Soul of the Crow: An Epic Dark Fantasy (Reapers of Veltuur Book 1), стр. 23

see that although I was still lying, I am no longer on the ground. I expected if Crow fazed us back to Veltuur that I would find myself under the comfort of my tree. Instead of gnarled roots and blackened blades of grass though, beneath my fingers is the smooth surface of stone.

I jump to my feet, staggering at the sudden introduction of vertigo and nausea as I wait for the world to level in my vision. As my surroundings come into focus, I find myself standing in the pit of a dungeon, encircled by nothing but stone walls too smooth to climb. Not walls, I realize as my gaze travels upward. Seven staggered platforms rise above me, one after another, until the circle is completed with seven thrones. Each stage is lit by dozens of thick, dripping candles, though they are unnecessary as the room itself is illuminated in green by hundreds of glowing abyss flies.

Completing a full circle from the center of my dungeon, I discern the black dot that is Crow, among six larger shadowed figures in every seat but one.

“Councilspirits,” I say, addressing my elders. The word is warbled on my tongue, and my attempt at a bow is cut short when my body almost tumbles forward. Thankfully, I catch myself before I crash fully, my head still throbbing.

“Sinisa,” the sickly sweet voice of a woman spits. “So kind of you to arise.”

I recognize the voice before I locate Nymane among the Council. Second from the left, wedged between two behemoths of rotten flesh and boils, she would otherwise be easy to miss, except that once she is seen, she’s impossible to remove from memory. Age has not wrecked her in the same ways it has the others. Her skin does not droop or hang from the bone like candlewax, nor is it hole-riddled from rot, or bloated by gases. Instead, she dawns the pallor of a china doll, and just as fragile, as if she suffered a shattering fall, deep and jagged cracks cover her face and hands.

“You know where you are?” The man who speaks this time is the same one that approached me during my initiation, Leumas, the same mentor who’s guided me this far. Though today, he looks as frail and ominous as ever.

Though it is not spoken as a question, I feel as though I am expected to answer.

“No,” I say at first. We are in Veltuur, of that I have no doubt, but I have never been here before. But a previous visit is not required for me to recognize where I must be standing. “I mean, yes, Councilspirit. I can guess. We are in the Pit of Judgment. I am on trial.”

“And do you know why?” Nymane asks, tapping her fingers on the podium of bones in front of her.

My memory is foggy at first. All I can remember is seeing Crow upon waking. But then my head throbs with the pulse of my heart and I remember the impact that caused it. The prince must’ve ambushed me, striking me so I would not be able to follow him and his sister. My target.

“I didn’t complete a contract,” I say, standing straighter. There is no point in arguing otherwise, in telling the Council that the prince thwarted me, incapacitated me, and then fled before I could follow. There’d be no pride in sniveling about being outsmarted by a mortal. The bottom line is I failed to claim a life for Veltuur. I let down my realm.

Caw. Caw.

A scowl churns my features, and I send it toward Crow’s mockery, though it appears unaffected. As if to console it, Gazara, another of the Council, picks a mushroom from the sludgy, moss-encrusted skin beneath her red cloak and feeds it to Crow, before giving it a soothing pat on the head. When she smiles at me, teeth like long, yellowed nails jut from her upper and lower jaw, it gives her an almost beaver-like appearance. The tusks prevent her from speaking clearly, so she leans forward, looking to Leumas with another idle pat to Crow’s back.

Leumas nods knowingly. I find being in the dark unsettling, especially in the courtroom, but I am willing to take whatever punishment they deem necessary. I failed in my mission today and there is no excuse. Bested by a bumbling prince and a slobbering toddler—it’s a disgrace.

“Tell us,” Leumas says, his voice as smooth and low as a crocodile’s. “What happened today?”

All but Gazara snaps their necks to face him, though only Nymane speaks. Her shrill, witchy hiss echoes in the chamber. “We know what happened. She did not fulfill her duties. It’s to the Wraiths with her. Thirty years, minimum sentence.”

For once, we are in agreement.

“I don’t wish to plead,” I say, my brow tightening. “My task was incomplete. I will accept the punishment.”

Inside, my heart flickers in the faintest drumming. It is the first time, I think, that I have experienced fear in the three years since becoming a Reaper. In that time, never once have I broken a rule that required reprimand, so I have no firsthand knowledge of what the Wraiths will do to me. But I’ve heard the eerie howls that populate the foggy woods, I’ve felt the chills of someone’s presence who wasn’t actually there, and I’ve seen the claws lurking in the shadows. It’s not like I’ve been dying to find out for myself, but if this is the way things have to go, then so be it.

What do I care about thirty years? This life—my servitude—ends when Veltuur has no further need for me.

Leumas holds up his hand.

Nymane grits her teeth, the sound of glass on glass, and I swear I see a crack in her skin shatter anew. Annoyed, she settles back into her chair, clasping her hands together on the bone podium again. “Answer the question, Reaper.”

Leumas doesn’t take his eyes off me. I can feel his gaze like a hot iron, the way I can always