Where did you go?

Numb, my hands and feet have long since lost blood flow, if the invisible needles incessantly stabbing each of my fingers and toes are any indication.

The small amounts of air my ravaged lungs can suck in are biting, stinging. Almost as if remembering that cold, my body shivers, chains shifting and clinking in response.

My eyes crack open, blurry from an unconsciousness that lasted far longer than oxygen deprivation should have warranted.

My hands are bound tightly behind my back, crushed between my weight and the thick, rocky walls that encase the small room I've been detained in.

Blinking away sleep, I scan the quiet, ancient room, taking stock of exits and weapons, as Father instilled in me during training. Only, there aren't any—at least, no chairs, no windows, and certainly no weapons. The room is utterly void, save for one door across the room, humming mercilessly with intricate wards.

Dampness coats the air, so similar to my last cage. I'm underground then, only instead of ash, it would appear rocks and boulders make up this tomb.

Silence is heavy here, only broken by the constant hum of endless layers of ancient wards that surround these walls. So thick, even the shadows have yet to make an appearance—a blessing and a curse. Insanity is curbed; however, warnings and snitches are nonexistent.

On the bottom of the door, faint etchings catch my eye—symbols I don't recognize. They're too precise, too deliberate to be a coincidence.

Testing the strength of the chains, I shift, trying to get a better view. My arms strain with the near nonexistent movement I manage before my fleeting hope of escape gutters out, and I crash back against the damp wall.

Shivers rack my body again as the air grows near freezing. I'm still dressed in the filth-crusted nightgown I've worn for ninety-three—no, ninety-four—days now. The smell from under my arms so raw my eyes begin to water.

A low creak of the door catches my attention—barely perceptible, but enough to still the air around me. I hold my breath, straining my ears. The hum of the wards flickers, reacting to an unseen presence. And then, from the corner of my eye, I catch the faintest movement. A shadow appears and shifts, then wafts throughout the room. My heart skips. He's here.

He moves forward silently, the lingering shadows hugging his frame, melding and blurring his edges against the darkness of the room. I can barely make out his features, but I recognize the dangerous glint in his eyes, the sharpness in his posture. Tension crackles in the air as silence presses down, thick and heavy. He says nothing at first, just stands there, watching me with unsettling calm.

"You reek," he says in his way of greeting, his lips again pulled back in disgust. Definitely no lord or gentleman then, certainly not royalty. Strange for a Shadowsinger to be left titleless, considering their abilities. Perhaps titles are not necessary in this part of the The Above, no royalty or rulers, wherever we are.

I jolt at the whisper of a shadow, gliding along my outstretched legs as if they were a road. Too distracted by the Shadowsinger and his ability to threaten death without speaking a word. Slowly, a few more of his shadows start to drift, falling from his shoulder in an elegant decent to the floor. They slither like lazy garden snakes, basking in the mid-morning sun as they move—one after another—toward my feet, my bound hands, my neck.

"How did you learn their songs?" the Shadowsinger asks from his self-appointed battlefront against the wall. Refusing to near the caged animal. I consider his question—how much to divulge, what I could earn with information—while the shadows continue their investigation.

Smelly thing, you could use a bath, it won't wash everything away at least not your warpath.

"They do not sing," I reply, deciding on giving less and taking more. The male cocks his head, identical to a predator assessing its prey. My heart thrums harder at his attention, at the shadows picking up their chatter, sensing I can hear them, understand them.

He's done with your games, you've nothing to win, he'll peel your bones clean, such thin, fragile skin.

Ignore them, ignore them, ignore them.

"I said, where is your father? Where is the King?" His sharp tone snaps me back from the shadows' swirling taunts. He's moved closer, just a step—seemingly unable to stomach my presence. The shadows flow between us, drifting softly across the dusty mountain floor, feeding their master with whatever they can gather from me.

"I don't know," I bite out honestly, putting all my focus into staying present, refusing to let the shadows whisk me away again. Fidgeting, I pick at my fingers, the pain sweet and grounding.

The truth, it seems is impossible to find, he wants answers, girl, and you're not blind.

"Cold, frigid death splashes over me—no, not death, water, though it's hardly an improvement. A shriek escapes my lips as another bucket slams into me. Where he summoned them from, I haven't the faintest clue. After a third bucket of icy terror, he finally relents, only to toss a bar of chalky white soap and a half-clean rag at my feet."

Panting through the shivers raking my body, I snarl, "What was that for?"

"Your smell is nauseating," he growls back, opening some forgotten pocket realm to stow the bucket—for now. "And you have a hard time paying attention. Refuse to answer me again, and I won't use water as my weapon."

Shaking my head, I send a spray of filthy water from my matted, molded hair at the Shadowsinger, who jumps back with a snarl of protest. "How do you expect me to cleanse myself whilst bound?" Without deigning to respond, two feminine shadows float through the walls, carried by a phantom wind. They move toward me, grabbing the soap and rag—identical in so many ways, yet tangible. Tilting my head, I study their movements. So human-like, it's disturbing.

They get to work quickly, my cheeks flushing as they scrub in tandem, leaving my skin burnt and red. I kick and scream as they move to more sensitive areas, only to be bound by more shadows. I close my eyes as they work silently, as he watches from afar. A new view, but another cage. They move onto my hair after magicking my night gown clean, pulling on months of knots and filth. I'm surprised when they take the time to braid it, almost caringly down my back, before deeming me good enough, and vanishing back through the mountain wall.

"How long have you been in The In-Between?" The Shadowsinger picks up where he left off, pretending he didn't just see every part of me, as if I were some pet with no rights to common decency. My shaking subsides with the water dried off. Relief fills me, and I blow out a breath as I notice the shadows retreating, back to their master's shoulder.

"I don't know" I breath out, bringing my gaze to the ceiling, wore out from the cold and shame. Tears threaten to run down my cheeks, but I blink them away, he's seen enough of my humility for one day. I would give anything to go back a few months, to my warm duvet and Seren. To our piles of stolen sweets and made-up stories. Theirs a long pause as the male takes another step toward me, his foot fall near silent.

"Where am I?" I ask, meeting his gaze once again—sharp, filled with malice and hate. "More importantly, why am I here?" I add before he can reply. The King may indulge in twisted punishments, but he didn't plan this. Information is kept from his closest allies, let alone anyone in The Above or Below. And he would have wanted to know this came from him—he would have wanted it to eat at me, to fester under my skin.

"You are not permitted to ask questions," his voice so low, so lethal I barely make out the words before he adds, "It will be more painful for you if you keep this up. Answer me honestly, and I may show you mercy."

My heart thrums again at the threat in his voice, or perhaps what feels more like a promise. I can't answer his questions—I've spent my entire life in the dark, told only where to break and when to obey. A princess by title, yes, but a weapon in reality, forged and used by others.

His movements are too fast for me to track. One moment, he's several yards away, scowling and listening to his shadows, and the next, he's at my throat, a wicked dagger pressed against my skin. The cold blade drags across my neck, the sharpness pulling at my flesh with a slow, deliberate pressure.

"Where is the King?" His voice is a death sentence, a final breath of a loved one, the sting of silent tears slipping down a face—each word laced with finality and lethality. I press my head against the wall, as far away as I can, swearing the mountain trembles at his words. The reverberations slam against my skull, like a constant echo in my mind.

"Where is he?" He presses again, his voice a command, his blade a promise, releasing a warm trickle of blood down my neck, coaxing a soft cry of pain from my lips. The mountain trembles again, louder this time, its rumble slow but methodical. A growl of impatience escapes the Shadowsinger, his fangs flashing as his hand twists into my braid, yanking my head back farther, exposing more of my throat.

"I won't ask you again," he snarls as the mountain's drumming grows louder, faster—faster, louder. Shadows shoot toward me once more, winding around my hands, purring in my ear.

This is only the beginning, the start of a tale. Only you can decide whether you will fail—or prevail.

"I wonder how long you'll last before you beg me for mercy," Azriel muses aloud, his gaze never leaving my face. "Not that it matters. You're already as good as broken."

His words pierce through the haze in my mind, I can barely make out the rest of his musings over the roar inside my head, the shadows whispering in my ears. Its to much, to loud. Ignore them, ignore him, ignore them.

Then, abruptly—everything stops. Silence floods the room, thick and suffocating, as though the very air is being held hostage by the tension.

"Now, now, Azriel, is that any way to treat our guest?"

The voice drifts into the room, ancient and laced with cunning, smooth like honey but sharp as a blade. The chill that slithers up my spine has nothing to do with the cold stone walls. My heart sinks, dropping like a stone in water, as my senses reel.

Azriel's body stiffens at the sound, his posture tense, and I hear the scrape of his boots against the stone as he moves to stand. The pressure at my throat lifts, though the chill remains. His fingers slip from my braid with an irritated huff, and I catch a fleeting look of contempt in his eyes—he did not like being interrupted.

I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog that's settled over my mind. True, undiluted fear has my heart pounding, begging for escape as Azriel turns, revealing a shadow among shadows, with power too vast to be ignored.

Tall. Dark. Dominating.

I've heard tales of him, whispered rumors, fragments of stories—each one carrying an edge of fear and fascination. But none of it prepared me for who stands before me now.

The High Lord of the Night Court.

Rhysand.