Save for the rattling wheeze that Kael sucks in.
She can’t react. Not yet.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Marin demands, imbuing her voice with haughty arrogance.
“Princess Marin,” one man says—the man taking bets—dipping his head in acknowledgement. “Just getting the camaraderie up before we go to war. You know how men are—must get their blood pumping before we charge into battle.”
She does know how men are.Too well.Men have always found elegant ways to rename their worst impulses into something socially acceptable. As though bloodlust becomes noble the moment enough men participate in it together.
But she swallows down every retort, reaching for the only one that will work.
“Your Queen wants this prisoner for use in war, and you wish to take bets on who can, what? Render him unconscious?”she snaps, forcing herself to sound disgusted at them taking the opportunity away.
She chances a quick glance at Kael—on his knees, blood running in rivulets from deep slices in his arms from the barbed Aether, from the gash in his brow, the cleave through his lip.
His eyes are pools of darkness.
And from here, she cannot see a man. Only a beast.
Fuck.
She rolls the vial between her fingers in her pocket. She needs to give it to him. Needs him to drink it. But to do that, she needs to get him below deck.Alone.
She snaps her gaze back to the man.
“He is Caeloria’s greatest advantage in this war and you wish to take it away? Have you no intellect, sir? Have you no strategic awareness?”
He rubs the back of his neck under her attention. “Ah yes, Princess. We simply thought it would be a good chance to get the men…ready.”
Marin scoffs again. “You are no soldier of the Queen’s army ifthisis what you require to be ready for war. You have been trained for this exact moment for years—to execute without warning. Or are you questioning your training?” she presses.
The men shift on their feet. Cast their eyes to the ground. Because everyone knows what this is: a challenge.
“No, Princess Marin. I apologize. You are quite correct. This was misguided,” he pleads, and his words sound feeble.
For a heartbeat, she relishes it. Finds herself basking in the joy of forcing a man to come to heel.
“Get out of my sight. I will transport the prisoner to the ship’s cells myself,” she snaps, and dismisses the men with the flick of her wrist.
The men spin on their heels, grumbling about lost coin, but Marin doesn’t flinch. Lets them leave without a crack in her composure.
The docks buzz with movement again, workers returning to labor, people settling back into the slow procession of shopping for market goods.
And Marin? She reels.
Kael can barely stand, shredded skin, and exposed bone that juts out from wounds marring the entirety of his body. She keeps her mask in place, disgusted scowl twisting her features. She kneels beside him, lowers her voice so it’s barely discernible.
“Kael. Please,” she pleads. “If you’re in there, I need to see it. I need to know you’re there.”
He growls, all animal and aggression, no sign of the man.
He tries to gnash his teeth, but the blood loss has him weak, barely able to lunge. They’ve bled him so thoroughly he can barely move. She releases the Shadelock in her pocket.
And Marin reaches for the chains, yanking them hard, forcing him to stand. He drags one bare, bloody foot to the ground. It takes every ounce of her strength, but she drags the other to join it. His knees buckle, but she catches him, just enough to shove him upright. He sways. With every movement, the barbed Aether cuts deeper into his skin, but at this point, she just keeps pulling. She needs to get him alone. Out of sight.
“Let us through!” she commands, and the dockhands clear the gangway immediately.
Kael stumbles again.
