But not warm enough for infection, so at least there’s that.
I open my eyes just in time to catch the panicked look of the soldier peering through the iron bars. He almost bangs his head pulling it back, and the Darkwielder beside him snickers as his cheeks darken. He pulls his head back, and I draw back as he spits through the bars, spattering the stones in front of me. “Witch filth.”
When I don’t say anything in response, only tilting my head, his color deepens and he turns his back on me. Both of them are young. Too young for this, if I had to wager a guess. They barely look more than children.
Apparently Duskbane doesn’t see me as enough of a threat to waste real soldiers on guarding me. The second soldier turns his attention to me next, peering through but keeping more of a distance than his friend. His hand smacks into the bars. “Witch filth is right. How many wielders have you killed, witch?”
I revise my estimation. His brown eyes are too heavy for childhood. An adult, but thrust into it too soon. He wears his maturity like an ill-fitted cloak. “None.”
“Liar.” A second glob of phlegm follows the first, hitting my bare feet.
Revulsed, I shuffle back and attempt to wipe it away against the stone. “I’m sorry if you’ve lost someone.”
They both turn their attention to me now. The second boy with the brown eyes stares at me, incredulous. “Aye, I lost someone. My father, when I was too young to remember. My mother, when I was twelve. Two older brothers, and a younger sister. Both aunts. My grandparents before that. Your kind stole my whole fucking family, witch. I hope Kaelen burns you.”
I open my mouth. I’m not sure what I’m going to say. That I’m not like the rest, perhaps. That’s what I should say. Should start sowing the seeds, trying to persuade them to pity me.
I’m not like them.
But… I can’t claim it’s by choice. Only by circumstance. If my life had gone in a different direction, perhaps I wouldn’t be able to claim that I’ve never killed a Darkwielder. Perhaps I would swagger through Solvandyr, boasting a body count in competition with my unit as some of them do.
I swallow. “I’ve killed a Lightbringer.”
Both pairs of eyes widen. They shuffle a little closer, wary but interested enough to risk it. But I find that my mouth doesn’t work properly.
I see him, chasing the boy through the trees. And I see his daughter, playing with the glassreavers, delight beaming in her face as she looked to him for approval. Her face blurs with the two in front of me until I blink, clearing my eyes.
When does it end?
When I say nothing else, the first boy scoffs. “You can’t trust a word they say. They’re all liars, Wes. Like I told you.”
The second boy—Wes—watches me a moment longer before turning away with a nod.
I asked my father that question, once. I was young—too young to know any better, old enough to grow curious. He had given me leave to ask questions, and so I had asked the first one in my mind rather than anything relating to the strategy lore he had thrown at me. “When does the war end?”
The Commander had kneeled, placing us at equal height for once, and looked into my eyes. “When they’re all dead, soldier. They have to be eliminated, or they will do the same to us. They’re like ants, you see. You turn over a stone, and it’s crawling with them. Allow one to live, and you will never be rid of them. Darkwielders are vermin. It ends only when there are none left. Do you understand?”
I had nodded, and asked no more questions. But I remember how I had lain in my small cot at the top of the Sunspire tower that night, and how my eyes had grown wet for reasons Ididn’t understand, and my lumpy, straw-filled pillow had soaked beneath me until I had given up on any sleep at all and exercised until dawn instead.
I hear the footsteps long before they do, trained by a lifetime of listening for the Commander’s approach to the Sunspire. Tilting my head, I whistle to catch the boy’s attention, nodding in the direction of the sound. Wes straightens, jabbing at his friend until he does the same just as Duskbane strides into view.
When I glance behind him, he offers me a smirk. Annoying, but less angry than the fury from earlier. “He’s preparing for the Binding.”
Duskbane nods to the two boys, who both stare up at him. “I'll send a message when I need you again.”
They awkwardly salute—clumsily, still boys playing as men before they shuffle off. I watch them leave before turning to him. “You judge our training methods, yet you put children in uniform with barely an hour of training between them.”
If they faced a Lightbringer four years younger on the field, they would die. My voice croaks, hoarse from lack of fluids and an ache I can’t put a name to.
Duskbane stiffens, his jaw tightening as he pulls the key to my cell from his pocket. “We don’t send our children to be slaughtered on the battlefield. That’s a witch trait. Thoseboysare training, nothing more.”
“Yet you sent them to guard me.”
He smirks again then, looking around the cell as if searching for something before he quirks his brow at me. “You think so much of yourself? I see little threat here.”
Ass.I fold my arms as he ducks inside, his height forcing him to bend slightly as he tosses a bundle at me. “Here. You’ll wear that for the Binding.”
I stare down at dark cloth. “May I have some water?”
