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He simply studies me, like I’m something he can’t quite figure out. “I’m told he approached the High Father and demanded your return. That he shouted so angrily that storms flooded the mortal world for a month straight. Magra was quite displeased at his little tantrum.”
Aron’s fighting to get me back?
He approached the High Father?
I feel so warm and fuzzy. “God, I love that man.”
“Yes, you have said so.”
I send another pleading look to Rhagos. “Will you let me go to him? Please? I can make him stop.”
“Do you think I care? Let him fight. The dead are dead.” Rhagos shrugs. “He knows I will give you back, but only under very specific conditions.” He nods at my direction, and the web goes dark, the picture of Aron fading. “Take her away. There is time yet.”
Take me away? I look around, but suddenly invisible hands are on my arms, tugging me forward, and then I’m dragged out of Rhagos’s throne room and down a hall. I’m led deeper into the palace of the lord of the dead by his unseen servants, and then a door opens. The room I’m led into is opulent and lush—I’m guessing so Aron won’t be pissed that I’m being mistreated—but the doors shut behind me and click, and then I’m locked in.
I look around my new prison, but even this can’t stop the giddy rush in my heart.
Aron’s coming for me.
He’s storming the underworld. For me.