Page 67 of Heartflame

Morgana laughed again, that horrible sound like breaking glass. “Wouldn’t you like to know? But I think I’ll let that be a surprise for when the truth is revealed to all. The look on your faces will be absolutely exquisite.”

She turned away from us then, gesturing to the witches and undead surrounding us. “Tie the dragon down and take the witch to the dungeon,” she commanded. “I want them secured and conscious. We’re going to use them as leverage. After all, what better way to break the Elder Council’s resolve than to torture their beloved son to death?”

Cold dead hands reached for me, but I thrashed against the chains with renewed fury. I had to get free. I had to protect Quill. This couldn’t be how it ended, trapped and helpless while she executed whatever twisted plan she’d been orchestrating all along.

“Don’t worry, dragon boy,” Morgana called over her shoulder as she walked toward one of the grand doorways. “You’ll get your chance to be useful soon enough. After all, I need your blood for the final step. And once I have it...” She paused, her masked head turning back toward us with an air of finality. “Well, let’s just say the paranormal world as you know it will cease to exist.”

The undead dragged me across the marble floor, my wings scraping uselessly against the stone. I caught one last glimpse of Quill being roughly handled by two of the witches, his eyes meeting mine with a desperation that mirrored my own.

I’d failed him. I’d promised to keep him safe, and I’d failed.

The chains tightened around me as they hauled Quill deeper into the mansion. And as he disappeared down a hallway, I realized the horrifying truth of Morgana’s words.

I would never see my mate again.

Chapter 28

Quill

The Purity Front witches dragged me down at least two flights of stairs, through several corridors, and into sections of the Pyre estate that I was certain nobody had stepped foot in for years. And with each step, Aeron was further and further away. My dragon mate was chained, trapped, and in pain. A stone felt like it had settled in the pit of my stomach as the realization sank in.

There was nothing I could do to help him.

He was the strong one, the one with real magical power, and a family history to prove it. And I was the son of a couple of potion makers, a nobody even amongst other witches. I didn’t go to Widdershins on a scholarship or a trust fund or because my parents were well-connected. I went there out of desperation to get better at my craft, to save my family from the ruin I saw marching toward us faster and faster every year as our products became obsolete.

And now it was all gone. Widdershins Academy had fallen. My mate was captured. Undead walked the earth once more. And soon, the Elder Council would be no more.

What little hope I had was gone.

The dungeon they threw me into wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined. I thought it would be all iron bars and stone walls. Instead, it turned out to be a massive storage room in the basement with a heavy wooden door. It was still ancient, still stank of mold and dust, but not exactly the castle dungeon I was expecting. The room itself was piled high with boxes and crates, clearly long forgotten and covered in dust. In the damp corners of the room I noticed a few of them were sprouting mushrooms as the boxes decayed. I had a feeling I was going to be forgotten just like those boxes if Morgana had her way about it.

One of the witches shoved me inside and I stumbled forward, catching myself against one of the dust-covered crates.

“Don’t bother trying to get out,” he sneered, his comrade smiling beside him. “We did our research on you and your family. No power, no connections, no exceptional gifts.” He leaned forward, his eyes full of disgust. “Weak ass witches like you give the rest of us a bad name.”

“We’re not even gonna bother warding the door,” his friend chuckled. “A lock will be more than enough to keep someone like you inside here.”

“I can’t see what a powerful dragon like Aeron sees in someone like you. But that doesn’t matter. He won’t be alive much longer, anyway.”

I tried to pretend like those words didn’t shake me down to my core. I’d thought them myself plenty of times.

The sound of the lock clicking into place echoed through the storage room like a death knell. I stood alone in the darkness, listening to their footsteps fade down the corridor, and felt something inside me break.

They were right. I was weak. I’d always known it, but hearing it confirmed so brutally drove the point home in a way that made me feel like I was two inches tall. My parents had known it too, which was why they’d been so against me going to Widdershins in the first place. No amount of education could fix the lack of magical talent that ran through our family. Back then, I hadn’t been ready to give up. But now I was starting to think I had no other choice.

I moved deeper into the storage room, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light that filtered through a small, grimy window high up on one wall. The dust was thick enough to choke on, and I could hear the soft skitter of rodents in the corners. It was cold too, making me feel like I’d been buried alive. Which, considering that I was about fifteen feet underground at the moment and would most likely be left to rot here, was probably true.

My arm throbbed where Morgana’s magic had caught me. I pulled my sleeve back carefully and examined the wound in what little light was available. It wasn’t deep, but the edges looked wrong somehow, discolored and almost burnt. Corrupted magic. I’d read about it in my studies but had never actually seen it before. I tried to remember what the textbook had said about treating it, but my mind was too scattered, too focused on the image of Aeron chained to the floor of that foyer.

What was she doing to him right now? Was he still conscious? Was he in pain? The mate bond pulled at me, a constant ache in my chest that felt almost physical. I could sense him somewhere above me, could feel the faint echo of his distress through whatever connection bound us together. It made me want to scream.

I sank down onto one of the crates, sending up a cloud of dust that made me cough violently. My hands were shaking, and I realized it wasn’t entirely from fear. It was anger. Hot, pure, crystalline anger at how completely and utterly helpless I was. At how I’d let myself be dragged down here without putting up even a token resistance. At how useless I’d proven to be when it actually mattered.

For years, I’d worked myself to exhaustion trying to improve my craft. I’d spent countless nights in my parents’ shop, mixing potions, studying old grimoires, pushing myself to be better than my natural talent would allow. And for what? To be dismissed by some witch I’d never met as weak and unremarkable? To be locked in a basement while my mate was tortured?

I stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the storage room with restless energy. There had to be something I could do. Some way to escape, some way to fight back.

I moved toward the crates, my fingers trailing across their dusty surfaces as I searched for anything that might be useful. Tools, weapons, anything at all. But most of what I found was just old household goods. There was tarnished silverware, broken furniture, and books so waterlogged they fell apart at the slightest touch. All of it was useless.