When I didn’t reply to their satisfaction—or when I downright refused if the answer involved Wren or could potentially endanger her—they hurt me. They inflicted so much pain that even the king would be pleased by their efforts to break me.
Most of the damage will heal, but my arm... I glance down at it, wincing. It’s either sprained or broken, but either way, this damage feels more permanent than the rest.
With a sigh, I let my head fall back.
I can handle the physical injuries. They’re not that bad, and I’ve survived worse. For the gods’ sakes, my father has used me as a whipping post for years.
But what I’m not used to, what took me by surprise, is the pain clawing at my soul. This agony is excruciating, coming from the same place that has yearned for Wren ever since I met her.
As minutes became hours, then days, and my interrogators refused to answer my inquiries about Wren, refused to tell me if she was unharmed or even here, panic gnawed inside me. Ourconnection contorted and grew barbs. It dug into me, insisting that I find her.
And I would have if I hadn’t been chained.
To make matters worse, my bond with Mist is muted. It’s still there—I can sense its threads lingering inside me—but I can’t feel or communicate with her.
I am cut off.
Misery has been brewing inside me, worse than anything Cedric and his friends inflicted upon me.
Footsteps come from outside my cell, yanking me from my thoughts, and I force myself into a sitting position. I’d stand, but I’m not sure my legs will hold my weight. Still, I refuse to meet my captors lying down.
When the footsteps cease, new faces peer into my cell.
“Who are you?” I rasp.
A man with shoulder-length red hair, pale skin, and scruff decorating the lower half of his face inserts a key into the door, but he doesn’t say anything.
The door creaks open. Three others follow, all armed.
“Where is Wren?” I cradle my right arm to my chest as much as the chains will allow and look at each of the newcomers in turn. “The woman I was with. What has been done to her?”
I thought the rebels would help her, but I’m starting to wonder whether coming here was the right plan.
Instead of answering me, the red-haired soldier unlocks my bindings.
“Suns-damn it, talk to me!” I yell as each of the newcomers takes one of the chains attached to my limbs, yanking me to my feet. My legs shake, and I barely remain upright. “Where is she?” The questions pour out of me faster and faster, spurred on by panic. “Is she here? Alive? Tell me something!”
I am coming apart at the edges, each unanswered question causing me to fray even faster.
The red-haired guard seems to consider me, chewing on the inside of his lip before he meets my gaze. The hint of compassion in his eyes has my knees buckling.
Burning fucking suns. Is she dead? Is that why they haven’t told me anything? Did they kill her?
If she died, I will?—
“She’s here, and she’s alive,” he says, interrupting my spiraling thoughts.
The words are like cool water on a burn. Instant relief. My lungs loosen, and I can breathe.
I thank the redheaded soldier, and he dips his chin in return. I don’t fight as they half drag, half carry me through a dozen torch-lit tunnels, nor do I ask any more questions.
Wren is alive, and that’s all that matters.
We stop in front of a pair of elaborately carved double doors. Torches hang on either side, casting their light over us, and a battle scene I don’t recognize is etched onto the wood.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“It doesn’t matter,” snaps one of the guards who has yet to speak. He looks to be around six feet tall with light skin and sandy hair. “You probably won’t live long enough to need the name.”
