The guards come and go, sometimes striking me, sometimes simply watching to see if I’ll react. Once or twice, they shove food towards me—thick grain mash, a hunk of stale bread—and a clay cup of water. Just enough to keep me alive.
Just enough to keep me useful.
I know exactly why. They’re waiting. Waiting for word to travel. Waiting for Varek.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone.
Sometimes, when the pain fades enough that I can think clearly, I try to focus on the bond between us. I seek a low hum under the ribs or a sense of direction that isn’t quite physical.
Neither come.
The words repeat over and over in my head.
Don’t come.
The Queen wants you here.
The rebels need you anywhere else.
But the bond doesn’t answer, or maybe it does and I just don’t know how to hear it.
I lose track of how long it’s been before the door opens again. Two guards step inside.
“Up.”
My body protests the moment I move.
My legs feel stiff and unreliable after so long on the cot. The bruises along my ribs have darkened into deep purple patches that ache with every breath. When I try to stand fully upright, the broken arm shifts slightly in its binding, and a wave of nausea rolls through me.
One of the guards notices. “Move.”
I do. Because refusing would only make this worse.
They drag me out of the cell and into the corridor.
The light is brighter here than I remember. My eyes sting immediately, unused to anything stronger than the dim glow inside the cell. We walk for a while—well, I limp slowly—down the same corridor, up a set of stairs, through a hall that echoes with distant voices and the metallic clatter of armour.
Something about the direction we’re moving makes my stomach twist.
We’re heading up towards the surface and daylight.
A sudden cold certainty takes hold of me.This is it. They’re done waiting.The thought is strangely calm.
They take me through one last door, and sunlight explodes across my vision. The brightness is blinding after days—weeks?—in darkness. My eyes slam shut instinctively, and even through my eyelids, the light feels bright enough to cut.
The air outside is warm and open and full of sound, wind, and voices.
Metal shifts against metal. For a moment, I simply stand here, breathing hard and waiting for my eyes to adjust.
When they do, shock hits me like a physical blow.
Varek stands across the courtyard, and the world narrows instantly.
I barely register the guards around us, the high stone walls of what looks like a palace training yard, the gathered soldiers lining the edges of the open space.
All I see is him.
He stands perfectly still, tall enough that the Glowranth soldiers nearby seem slightly diminished by comparison. His dark hair falls loose over his shoulders, catching the sunlight, and his horns curve back from his forehead like something sculpted rather than grown. His body is held taut with a tension that most people here probably mistake for calm.
