The words are nonsensical. “I have stolen nothing from you.”
“You are mistaken.” His gaze is unwavering. “You possess a specimen that is Vrakken property. I am here to collect it.”
Ice floods my veins.Specimen. The word is an obscenity, a clinical, sterile term that makes my blood run cold. He is talking about my son. He is talking about Lyren.
“He is not aspecimen,” I hiss, my grip on my dagger tightening until my knuckles are white. “He is my child.”
“A biological anomaly,” he continues, as if I had not spoken. “One that requires further study. Its unique properties are of great interest to my people.”
Beneath the chilling calm of his words, I feel something else through the psychic torrent. A flicker of something that is not apathy. A low, possessive thrum that is focused entirely on Lyren, and by extension, on me. It is the focused intensity of a scientist for his experiment, a collector for his prize. It unnerves me more than any threat of physical violence.
“Are there others?” I force the question out, my voice tight. “Are more of… your kind… coming?”
“That is not a relevant concern for you.” He shifts his weight, the movement so slight it is barely perceptible, but the chains groan in protest. “Your focus should be on the deficiencies of your own position. This fortress, for example. It is a testament to your will, but it is deeply flawed.”
My breath catches. He is not answering my questions. He is attacking.
“The mortar in your southern wall is of poor quality,” he says, voice a detached, academic lecture. “A single, determined sapper could bring it down in under an hour. The placement of your archers on the western battlement creates a significant blind spot. And your water supply, a single underground cistern, is dangerously vulnerable to poison.”
Every word is a hammer blow, striking at the foundations of the safety I have bled to build. He has been here less than a day, and he has already dissected my home, my sanctuary, my life’s work, with the cold, brutal precision of a butcher.
I feel the echo of his assessment through the link—he is not guessing. He is stating facts. He is showing me that even chained, he is more dangerous than an army. He is showing me that I am still the slave, and he is still the master.
“My people will die to protect this place,” I say, my voice trembling with a rage I cannot contain. “They will die to protect my son.”
“They will.” The agreement is absolute, devoid of emotion. “Their loyalty is a touching, but ultimately futile, variable in this calculation. They will die, and I will still take the specimen. The outcome is inevitable. Your defiance only alters the number of casualties.”
I stare at him, at this beautiful, terrible monster, and the composure I have fought so hard to maintain begins to fracture. The queen is fading, and the terrified girl from the cell is clawing her way to the surface. I cannot let him see it. I cannot let him see her.
I turn on my heel, my cloak swirling around me. “You will get nothing from me.”
I stride to the door, pounding on the iron with my fist. “Tarek!”
As the bolt scrapes back, I take one last look at him. He has not moved. His starless eyes follow me, and in their depths, I see a brief flicker of something that might be… interest. The detached curiosity of a predator that has just discovered its prey is more complex than it first appeared.
The door swings open, and I step out into the corridor, into the relative safety of the torchlight, leaving him chained in the suffocating darkness. I walk past Tarek without a word, my back straight, my head held high, every inch the queen.
I maintain the facade all the way up the winding stairs, through the guarded corridors, and into the solitude of my own chambers. The moment my door is barred, the strength that has held me together dissolves.
The air escapes my lungs in a ragged, tearing gasp. My knees buckle, and I press myself back against the solid wood of the door, sliding down to the floor. The dagger, my shield and myarmor, slips from my nerveless fingers and clatters on the stone. My hand is trembling, a violent, uncontrollable shudder that seems to shake my entire body. I stare at it, at the weakness it betrays, and I hate him for it. I hate him for making me feel this powerless again.
10
EOIN
Days pass. I measure their turning not by the sun, which cannot pierce this deep, but by the rhythms of the fortress above. I remain in a state of absolute stillness, chained to the wall, my body a statue of cold stone. But my senses are extended, a silent, sprawling web that gathers information.
I am dismantling this place in my mind, piece by piece.
The clang of the forge hammer tells me they are resmelting scavenged iron; the tone is impure, the resulting metal soft. A weakness. The scent of their cooking fires tells me their diet is heavy on grain and tubers; their meat is rationed, their hunters are inefficient. A vulnerability. The shift of the guards above is predictable, changing every six hours with a tell-tale scrape of boots and exchange of muttered pleasantries. A flaw in their security. I listen, I smell, I assess. I catalogue every strength and every weakness. I am not a prisoner. I am a predator, learning the shape of my cage so I might shatter it.
Once each day, she comes. The Anomaly.
The heavy door groans open, and she enters alone, carrying a wooden bucket of water and a bowl of the same tasteless, grain-heavy stew her people eat. She refuses to allow any of her guardsnear me, a decision born of either protectiveness for them or fear of me. I conclude it is the latter.
Our exchanges are silent, a battle of wills waged in the dim, flickering torchlight. She sets the provisions just within the reach of my chains, her movements precise, her face an impassive mask. She has learned to shield her expressions, a skill she did not possess five years ago. But she cannot shield the psychic link. Through the ever-present hum that connects us, I feel the frantic, chaotic energy that seethes beneath her calm exterior. It is a storm of defiance, terror, and a confusing, hateful pull toward me that she fights to suppress. It is a fascinating contradiction.
She never fails to have one hand resting on the the dagger at her hip. An anchor for her resolve. A foolish, useless gesture against a being like me, but a telling one.
