"We need to go," Nero said, securing their provisions.
"The stable yard is through that door and across the courtyard," Casteel whispered, gesturing toward a heavy wooden door. "But there will be guards."
"How many?"
"Two at the gate, maybe one patrolling," Casteel replied, adjusting the straps of his supply bag. He felt Nero's tactical mind working, calculating angles and possibilities.
They approached the door cautiously. Nero pressed his ear against the wood, listening for movement beyond. After a moment, he nodded and slowly lifted the iron latch.
The courtyard stretched before them, bathed in silver moonlight. Stone pathways wound between herb gardens and storage sheds toward the outer gate. Everything appeared quiet, peaceful even.
"There," Casteel breathed, pointing toward a shadowed alcove near the stables. "We can use that building for cover, then approach the gate from the blind side."
They slipped through the door, keeping low as they moved across the open space. Gravel crunched softly beneath their feet despite their careful steps. Halfway to their destination, Nero suddenly grabbed Casteel's arm, pulling him to a halt.
"Something's wrong," Nero whispered, his warrior instincts flaring. "Too quiet."
Casteel felt it too—an unnatural stillness that raised the hair on his arms. No guards visible, no sounds from the barracks, even the usual night insects had fallen silent.
"We should go back," Casteel murmured, but even as he spoke, torchlight flared to life around the courtyard's perimeter.
"Going somewhere?" High Priest Doran's voice cut through the darkness like a blade. He stepped from the shadows near the gate, flanked by a dozen armed guards. More emerged from behind buildings, their weapons drawn but not yet threatening.
Nero's hand moved instinctively toward his concealed knife, but Casteel caught his wrist. Through their bond, he felt the older man's rage and frustration. They were surrounded, outnumbered, with nowhere to run.
"Did you truly think we wouldn't anticipate this?" Doran continued, his tone almost paternal in its disappointment. More guards emerged from the kitchen door behind them, cutting off their retreat. The Captain of the Guard stepped forward, his scarred face grim but not unkind.
"Drop your weapons and supplies," he commanded. "No one needs to be hurt here."
Nero's jaw clenched, his fingers still hovering near his knife. Casteel could feel the desperate calculations running through his mate's mind—angles of attack, chances of success, acceptable losses. All of them leading to the same conclusion.
"Nero," Casteel whispered, his voice carrying a wealth of meaning. "Not like this."
For a heartbeat, the courtyard balanced on a knife's edge. Then Nero's shoulders sagged slightly, and he raised his hands in surrender. The kitchen knife clattered to the stone at his feet.
Chapter Seven
The guards moved inswiftly, professional and efficient. Casteel felt his own small blade taken from his belt, their measly supplies confiscated with methodical thoroughness.
"Separate them," Doran commanded, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Different wings. Let them contemplate the consequences of defying divine will."
"High Priest," Captain Aldric spoke carefully, "the bonding is fresh. Separation could—"
"Teach them proper reverence," Doran finished coldly. "They chose to flee rather than embrace their sacred duty. Now they'll learn what happens when one rejects the gods' gifts."
Casteel felt the blood drain from his face. Even without understanding the full implications, something deep in his chest clenched with dread. "Please," he began, but Doran silenced him with a raised hand.
"You had your chance for compliance. Guards—the stable boy returns to the tower chamber. The rebel goes to the dungeons."
"The dungeons?" Nero's voice cracked like a whip. "I'm supposed to be his mate, not a prisoner."
Doran's smile was sharp as winter frost. "Mates who cannot be trusted together must earn that privilege through obedience. Perhaps a few days apart will remind you both of your proper places."
The guards moved to separate them, and Casteel lunged forward instinctively. "No—wait—" His hand barely brushed Nero's before rough hands pulled them apart. The moment contact broke, pain lanced through Casteel's chest like a physical wound.
Nero stumbled, his face going pale as the same agony struck him. "What—"
"The price of a fresh bond," Doran observed with clinical interest. "The connection demands proximity. Deny it, and both parties suffer."
