House of Flame and Shadow (Crescent City #3) by Sarah J. Maas

Ruhn wasn’t sure he could eat, though his body screamed for food. He took breath after sawing breath.

The Oracle had told him that the royal bloodline ended with him. Had she seen that he’d wind up here—and never walk out alive? Cold worse than the dungeons’ damp chill crept through him.

He had come to peace with the possibility of this fate for himself a long time ago. Granted, not this particular demise, but an untimely end in some vague sense. But now that Bryce was a true royal, the prophecy shed light on her fate, too. If she hadn’t made it to Hel … perhaps she hadn’t made it anywhere. Thus ending the royal bloodline with both of their deaths.

He couldn’t share his suspicions with Athalar. Couldn’t offer up that bit of despair that would break the Umbra Mortis worse than any of Pollux’s tools. It would be Ruhn’s secret to keep. His own wretched truth, left to fester in his heart.

The smell of stale bread filled his nostrils, rising above the stench as the tray slid in front of him. Splashing through a puddle of—Ruhn didn’t want to know what the liquid was. Though his nose offered up a few unpleasant suggestions.

“Gotta eat,” Hunt said, hands shaking as he brought a cup of broth to his mouth.

“Don’t want us dead, then,” Baxian said, slowly lifting a piece of bread.

“Not yet.” Athalar sipped slowly. Like he didn’t trust his body not to chuck it all up. “Eat, Danaan.”

It was a command, and Ruhn found himself reaching his weak, trembling fingers toward the broth. It took all his focus, all his strength, to raise it to his lips. He could barely taste it. Right—his tongue was still regrowing. He sipped again.

“I don’t know where Bryce is,” Hunt said, voice raw. He picked up a piece of bread with his good hand. The burned fingers on his other hand were twisted at different angles. Some were missing nails.

Fuck, how had their lives come to this?

Athalar took the last bite of bread and lay back—right in the reeking piles and puddles. He closed his eyes. The halo gleamed darkly on the angel’s brow. Ruhn knew Athalar’s relaxed posture belied his thoughts. Knew the angel was probably frantic with worry and dread.

Guilt was likely eating Athalar alive. Guilt that wasn’t his to bear—they’d all made choices that had landed them here. But the words were too heavy, too painful for Ruhn to voice.

Baxian finished and lay down as well, instantly asleep. The Hammer and the Hawk had come down especially hard on the Helhound. It was personal with them—Baxian had been one of their own. A brother-in-arms, a partner in cruelty. Now they’d take him apart piece by piece.

Ruhn lifted his cup again—a silicone one that couldn’t be broken to use as a weapon—and peered into the water within. Watched it ripple with his breath.

“We need to get out of here,” Ruhn said, and nothing had ever sounded more stupid. Of course they needed to get out of here. For so many fucking reasons.

But Athalar cracked open an eye. Met his stare. Pain and rage and determination shone there, unbroken despite the halo and slave brand on his wrist. “Then talk to your … person.” Girlfriend, the angel didn’t say.

Ruhn ground his teeth, and his ravaged mouth gave a burst of pain. He’d rather die here than beg the Hind for help. “Another way.”

“I was in these dungeons … for seven years,” Hunt said. “No way out. Especially not with Pollux so invested in ripping us apart.”

Ruhn glanced again at the halo. He knew the angel didn’t only mean a way out of the dungeons. The Asteri owned them now.

Baxian stirred from his slumber to wearily rasp, “I never appreciated it, Athalar. What you went through.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t get a badge of honor when I left here.” The light words were at odds with the utter emptiness of Hunt’s stare. Ruhn couldn’t stand to see it there, in the eyes of the Umbra Mortis.

Baxian chuckled brokenly, playing along. “Maybe Pollux will give you one this time.”

If Ruhn got free, Pollux would be the first asshole he ended. He didn’t dwell on why. Didn’t dwell on the rage that coursed through him whenever he saw the white-winged angel.

He’d been so stupid. Naïve and reckless and stupid to let himself get in so deep with Day—with Lidia—and forget the Oracle’s warning. Delude himself into thinking that it probably meant he wouldn’t have kids. He’d been so fucking pathetic and lonely that he’d needed to think the best, even though it was clear he’d always had a one-way ticket to disaster.

The only thing left to do was put an end to it.

So Ruhn said, “You were alone then, Athalar.”

Hunt met Ruhn’s stare, as if to say, Oh yeah? Ruhn just nodded. Friends, brothers, whatever—he had Athalar’s back.

Something glimmered in Athalar’s eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Or hope. Much better than what had been there moments ago. It sharpened Ruhn’s focus. Cleared the pain-fogged bits of his brain. This might be a one-way ticket for him, but it didn’t have to be for Hunt. And Bryce …

Ruhn looked away before Hunt could read the fear that filled his eyes, his heart.

Thankfully, Baxian added, “And you weren’t … the Umbra Mortis back then, either. You’ve changed, Athalar.”

Hunt let out a grating laugh, full of challenge and defiance. Thank the gods for that. “What are you thinking, Danaan?”