
He ignored that demand. “What work do you perform for the emperor?”
Her eyes flashed. “I am here under duress. I do not willingly do anything for him.”
A truth. “How did you pull the chakra from within the Darkan?”
The pulse at her throat fluttered madly, and she whispered too low for him to decipher. Her power swarmed over his skin like insects. Lachlan remained still, drawing the shadows in the room to coalesce around her. They twisted at her feet like snakes and her breathing fractured.
“If you try to cast a spell, I will not hesitate to rip your tongue from your head. And if you lie to me, I shall peel the flesh from your body,” he said without any give or mercy in his heart. “Speak.”
She lifted her chin defiantly, but he caught a glimpse of fear quickly masked. “I do not have the power alone to pull the beast from its master. The Serangite used her telepathy along with my most powerful spells to summon it. He was young and unbonded, and we called out his beast from him at the emperor’s order.” Her voice cracked before she firmed her lips.
Disbelief scythed through him. “The Serangite used her telepathy, and the beast simply came forth?”
The witch watched him warily. “Along with my spell. The demon beast wanted to be free and did not put up much resistance to stay within its host.”
His voice was a low growl when he responded, “Take me to the Darkan.”
Her eyes were a striking blue, almost black and she held his gaze unflinching. Brave. No other would face death with such composure.
“He is dead.”
Violence tore through him, and vengeance bled into his veins.
“Not by my hands,” she said hoarsely. “We summoned his beast and then used our powers—”
“Who is the Serangite?” His gut told him it was her, but he still needed confirmation.
“Princess Shilah.”
Regret slammed into his chest. A pity. She would not live to see the dawn for the crimes committed against his people. Only the oldest and most powerful Darkans could summon their Cerja—the distinct image of their beast covering their body—to a corporeal form, but this Serangite was able to do so in fledging Darkans. Even if he was of a mind to forgive it, she and the witch were weapons of Mevia. They could not be allowed a place on the war board. The empire was already too powerful.
Something inside Lachlan violently resisted the idea of hurting her. He frowned, not understanding that anomaly. He had lived centuries in a stark, lonely existence, but with honor, never breaking his code or betraying his oath. He had never been the kind of man to shy away from his duty and removing any weapon that could ultimately enslave his people was a duty to his king and realm. He was also not the kind to kill without reason and had even been taunted by his fellow enforcers that he had the morals and scruples of a human. They’d even dubbed him the peacekeeper of the Darkage, for he understood mercy and compassion. A thing most of his people did not do well with, but he did not mind, for he preferred to be merciful when necessary than live with the unchecked brutality of his demon.
“Who killed him?”
“We directed the Darkan and his beast to attack Nuria and capture King Ajali. He failed. There was a woman there, another Darkan, whispers refer to her as Tehdra El Kyn.”