Page 139 of Fallacies

“Lucina?”

“You work for Alaric.”

He shakes his head. “No, I made a deal with Alaric.”

“Same thing,” I fire back. “What deal?”

“Please sit down.”

“No.” I fold my arms across my chest, standing my ground by the door. “What. Deal.”

The Hound exhales, the muscle in his jaw twitching, and when he finally answers, I wish I’d not been so stubborn about taking a seat. “I bring him you, and I get my freedom.”

For a good long minute, I just stand there, watching him while he watches me.

He said he’s been a prisoner for fifty years—that’s half of a mortals life span. Who knows what portion of his life his imprisonment has taken up? It’s impossible to tell how old he is when he looks only five or so years older than me.

But still. I can’t confidently say that I wouldn’t also take that deal if the roles were reversed. So then, why the hesitation? Why hasn’t he taken me? He so easily could have. Many times.

His words from the other night come flooding back to me: At this current moment, I care an awful lot about freedom.

If what he’s just said is true, then I’m the ticket to his freedom. Me. The nauseated, mind-blown, sacrificial lamb that has been unknowingly fraternizing with its hunter. Burning bodies in the woods with him. Gods, I’m in his fucking bedroom!

I’m thrilled to not be Alaric’s pet right now, but why? Why aren’t I being Snared off to Onyile?

“But that…” I shake my head at him. “...that doesn’t make any sense. I’m right here.” He’s watching as I gesture to myself. “You… found me? So why haven’t you⁠—”

“Why haven’t I taken you to the King?”

More of what he’d said the other night becomes clearer in my memory: There’s only one thing I care about more than freedom.

“Retribution?” I whisper, and he’s nodding again. “For the Captures?”

“That is part of it, yes.”

My brows rise. “And the other part?”

The Hound stands with his drink, straightening to his full height, and I’m cautious of every movement he makes as he steps towards me, stopping at the edge of the rug.

“I’d like to save all of your people,” he tells me, and there’s nothing but determination and sincerity in the way he says it.

Still, I take a step back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“The original Solian Disciples,” he explains. “Their curse? I want to break it.”

My eyes widen, and he takes a sip of his drink, all kinds of follow-up questions buzzing through my head.

There hasn’t been much talk in Pirn of breaking the curse. Not with all the setbacks they’ve faced in the last twenty-something years. I know finding the cure is Kimber and the rest of the Diviners’ department, but she’s never spoken to me about any breakthroughs. Nobody has.

Folding my arms across my chest, I watch him curiously. “You know how to do it?” I ask.

“I have a theory,” he replies, leaning against the chair beside him. “But I can’t do it alone.”

Realization dawns. “That’s your proposition?” I gape at him. “You’re asking me to help you with the curse?”

“Yes,” he says simply. To both questions, I presume. “I help you, and you help me.”

“That’s what this has all been about?”