Page 145 of Wings of Destruction

And the fluster is enough for me to have to admit it to myself. I’ve rubbed my wrists raw trying to free them but without a way to get to the knots, and without a blade, I’m sunk.

Kieran’s tracking me. He doesn’t know these halls the way I do, I’m willing to bet my life on it. I have. I’ve hustled into the maid’s corridors only to have the reverberation of his and Astrid’s footsteps chasing me like hounds on a scent.

My heart thrums faster than a hare’s.

Then Astrid says something that gets Kieran all high and mighty. I shouldn’t know the ebbs and flows of his voice the way I do. I shouldn’t be able to mark the inflections when he’s happy or boastful or furious.

That more than anything forces me forward and I stumble, losing my balance on one of the uneven stones near the base of the stairs. A few more turns will get me to the kitchen.

If I can make it there and convince someone to free me from these leather straps…

Kieran barks out some kind of rubbish answer to whatever Astrid says and I take a left. Losing my breath when I have to pass by the stairs where he looms at the top like a gargoyle.

He’ll see me.

I take the risk anyway and bolt out of the open into the constriction of the arterial hallways. Terror turns my blood to ice water, my wrists throbbing in time with my racing pulse.

I take the turn down the stairs way too fast because Kieran is behind me. Lumbering and breathing heavy and announcing himself with every scuff of his leather soles.

My shoulder hits the stone and I flinch, drawing back into myself.

They want me to play nice.

They want me to bow down and pretend to support a tyrant like the King and his minions aren’t responsible for destroying everything I care about. Taking my family away.

The pain from my scraped shoulder radiates through me but the dark corridors are mine. Not Kieran’s.

It doesn’t matter how fast he thinks he is. He won’t find me unless I want him to.

I need him gone. I need the space because my chest is tight and the tears are close and hungry to devour me.

I’ll leave. That’s what I’ll do. I’ll take my chances with the woods and the forest creatures and if a dragon happens to snap me off the ground and swallow in one gulp, well, so be it.

Pots clang and a belch of smoke greets me the closer I get to the kitchen. I burst through the doorway wild eyed and frenzied.

Faye is the first one to notice me. She pulls up short, her arms coated with suds up to the elbows.

“Morgan? What in the Ether⁠—”

“Help me.”

My shoulders ache like I’ve tried to dislocate them both at the same time and I lurch toward her.

The other kitchen workers still with hands on pan handles or fists gripping wooden spoons and stirring cauldrons large enough to feed armies. They are. Future armies fighting under Ryson’s banner.

That’s where they want me to be.

I knock into Faye and turn to show her my bruised wrists. “Get these off of me.” My voice cracks. “Please. No one has tried to listen to me.”

She clears her throat delicately, shaking the soap from her arms and reaching for a cloth. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Did you escape the guards?”

Hysterical laughter answers her. “Guards? There’s no guards. I’m not supposed to go to the mines yet.”

“Then what’s this about?”

This room, unlike any others in the forgotten basement, is brightly lit with the glow of multiple fires reflecting off the mirrored backsplash behind the countertops. The arched ceiling is higher overhead and keeps most of the heat trapped in the room.

The blue and red tiles are cut through with multiple mats to make standing for hours on end a bit more bearable for the workers.