Series: Lords of Rathe Series by Meagan Brandy
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95227 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
If a dragon could roll his eyes, I swear this one would be giving me the most dramatic eye roll in existence. Instead, he snorts more smoke directly at my face, making me cough and wave it away.
“I’ve got my fair share of dragons to deal with,” Zev says, brushing more scales off his shoulders with obvious irritation. “But I still don’t know how the hell you manage to test their patience like this. It’s like you’ve got a death wish.”
“You know death wishes don’t work here, Zev. We just come back minutes later!”
The girl and her clever friend from earlier stumble forward. Now, with them this close, I see it. Fear. Bliss.
I pat them both on the shoulder. “Welcome to Exile Island! Try not to die.”
They exchange a glance before making a run for it.
I turn, spreading my arms wide and free-fall off the cliff through humid air that rushes past my face. My stomach flips in that perfect way it always does right before I hit the water. The ocean swallows me whole, cold and dark, before I kick hard and break the surface.
Zevryn splashes down beside me seconds later, sending up a spray that hits me square in the face.
“Show off,” I mutter, spitting out salt water.
“Says the woman who just murdered me for calling her soft.”
We swim toward the main strip, where the real entertainment lives. The sounds hit first—screams, laughter, the crack of bone against bone. Music pounds from somewhere deeper in the chaos, drums that match the island’s pulse.
Water streams off my clothes as I haul myself onto the dock. The strip sprawls before us in its usual beautiful disaster. Fires burn in metal drums, casting orange light across faces twisted in rage, ecstasy, or both. A woman slams a man’s head into a stone wall repeatedly while he laughs. Two others fight over a piece of meat—that’s probably not even edible—with bloody and relentless fists.
“Looks quiet tonight,” Zevryn says, wringing out his shirt.
I snort. “Right. Real peaceful.”
We push through the crowd, bodies pressing close in the heat and madness. Someone tries to grab my knife, and I break their fingers without looking. They curse but back off—most people here know better than to fuck with me twice.
Shouting spectators surround the main ring, cheering on the two fighters at the center. Evidence of their injuries will vanish in minutes. People here heal quick. One lunges with a makeshift spear, but his opponent manages to catch the weapon and yank it free.
He drives it through his attacker’s chest.
The crowd roars.
“Place your bets!” someone shouts from the sidelines. “Next match in five!”
Welcome to Exile Island.
…
It’s easy to spot newcomers.
You just look for the wide eyes and trembling bodies of those shaken from their first deaths. Their first stop is usually the old witch. Skin like cracked leather, eyes milky white but somehow seeing everything. The newcomers cluster around her like children, desperate for answers to make sense of this nightmare.
“Why can’t we die?” asks the girl I shot earlier. She touches her cheek like she’s still feeling the arrow’s bite. “What is this place?”
The witch’s laugh rattles in her chest, wet and knowing. She pokes the fire with a gnarled stick, sending sparks spiraling into the dark. “Death is the easy part. Quick. Clean. Over before you can scream.” She leans forward, firelight carving deep shadows across her face. “It’s the dying that hurts. And here? You feel every second of it.”
“Exile Island doesn’t let go.” The witch spits into the flames. “This place was built as a prison centuries ago, when the old kingdoms needed somewhere to throw their worst. Murderers. Traitors. Those too dangerous to execute but too valuable to waste.” Her fingers curl around her stick like claws. “There’s plenty of folklore surrounding how this island came about.” She pauses, and her white eyes land on me. Not much gives me the creeps—but she does.
Her mouth twitches. “But very few know the real truth.” Her tone switches. “Like the dragons, for one. They’re here to ensure we never leave. Can’t leave…or are they?” she adds annoyingly. “Perhaps they serve a different purpose, only to be revealed when the time is right.”
I cross my arms, and she pulls her attention back to the little pets who need a story time. Wish I could say I remember my first death here, but I don’t.
“The island feeds on pain,” the witch continues. “Every death, every scream, every drop of blood spilled—it eats it all. And in return, it keeps you breathing. Keeps you whole.” She cackles again. “Well. Whole enough to break again. This is a place of nightmares. Not dreams.”
I stiffen.
Dreams.
No one dreams on Exile Island.
Except me.
Zev casts a knowing glance my way. He’s the only one who knows about the dreaming. He also knows to keep his mouth shut. Most of the time.