Exhaustion is a chain locked around my ankles, cuffed over my wrists, draped around my shoulders. My strength and energy are gone, like someone pulled a plug from my back and let it all drain out.
Bright side? At least I’m alive. At least I got away from the Red Raids. I won’t be subjected to whatever Quarter wanted to do with me once he discovered his captain was missing. Quarter isn’t the kind of man you want for a captor.
Although my new escorts are far from ideal, at least I’m heading toward Midas, even if I don’t know what will happen once we get there.
Glancing out the carriage window, I watch dark hooves mottle the snow, their riders sitting proud on their saddles as they march on.
I have to be strong now.
I’m the captive of Fourth’s army, and there will be no room for fragility. I don’t know if the bones in my body are as gold as the rest of me, but for my sake, I hope they are. I hope my spine is gilded, because I’m going to need a strong backbone if I want to survive.
Closing my eyes, I reach up and press my fingertips against my lids, trying to rub away the sting. Though as tired as I am, I don’t sleep. I don’t relax. I can’t. Not with the enemy marching outside and those terrible memories hovering over my head.
Was it really just yesterday morning that Sail was alive? That Digby was barking out gruff orders to his men? It seems like weeks, months, years ago.
Time changes with torment. It stretches on, lengthening seconds, extending minutes. I’ve learned that pain and fear have a way of prolonging. And as if that weren’t cruel enough, our minds make sure we relive those moments again and again and again, long after they’ve passed.
What a bastard, time is.
I know that I’ve left a part of me behind on that pirate ship. I’ve been through enough tragic moments to recognize the feeling of rawness left to ache.
Every heartbreak I’ve endured in my life, every harrowing pain, it’s ripped a part of me away. I’ve felt every piece of myself that’s been torn off, seen each bit where it fell behind me in the path of my past like breadcrumbs, only to be snapped up by vicious birds of prey.
In Highbell, people sometimes traveled for weeks just to look at me. Midas would let me stand beside him in the throne room as they gawked.
But no matter how long I stood there on the pedestal for them to look, no one really saw me. If they did, they’d know I’m just a girl with jagged rips and pitted holes inside of her, with golden skin hiding a broken heart.
My eyes burn, telling me that I’d be crying again if I had any tears left to fall, but I guess that’s drained out of me too.
I have no idea where the other saddles or guards are, and I have no idea what the commander intends to do with me, but I’m not a fool. King Rot sent the might of his army to Fifth Kingdom to confront Midas, and I fear for my king as much as I fear for myself.
I shiver when the last sliver of sunlight finally drops down to be tucked beneath the blanket of the horizon. Day has officially ended, and with it, I force myself to lock away my emotions.
Now that dusk is turning into the promise of night, the carriage comes to a lurching halt. When you’re on this side of the world of Orea, night descends swiftly and brutally, so it’s no surprise that Fourth’s army begins to make camp.
I’m left inside the motionless carriage while I listen to the sounds of the soldiers. Horses on either side block me from being able to see much out the windows, shadowed figures moving swiftly to do one job or another.
After nearly a half hour of waiting, I’m squirming, the need to relieve myself urgent. My body is pitching a fit, my thirst and hunger refusing to be ignored, exhaustion lapping at my limbs like a turmoiled sea that wants to drag me underwater.
I just want to sleep. Fall asleep and not wake up until everything stops hurting—physically and emotionally.
Not yet, I remind myself. I can’t rest yet.
I pinch myself on the arm, forcing my senses to stay alert, my ears trying to filter through the many sounds outside as the last of the light dims, the press of night draping over me like a chilled blanket.
Resting my head back against the carriage wall, I close my eyes for a moment. Just a moment, I tell myself. Just to relieve the fire burning in my swollen eyes, just to help ease my many aches.
Just for a moment…
I lurch, my eyes springing open at the sound of a key shoved into a lock.
The carriage door suddenly swings open as swiftly as the gasp of my breath, and then there he is, standing menacingly under the cover of dark, a pair of cavernous eyes staring me down.
Commander Rip.
Chapter 3
AUREN
I hold my breath, watching the commander without blinking, my body tense and alert. In this moment, I’m going to find out what it truly means to be his prisoner.
My mind whirls. Endless possibilities flit through my thoughts one after another as I attempt to brace myself.
Will he snatch me by my hair and drag me out? Will he threaten me, manhandle me? Will he force me to strip so he can see the gilt on every inch of my skin? Will he pass me around to his soldiers? Will I be forced to wear chains?
I don’t dare let my thoughts show on my face. I can’t give any indication of the what-ifs pounding against my skull.
All the grief, all the worry, I wrap it up like old yarn on a spool, tucking away every frayed strand. Because if I show him my fear, if I reveal my weaknesses to this male, he’ll latch onto those threads and yank them all, unraveling me completely.
Shove down weakness, and strength will rise...
Those old, nearly forgotten words float up from out of nowhere, as if my mind saved them for me, ready to pluck them out when I needed them most.
I remember suddenly how that was hummed against my ear, spoken softly, but carrying an edge of steel.
They echo through me now, and it helps me to pull my shoulders back, helps me to tip my chin up to face the commander head-on.
He has a helmet tucked beneath his arm and his black hair is slightly rumpled from the long hours of wearing it. I take in his pale face, the short and blunted row of tiny spikes above each dark eyebrow. His pressing aura saturates the air, coating my tongue like icing sugar, clogging every taste bud.
It tastes like power.
I wonder how people would react if they knew what he truly was. Not a man with residual magic running in his veins from distant fae ancestors. Not someone whose body was corrupted and morphed by King Rot. Not just an army commander with a bloodthirsty rage who enjoys ripping the heads off his enemies.
No, he’s something deadlier. More fearful. A full-blooded fae, hiding in plain sight.
If they knew the truth, would they run in fear? Or would they rise up against him like Oreans did hundreds of years ago, killing him, like they killed all the rest?
Some fae fought back during that dark time, but they were outnumbered, and even with their superior magic, it wasn’t enough. For some fae, they simply didn’t want to fight. They didn’t want to kill the people who they considered friends, lovers, family.
But one look at him, and I know that Commander Rip would fight. He would fight, and Orea would lose.