The Heirs of Death

26. 1. Hall of Death

HALL OF DEATH

I felt cold. And numb. So numb I couldn't feel at first the sharp coolness biting my skin, the iron we were laying on. But that magic, I had felt it fully. Every blast, every sharp whip that rained on us until the last thing I saw was those red eyes. Red, but not Blake's—not the same shade, not the same wrath in them.

My muscles were sore and strained, my lungs aching with every inhale as I rolled over, eyes greeted by the still darkness. And the flickering magic caging us. We hadn't sensed the man coming, hadn't caught on the first release of magic around us. It was not our land, nothing at all like the world we knew, and it rendered us weak, so easy a prey than a deer lost in the woods.

Those currant eyes appeared again just over my face, glowing irises in nothing but darkness. It didn't take me long to notice it wasn't smoke around them, to make out the armor faintly gleaming, stark against his face. His skin was black, such a black shade it was as though it was made from the night itself.

The ancients had once called them differently, but now, the men with such skin were called the Whisperers, a distinct, fading bloodline. It had been ages since the last one had appeared, our White Troopers looking for them every day for long centuries aback. So rare, so sacred. Old texts claimed they were worshipers of the Sun, whisperers of its tale, powerfully gifted. And loved by the sun so much those legends said Aether had forged them with the black skin for symbolism. Loved from the sun, hugged by its light until that very light had tinted their skin and flesh.

Demons had wiped them long ago, had killed nations and cities of their kind. The scarce number, we protected them, provided shelter.

But there was one here, in a land of corruption.

I didn't allow the weakness of my bones to show as I pulled myself, sitting and reclining my back until it was pressed against the cage. The magic hissed but I didn't do as much as blink.

The man grinned and it was wicked and cold and…old. An evilness festering for centuries, perhaps more. A scar ran across his face, barely visible, cutting through his still functioning eyes, two large mark on each side of his face. As though slashed by a forgotten specie of beasts.

"Already awake.'' His eyes roamed over my body, over every scar, every swirling mark on my skin. They slid to my stirring team, taking in every motion, every flicker of a muscle. A sharpness that only could be acquired by long years of training. "You should have been knocked out for days, not mere minutes."

I still held his stare, the burning interest in them, at how strong we were, at who we were. At the back still pressed against the magic.

Mere minutes.

I allowed my senses and magic to flood around us, eyes skimming along every wall, every corner. A room bathed in darkness. He'd felt my powers, sensed it brush against his as it noted the steel hanging from the walls, as it picked the faint, remaining hint of presence around us.