Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(5)

Of course, our ancestors weren’t really the only survivors. The mainland held dozens of clans and kingdoms, all fighting for control of an enormous continent. For two thousand years, they’d been too busy warring with one another to notice us, but now the Algotti Empire ruled all along the coast. Some said the Mira Treaty was a direct response to the mainland falling under the empire’s banner.

We passed monuments and chapels and mausoleums, and there it struck me: I’d always imagined the Pit was a deep hole in the ground, nothing but inmates wasting away, but this seemed more like a place of worship. This immense underground complex could only be one thing.

The Heart of the Great Warrior. The holiest temple of the Khulani people.

This was worse than I could have imagined. There was no better-protected place on all of Khulan. And the Pit—the deepest prison in the Fallen Isles—was part of that.

Despairing, I counted my steps (twenty-seven in this hall) and the number of halls (five so far); I couldn’t keep up with all the statues and doors and stairs.

Then, when I thought the hallways would never end and prison was this, walking and walking for the rest of my life, we came to a narrow, poorly lit corridor with grated doors every seven paces.

Here the warriors slowed, giving me time to peer into the cramped spaces as we passed.

The cells held prisoners, condemned to die here as punishment for some crime. There was a young man with white tattoos all over his arms and legs. He huddled on a bench, rocking and muttering to himself. A woman, perhaps my mother’s age, scraped her palms over a wall, as though searching for a hidden door, but her efforts were focused on the wall shared with the next cell.

One was filled only with the remnants of previous inmates: empty shackles, a worn blanket, and smooth places in the stone. A dark stain splashed across the floor and walls. Dried blood, tinted deep purple in the dim blue glow of aging noorestones.

A small wooden cup sat in another shadow-filled space, though I couldn’t see the occupant. If there was one. People probably didn’t survive here very long.

“This one.” Altan stopped me at the next cell, the eighth on the right side. There were more beyond, but I couldn’t see them when the other guards blocked my way.

“You sure you want to transfer?” An older warrior glanced at Altan as he drew a huge ring of keys and stabbed one into a lock. “We’re not short on prison guards.”

Altan touched the chevrons and claw on his jacket. “I vowed to see this through.”

“All right.” The door slid open with a loud screech and rattle that echoed down the stone hallway. “I doubt you’ll have trouble. It’s always the fancy ones who break first.”

I would not break.

I would not break.

But as much as I wanted to be strong, the weight of this place was pressing down. The warriors, the immense underground complex, and the shattered prisoners in other cells: I could feel myself beginning to crack, no matter how hard I resisted.

My heart pounded toward my throat as more keys clattered behind me. The shackles fell off my wrists. And at once, I was heaved into the cell.

“I’m not supposed to be here.” The words came out before I could stop them. Sharp. Desperate. Pathetic, really. After everything else, reaching my cell shouldn’t have been the thing that tipped me over the edge of hysteria. But it was. The cell was too real.

“Everyone says that.” Altan accepted the key from the leader, a tall man with three chevrons and two claws under the crossed maces. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take good care of her.”

A shudder tore through me and I rushed for the door, but Altan drew it shut so fast the metal rang along the runners.

The other guards snickered. “This one will be fun.”

What did that mean?

My fingers curled around the gritty, flat bars as a sob choked out of me. I wasn’t supposed to be here. None of this was my fault.

“I’ll see you soon, Fancy.” Altan’s smile made his eyes even narrower.

Dread knotted in my chest: a telltale collapsing of all my fears into a single writhing mass. Blackness fuzzed along my peripheral vision, crawling inward to blind me. It made me light-headed. Dizzy. I couldn’t catch my breath as my whole body started to shake and sweat. The heat boiled up from my insides and buzzed in my ears. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t hear.

I had to stop this, but the panic was overwhelming. Too powerful.

A headache pulsed at my temples, echoing around my skull and down the back of my neck. Everything—absolutely everything—hurt, and the more I became aware of the various ailments, the worse it became.

In vain, I patted my clothes for calming pills, but the amber bottle had been taken from me on Damina. There was no way to stop this horrible foreboding.

One of the guards laughed as they walked away.

Focus. I had to focus.

I sucked in a deep breath. A second. Then a third. It cleared my vision, at least, though it didn’t ease my racing heart or the smothering sense of doom.

I counted the number of bars across the door. Seven. Then the lumps in the stone floor between my cell and the opposite. Nineteen.

That helped.

Across from me, a girl with deep-brown skin and shorn hair sat cross-legged in the center of her cell, her eyes closed and her face serene. How could she be so calm?

I stared at her, hoping she’d notice my arrival. Maybe talk with me. Distract me. Tell me that none of this dread and doom was real. But she didn’t look up. The other prisoners were mostly blocked from my view.