Through Flame and Blade

Ch. 9 In Her Head

*Chiara

The worst part of the dream was knowing it was a nightmare, but not being able to wake up. Her body was too exhausted. She watched, a spectator in her own head as she marched through the garden at the Fountain of Life and killed every angel in it.

Each face contorted in pain and fear. Eyes narrowed with hatred for her. They snarled at her—the angels—and she slammed her sword through their chests.

Her sword was drenched in sticky blood. The black onyx stone at the bottom of the hilt was red with an inner flame and the inscription of her family covered in red. She hacked off their wings when she killed them to throw them into the fire pits at the temple as a sacrifice. When she raised her arms and screamed to the starry sky above, she didn't know if she was begging forgiveness or shouting her out her victory.

Zeigfel strolled through the carnage. He stopped when he was in full view and clapped, the ringing tone of his leather gloves echoing in the dead space.

"Wake up," he said.

She blinked. It was day—or what passed for day in that pit of hell. She was hanging on the wall while Zeigfel and Dirk maneuvered Logan on the rack. Her chains were looser around her wrists than usual. She pulled her hand to test it. Her hand slid free. She blinked in confusion.

Zeigfel cursed, shoving Dirk to the floor. "Then find it!" he cried.

As Dirk scrambled to leave, Zeigfel followed, storming through the dungeon door. It slammed, but didn't lock. They were gone.

She blinked and shook her head. Her other hand slid free of the cuff. The scabs and scars were crusted with blood and rust at her wrists, but they were free. For the first time since she arrived, her hands were free. She glanced down. They must have forgotten to shackle her feet after—

Chiara couldn't remember what they had done to her earlier. Her heart thudded in her chest so hard, she pressed a hand to it to keep it inside. No one was watching. The hell hounds had trailed off after their masters. Logan was unconscious on the rack. She tiptoed forward.

Her knees buckled and she fell to the floor. Stones cut into her knees and palms, but she gritted her teeth. Nothing was going to stop her, especially not a little pain.

Jaw clenched, she hobbled forward. She hadn't walked on her own in weeks, and after countless times of her bones being broken, she wasn't healing fully anymore. Each step was agony.

She didn't care. There were noises coming from behind the dungeon door. No footsteps, though. Zeigfel made so much noise with his boots, she would hear him several minutes away.

The bastard probably lines his soles with silver so it burns when he kicks demons.

Pausing at the door, she listened again for someone coming. The sounds—yelling, banging, muffled grunts—seemed distant, possibly from other torture rooms. She gripped the handle and pulled carefully. The hinges creaked. She stopped. Blood trickled down her chin. She had bitten through her lip.

She swiped at the blood and pulled the door open enough for her to slip through. Then froze.

There was a ledge instead of the hallway she expected. The door opened directly to a massive cavern, spanning a mile or more. A stone path jutted from the wall where she stood, and if she took one more step there was nothing to hide her, not even a rail. The drop was dizzying. Although the stone path was wide enough for four to walk abreast, it snaked along the uneven wall, winding up and down and around for as far as she could see. Her heart failed her. She would be exposed for hours if she tried to run.

What about Logan?

Her eyes were dragged back into the room. Logan was slumped on the rack, limbs shackled. A frustrated sob shook her.