Immortal Reign(22)

All that mattered was that it existed. And somehow, at some time when he hadn’t noticed, his father had slipped this invaluable ring into Magnus’s pocket.

But why would the man who’d tormented him his entire life, who’d literally tried to kill Magnus not so very long ago, do such a thing? Why would he give up such an incredible piece of magic?

“What game are you playing with me now, Father?” he muttered.

Tormented by a thousand answers to that question, Magnus clawed at the lid of his coffin, aided by the rain-soaked earth that made the wood more pliable. Weaker.

Weak things are so very easy to break.

It was a harsh lesson from his father. One of many over Magnus’s life.

He tried to focus only on his seemingly insurmountable task.

And on Lord Kurtis.

Magnus had no idea how many days had passed and whether he still had time to stop Kurtis from his horrific plans. The thought made him shake with anger, frustration, and fear.

Cleo had to be smarter than to trust the former kingsliege. She wouldn’t allow herself to be alone with him.

It didn’t matter, another voice in his head observed. Kurtis could knock her out and drag her away somewhere no one would ever find her again.

A cry of rage tore from his throat as he yanked a larger shard of wood from its place and mud poured through the hole in the lid, covering his face. He roared and pushed it away. But more came, like a cold, wet, demonic blanket meant to smother him. It filled his mouth, his throat. He choked on it, holding on to one single thought that gave him strength.

Nothing can kill me with this ring on my finger.

He shoved, pushed, and dug at the mud and dirt shoveled on top of his unmarked grave.

Slow, it was so painfully slow.

But he did not give up. Darkness had become his entire world. Now, he kept his eyes squeezed shut to protect them from the mud.

Inch by inch, he pressed upward. One handful at a time.

Slowly.

Slowly.

Until, finally, after a thrust of his fist, the sensation of cool air took him by surprise. He froze for a moment before stretching out his fingers to feel for any further barriers. But there were none.

Despite the strength that had flowed through him after putting on the ring, he wanted to rest, just for a few moments. He needed time to heal.

But then Cleo’s face appeared in his mind’s eye.

“Giving up so easily?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “How disappointing.”

“Trying my best,” he growled in reply, but only in his imagination.

“Try harder.”

It sounded just like her—more cruel than kind in a moment of great importance. And it helped.

Kindness had never, in Magnus’s experience, brought anyone back from their own death.

Only magic could do that.

Muscles screaming with effort, he pushed further, finally freeing his other arm from the hungry earth. He grabbed hold of the muddy ground and pulled himself upward.

It was as if the earth itself birthed him back into the real world.

He lay there, his arm collapsed over his chest, and forced himself to take deep, choking breaths as his heart slammed against his rib cage.

The stars were out, bright in the black sky.

Stars. He could see stars after an eternity of utter darkness. They were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen in his entire life.

When he laughed out loud at the thought, it sounded slightly hysterical.

Magnus slid his dirt-encrusted fingers over the thick gold ring on his left hand.

“I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “But thank you, Father.”

He wiped at his mud-covered face before he slowly, gingerly pushed himself up to his feet on limbs that had very recently been shattered.

He felt strong.

Stronger than he should have, he knew.

Magically strong.

And ready to find and kill Kurtis Cirillo.

Or . . . perhaps he was still buried, moments from death, and this was only a vivid dream before the darklands finally claimed him.

For once in his life, Magnus Damora decided to be positive.

Where was he? He looked around, seeing only a small clearing with nothing to mark his location or indicate how to get back to Amara’s compound. He’d been unconscious when Kurtis and his minions had brought him here.

He could be anywhere.

Without another glance at his former grave, Magnus chose a direction at random and began to walk.

He needed food. Drink.

Vengeance.

But first and most importantly, he needed to know that Cleo was safe.

He stumbled on a tangle of roots from a desiccated tree as he entered a wooded area.

“Bloody Paelsia,” he muttered with annoyance. “Utterly hateful during the day, even worse in the dead of night.”

The moonlight shone down, lighting his path, now flanked by tall, leafless trees, a short distance from where he’d been buried.

He twisted the ring on his finger, needing to feel its presence again, countless questions arising in his mind about where it came from and how its magic worked. What else could it do?

Something caught his eye then—a campfire. He wasn’t alone. He instinctively felt for his weapon, but of course he didn’t have one. Even before Kurtis had chained him up, Magnus had been Amara’s prisoner.

Barely breathing, he quietly drew closer to see who it was, envious of the warmth of the fire after being cold and damp for so long.