From Iron and Ruin

Promise

Chapter Nine – Promise.

Eventually we reached a wooden door where the edges were lined with steel and the heavy handle barred us tight. The air was heavy with the smell of water and rot and I gagged, drawing my hand from Mahon's so I could shove against the door.

"Locked." I huffed.

"Brilliant observation," Mahon commented dryly, testing the handle.

"Are you afraid I cannot open a door?" I bit out before wincing and kneeling down, acutely aware of how the air seemed to make my knee ache.

"Your knee hurts you." Mahon frowned. "Why are you kneeling if it hurts you?"

"You said it yourself Mahon. We need to do things and deny ourselves things for the good of the Legion." I cocked an ear against the door. Muted silence and the faintest strains of magic. I grinned. Fools. From the inner pockets, I drew out lock-picks.

"Why do you have lock-picks?" Mahon queried.

"Poor little children always learn to have tools like this on hand and a school of Magins would bolster their doors against magic, not tools." I worked on the door, brows heavy and acutely aware of the Captain watching everything I did intently.

Mahon snorted, "Fools."

I smiled. "We finally agree on something Mahon."

"May they mark this day in the history books."

"We should declare it as a yearly holiday for the Legion." The door clicked open and I took the hand the Caption offered, standing stiffly. My fingers ghosted over the offending knee, pressing against the ridges of scars that the Saviours had given me when their healers had tried to heal my wound.

"I never asked why you're sneaking around the dungeons, Aviana." He ghosted the steps behind me as we continued on.

"The figure in the lake told me to come here."

"Elves," Mahon breathed in exasperation. "Always doing strange things for strange reasons."

We opened another door and a wave of putrid flesh and water washed over us. I gagged at the smell, clasping a hand tight over my nose and mouth. A hand ghosted my lower back as Mahon stepped around me, his lip curled, but he seemed unbothered by the smell.

A layer of water rolled into what I assumed were the dungeons. It was lake water lapping in through grated openings where the floor met the walls, bringing in the barest hint of fresh air.

Against the opposite wall...

...were bodies.

Shackled men and women hanging by their wrists, their cheeks gaunt and their eyes wide and fearful.

"Seeker," Mahon breathed in horror, stilling as he surveyed the line of shackled, hanging prisoners. Water stirred at my ankles.

A male raised his head tiredly. His dark skin had grown ashen, his eyes sunken. Scabbed wounds covered his exposed arms and his body hung heavy and broken. He looked to have been strong once. When he spoke, his voice was low and raspy. "The lake spirit said you would come...Seeker Birchwood."

"He speaks to you too?" I moved closer to him, head tilted.

"He is the only reason we have not given up hope. He spoke of someone who rode to Asthan and someone with the power to help us."

"Me." I tested the chains. "What is your name, ser?"

"Soaran. Magin Researcher  Soaran."

"Eira's brother?" I peered back at him, failing to see the comparison to the other Magister. Though, his features were distorted, skin stretched over bones while bruises and cuts hid the marks of comparison.