If Thronos forced her back to his home of Skye Hall, then what was to stop those knights from pitching her over the side?
When he slowed, she cried against his shirt, “Yes, not so fast!”
He turned in place, inhaling sharply.
Curiosity demanded that Lanthe raise her head. “Oh, my gold.”
That new mountain jutted from the center of the prison, sloughing off the structures. Each chunk of concrete that fell was swept up to circle the peak like a tornado. Portia’s work. How much she must be enjoying this!
Ember’s towering flames wreathed the entire thing. The sorceress’s fires burned so strong, they grew in the rain, heating the drops to steam.
They were two of the most powerful Sorceri ever born. Their abilities were in a league even with Sabine’s illusions.
Part of Lanthe couldn’t help but marvel, as she might at a work of art.
“Offendments,” Thronos hissed near her ear. The Vrekener word for wrongdoing. “This is the work of your people. Your . . . ilk. And you wonder why Vrekeners were entrusted to battle the Sorceri?”
The mortals’ former prison was now a picture of hell.
Thronos didn’t regret the defeat of the Order—he’d found these humans contemptible—but now a greater evil reigned. As he watched the flames climb higher, the show of Sorceri might called to him.
To vanquish it.
For now, their actions would serve as a timely reminder of what he was dealing with. Melanthe’s sorcery wasn’t awing, but hers was more insidious. Everything about her was. Already she was trying to sow dissension, lying about Vrekener attacks.
He turned away from the spectacle and swept forward, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“I hate this, I hate this, I hate this,” she chanted, her face tucked back against his chest.
He hated it too. The only Vrekener in history who despised flying—and it was because of his own mate.
During those four childhood months he’d spent with Melanthe, he’d once encountered a crazed sorceress who’d told him, “Melanthe will never be what you need her to be.”
At the time, Thronos had thought that he and Melanthe would prove her and everyone else wrong.
How naïve he’d been.
His mate couldn’t be more unsuitable for him. In addition to all their history—and all her offendments—Melanthe was a Sorceri, a species that confounded him with their counterintuitive ways.
They covered up their faces with masks, calling it ornamentation—instead of concealment. They didn’t trust their own kind, had no unity. They loved to revel with other Loreans, but if they possessed something of value, they would hole up in faraway keeps like hibernating dragons. They could be brave when facing a violent enemy, yet debilitated by their fear of losing one of their precious powers.
Though Melanthe’s sinister persuasion wasn’t lost, it was contained—a step in the right direction.
She wanted that torque off? It would ring her neck for eternity!
“Where are we going now?” She was no longer shaking. Her body shuddered in his arms.
He forecasted more sorceress vomit directly. “I told you. I have means to leave the island.”
Thronos had information others didn’t. His cell in the prison had been near a guard station, and he’d heard them talking about the Order’s escape plans in case of an emergency.
There were rumors of a ship on the far side of the island.
All the members of the Order were dead. No mortal would’ve lived to take Thronos’s ship. And even if other Loreans happened to hear of it, they wouldn’t be able to cross the mountainous terrain of the inner island before he could.
He didn’t expect the berth to be visible from the air—the Order had been clever with cloaking their structures—but Thronos would be able to scent the craft’s engines. Once the rain stopped pouring.
He would use the vessel to get himself and Melanthe close enough for him to fly back to the Skye. There, when he was thinking more clearly, he would decide her fate.