Page 133 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

Annoyance rattled through me. I stepped through the doorway, my finger pointed at his breeches. “Then tell me, what exactly is that—” A gasp escaped me as the soldier unsheathed his sword, forcing me backward into the suite. His partner followed his lead, his steel glowing in the light of the lanterns that hung from the walls. My pulse quickened.

“What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, my eyes trained on the blade closest to my heart.

“You are not permitted to leave this room,” the soldier replied, squaring his shoulders.

I glanced between the two of them. “Mordric didn’t say—”

“Well, I’m saying,” he grunted. “We have orders.”

My blood ran hot. My magic flared to life, spilling out of my fingertips in a pathetic puff of warm air. I swore, earning puzzled looks from the pair of them. “What is wrong with me?” I muttered under my breath.

“You’d best stay back,” said the second soldier, his voice trembling.

“What’s going on here?”

Mordric materialized at the far end of the corridor. Relief washed over me at the sight of him. He wore a midnight-blue doublet with silver buttons, and jet-black trousers. His hair was pulled back from his striking features, save for a single strand that curled over his brow.

To his right, Lord Volorthen regarded me with a placid expression. Dull black robes hung from the Chief Adviser’s spindly frame, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. Sir Killian Raltisse stood to the King’s left. The Master at Arms was the opposite of Lord Volorthen in every way: burly, stout, and human.

“Thank the gods you’re here,” I exclaimed. “These men are trying to keep me here by force.”

My relief faltered as Mordric exchanged a glance with his advisers. “I need a word with Miss Erramun,” he said stiffly.

Sir Raltisse’s mustache fluttered. “That is inadvisable,” he protested.

“How dare you,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

Mordric breezed past the soldiers, gesturing at them to lower their weapons. They obeyed. He placed a cold hand on the small of my back and ushered me away from the heavy metal doors.

“We need privacy,” he announced, nodding to the soldiers.

I jumped as the doors slammed shut, the force of them rattling the table behind me. The air around me went cold, as if I had fallen once again into the lake on the far end of the castle grounds. Beneath my gown, my skin tightened in apprehension.

Mordric’s handsome features were creased with concern. “Finn,” he said, taking my hand in his. “I need you to know that everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect you.”

“Everything you’ve done?” I echoed dumbly. “What exactly have you done?”

A headache bloomed between my temples, the heavily perfumed room suddenly stifling me. I searched his features for something, some kind of clue about where this was going.

I found nothing.

Mordric sighed. “I had to take extreme measures to keep you safe, you understand.”

“I don’t—” My words stoppered in my throat. I peered closely at the closed doors behind him, the dull metal somehow familiar. My stomach dropped. “What are they made of?” I asked instead, my voice hoarse.

Mordric’s expression was unnervingly calm. “Iron.”

My blood ran cold as I remembered Enhart’s story about Beltzan. He’d told me that in its purest form, iron shackles could render a witch powerless. But he hadn’t said anything about doors.

Anger surged through my veins, but there was no magic to erupt from my fingers. My mind raced as I pieced it together, the reason why my powers had been dulled from the moment I entered this suite. I jerked out of Mordric’s reach, so furious I could have lit the entire room on fire if I had even an ounce of my magic. “Explain yourself,” I demanded. “Now.”

“You are safe here. That’s all that matters.”

“You’re holding me prisoner?”

“For your own protection. And besides, it’s hardly a dungeon. Just look at it.”

“A beautiful cage is still a cage, Mordric!” My voice echoed around the opulent chamber, but I didn’t care if anyone heard me.