Page 5 of Hellbound

Ksenia surmised it was a blood offering to a god of travel, based on the crudely chiseled compass and lodestone motifs lining the archway. Sacrifice was the surest way to get a god’s attention, giving them power in leaps and bounds compared to other forms of worship.

Wordlessly, Ksenia drew her dagger from a sheath at her thigh. A warm but imperfect resonance harmonized in her body, like an iron tuning fork struck upon stone then held against her sternum, still vibrating.

No two bound weapons rang the same.

And this one was her own: a beautiful, simple design with a needle-thin blade and an aged mahogany–polished hilt. It gleamed in the low light as she ran her finger against the blade.

Pain blossomed before becoming a warm haze as the blood beaded from the slit on her finger, and she pressed the wound against the statue’s forehead.

“God of Wanderers and the Lost, I commend those four souls to your keeping. Guard their steps, steady their hearts, and deliver them from this hellish place,” she murmured before stealing into the night.

Threading the alleyways and retracing her steps, she returned to Danika.

She had expected silence, even darkened windows.

She hadn’t expected to find the door hanging crooked on its hinges, splintered wood catching the wind.

Ksenia’s heart lurched into her throat as she broke into a sprint.

“Danika—”

The words died as she reached the threshold. The candle they’d left burning on the table had been knocked to the floor.

“Niks—” Her voice cracked.

No answer.

She stumbled over a broken chair. The air reeked of smoke mixed with the coppery tang of blood.

Her hands shook as she fumbled for the matchbox in her pocket and struck it once, twice.

A small flame caught, and the shadows pulled in to reveal the violence that had taken place in her absence.

Overturned furniture, packs torn open, contents strewn over the floor. The mattress had been flung to the opposite corner and slashed.

Her heart turned to stone as her gaze shifted to the dark stain in the room’s center, a bloody trail of someone or something being dragged out the cottage’s back door. Her mind raced: the raid had caught Danika. She hadn’t been fast enough, wasn’t here to help.

The match burned low in her trembling grip, but she barely registered the burn until her fingertips seared with pain and she flung it down with a hiss.

It landed on the blood-slick floor and sizzled.

2

Her limbs grew numb as her vision narrowed to the darkened trail leading into the forest. She forced her body to comply, one foot in front of the other, wading carefully through the tall, bloodstained grass. At this rate, the growing rain would erase the trail.

She clutched her dagger with a white-knuckled grip, blade angled downward.

She had never killed before, but gods, the butcher king tempted her.

Tempted her to be a monster like him.

How she would love to be the dagger in his heart. For turning the people against bondsmiths, for enslaving them, for working them to the bone and executing them.

If he took her sister, she would spend the rest of her days hunting him down if only to rip him limb from limb.

The squall became riotous as she crossed the forest line.

Suddenly, all sound muffled, as if Ksenia had been plunged into deep waters without a splash, her only companions her quickening heartbeat and trembling breath.