Page 3 of Escape from the Green

That wasn't good enough.

I wasn't the only one prisoner in that fortress.

There were the men in the dungeons, sure, but I always knew there was no way I could free them, no matter how much I wanted to.

But I could save him.

Him who I had watched suffer for so many years of his life for no reason other than him being different, special, rare, a trophy pet for a powerful family.

I had needed to stand by and watch my father's men keep him in iron chains that burnt the flesh beneath, whack him with canes to make the shields pierce through his skin, damage those strong but delicate protective barriers, making it harder for him to heal.

For no reason.

Just their own evil, sadistic enjoyment.

So the plan always included freeing him as well.

Even though my father had softened a bit over the past few years, he never showed any signs of letting the Draca go. This was mainly because he was a cover story. Though, with Jasper and Jade obviously alive and well, there was no need for that.

Maybe it was just that old habits die hard.

Or pride.

He liked saving face.

Whatever the reason, it was unconscionable.

I could never actually be free if I knew he wasn't.

Maybe that was silly or sentimental of me.

But whatever it was, it was the deal I made with myself long ago.

So I sucked a deep breath in, my nostrils flaring with the freezing air, and I ran. I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, faster than I even knew was possible, so fast that I almost toppled forward when I skidded to a stop beside the familiar barn door.

It wasn't locked.

It never was.

Occasionally, I would sneak around as a kid and crack the door, throwing flower crowns or nectar or ripe strawberries, or whatever it was that I found delight in at that age for him. I was pretty sure I didn't know that he was being so mistreated that young, but I knew that he was different, attractive, and therefore fascinating to my small brain.

It wasn't until many years later that I realized my gifts often ended with a beating for him because the guards did random checks of his room. From what I could tell, they never knew it was me, he never gave me up, or maybe he wasn't aware it was me either. I never got in trouble. But once I learned the correlation, I stopped putting him in harm's way.

It was good to know that, even many years after I stopped my visits, some things never changed.

My gloved hand pressed into the heavy wood and pushed it inward, cringing when it groaned.

The inside was dark thanks to the complete lack of windows and only specially enchanted little lanterns, one small kindness my father showed him so he didn't live in complete darkness in the winter months. The floors were stone and kept clean. It was chilly inside, thanks to the lack of insulation of the wooden walls and the fact that he wasn't given a stove. Though, that didn't stop him, it seemed, from building a small one within a pot that he must have stolen from one of his meals.

It was no way as warm as being indoors, but I guess it kept him from freezing.

There wasn't much inside, of course, him being a prisoner. There was a bed against a wall with blankets, a nightstand, and a dresser. That was just about everything.

Except, I realized as I stopped just inside the doorway, there was one small dried flower on his dresser.

Sure, it might have been any dried flower.

But I knew, I knew down to my bones that it was one from one of the crowns I had left for him as a girl.