One thousand years to pay his debt. One thousand years of punishment to remind him of what he’d done and why he’d done it.

The hard, biting metal that burned his wrists and ankles was nothing compared to the hate burning in his heart. The organ, once a living and feeling thing, had long ago turned cold and hard.

Locked and chained to the filthy, mildewed wall, he still didn’t regret it. When he closed his eyes and thought hard enough he could still feel Gerof’s neck in his hands. Could see his head flying off as his sword sliced through the tender flesh.

No longer did he require blood in this prison. He was an unused tool in this place.

He used to scream until his throat was bleeding, but they never came, never answered him. Where was his daughter? His Bianka. Was she still alive?

The only solace he had in this wretched dungeon was the knowledge that he’d killed the man who’d violated her. Had torn his heart from his chest while his head still spun in the air and held the pulsing organ until it stopped beating in his hand.

A sliver of wind passed through his cell. Impossible. Neither sound nor air could pass through his cage. The air found his nostrils as if enchanted.

Salazar Raanthen’s nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent. His body thrashed in his chains. In that moment, he realized two things with stunning clarity. One, this was not by chance; and two, he had just scented his mate.

His body shuddered, the chains holding him clanging against the stonewall. She was so close. His cold, tired heart took a staggering pulse. Then another. It was beating so fast, he looked down at his chest with wide eyes afraid that at any moment it would come flying out.

It was frightening. It was amazing. He hadn’t even seen her and yet he felt like everything that was wrong or missing in his wretched life had been fixed.

He could almost picture her if he closed his eyes. She smelled like roses in the rain. For the first time in his thousand-year imprisonment he wanted to cry.

The scent was fading. No! Like a leaf, fluttering in the wind, it stopped in front of him, only to be swept away by some invisible force. My mate! Don’t go he screamed to the empty, dark walls. His chains rocked and twisted, his cries echoing off the walls.

A high-pitched screech and the piercing sound of corroded metal sliding on metal filled the room. Salazar’s scream abruptly stopped. He watched in awe as the door rumbled and shook, metal squealed, red sparks flared, and the door finally slid into a compartment in the ground. The last time that door had opened he’d been shut inside.

A figure appeared. Salazar squinted his dry eyes at it. The figures wore a gray cloak that covered their head and fell to the floor. The voice that spoke was male.

“Quinarre tunasu a’laray.”

His mind processed the words like he didn’t understand the language. Although he’d spoken the Old Language his entire life. But he hadn’t heard another voice since he was put in his cage.

Like putting a puzzle together, his brain finally recognized the words. Your sentence is complete. Salazar couldn’t breathe, couldn’t close his gaping jaw.

The next few minutes were like one of his dreams—the only thing he had left in his prison. More hooded figures came, unchained him from the wall, covered him in clothing, then he was pulled through long, winding tunnels.

He tripped repeatedly as his knees gave out and his ankles twisted. His muscles hadn’t been used in so long. They lifted him roughly by his arms until his shoulders burned in their sockets. Then he was tossed out a barred door.

Fresh air greeted him for a brief moment, and then he landed face first in a patch of grass. His only last thought as his mind faded was that he smelled his mate much clearer out here.