Page 136 of The Fake Divination Offense
We get to a hall blocked by security guards. Beyond is access to the lower levels; the stadium stretches several stories belowground to accommodate for field configurations. Whatever the Dragons planned should already be locked in by their artificers, to be activated once the game starts. But right now, moments before the game? It’s strictly off-limits to anyone from the opposing team.
Security tries to stop Roesia. She glares at them, every bit of her werewolf ancestry blazing out when she growls, “I am one of the owners of this stadium. Step. Aside.”
They eye each other. And obey.
We fly past them, and I hear one send out a call to the head of security.
Good. Let the whole force of the security team come tumbling after us.
We descend, leaping down staircases and barreling through empty halls.
A hundred nightmares overlap. A hundred moments with Seb from the camp. Him bloodied and bruised. Himgone.
I reach behind me, and his hand finds mine, locks in with a reassuring grip.
Four stories belowground, Roesia stops in front of metal double doors and throws her fist up. “Here. The scent is strongest. And beyond this door, I hear—” She cocks her head again. “Six heartbeats. One unconscious. Four calm. One—” Her eyes lock on mine. “One scared.”
I drop Seb’s hand and march to the doors as someone hisses, “Should we plan first or—”
Fuck any plan.
They took him from me.
I punch the doors open so hard they rebound off the walls with rattling blasts, clouds of dust bursting out of the concrete.
The square room is one of many for hosting spells to adjust the field. Runes glow arcane blue on the floor and walls.
That should be it. No one should be down here; it’s incredibly dangerous once the rooms start moving to accommodate whatever field the artificers planned.
But four people are centered in the room, standing in a circle, wearing black cultist robes with the hoods up.
In the corner, unconscious on the floor, is Ilbryen, her hands and legs bound.
And in the middle of the cultist circle, wearing his cheerleading tank top and shorts, his wrists chained above his head so he dangles from an I beam, is Bel in his demon form.
Tears track mascara down his cheeks. His necklace is visible, too, one of the pearls missing.
He sees me and thrashes on the chain, bare toes scraping the floor.
Orok!he mouths, but no sound comes. He says it again,Orok, Orok—
They put a silencing spell on him.
My shoulders arch. My hands clench into fists.
And I see. Fucking.Red.
One of the cultists throws his hood back. Recognizing him feels preordained.
“I won’t let you ruin this again,” Tem snarls. “You’re too late. Galaxrien will be free!”
He’s sneering, trying to be intimidating; he doesn’t realize how epically he’s messed up.
All that red, all that rising vehemence, has a focus.
He put the love of my life in chains.
Hetook Bel from me.
