The Tyrant's Tomb

A voice and a shh.
I have seen stranger couples.
Wait. No, I haven’t.
TURNS OUT THAT WAS a bad idea.
Reyna and Meg moved cautiously—as one does when approaching a
cornered wild animal or an angry immortal. They took up positions on either
side of Harpocrates, raised their blades above the fasces, and mouthed in
unison: One, two, three!
It was almost like the fasces had been waiting to explode. Despite
Reyna’s earlier protestations that Imperial gold blades might take forever to
hack through Imperial gold chains, her sword and Meg’s cut through the
cords and cables as if they were nothing but illusions themselves.
Their blades hit the fasces and shattered them—sending bundles of rods
blasting into splinters, shafts breaking, golden crescents toppling to the floor.
The girls stepped back, clearly surprised by their own success.
Harpocrates gave me a thin, cruel smile.
Without a sound, the fetters on his hands and feet cracked and fell away
like spring ice. The remaining cables and chains shriveled and blackened,
curling against the walls. Harpocrates stretched out his free hand—the one
that was not gesturing, Shh, I’m about to kill you—and the two golden ax
blades from the broken fasces flew into his grip. His fingers turned white
hot. The blades melted, gold dribbling through his fingers and pooling
beneath him.
A small, terrified voice in my head said, Well, this is going great.