The two youths watching her make no attempt to lower their voices, nor listen for anyone approaching. When I’ve heard enough, I stroll toward them, turning the corner with a whistle that they don’t even notice since they’re too wrapped up in taunting her to pay any attention to their surroundings.
Sloppy. Eldritch would have them on latrine duties for a month.
They’re unfortunate that I’ve found them instead.
With both of their faces pressed up against the iron bars, their arms dangling through and swords left carelessly against the back wall, it’s Lyra that sees me first. Her eyes burn in the dim light. When I looked into her mind at the Council meeting, her irises had flickered and jumped, a ring of glorious flame. Tonight, I see only glowing fragments of orange and red, the dying embers of a hearth fire.
Lyra doesn’t move from where she sits on her cot, legs crossed beneath her and back straight. Although she mentioned receiving military training.
Every small detail I collect only makes me more curious. And none of them seem to add up to what I would have expected from a Lightbringer.
Crumbs of a story, and nothing more.
And they still haven’t noticed me. Placing the box down on the ground, I step up behind them. One, dark-haired and taller than his friend, gestures with a lazy hand. “Go on, then, witch. Eat.”
My eyes lower in the space between them. Her meal has been tossed across the filthy floor directly in front of the bars, the wooden bowl empty and upright beside the two assigned to guard her.
Only one evidences the smallest shred of self-preservation. His back stiffens, a half-turn of his head showing the bread he has clutched in his hand, a bite taken out of it. “What—”
My hands slam down on the back of their necks, shoving their faces into the bars. Ignoring the panicked scrabbling of their hands, I lean forward, pushing my face between them. “Does this form part of your assigned duty, soldiers?”
My hands tighten, my pulse growing faster as I yank them back before shoving their faces forward again, pulling groans from their throats. “Who gave you instructions to mistreat someone under our care?”
They’re barely old enough to be called soldiers. But a taunting child makes a cruel adult, and fuck knows that the world is cruel enough without them adding to it.
When everything else is stripped away, all we have left is our humanity.The words sound just likehis, and an ache appears in my throat as I shake them for an answer.
“Nobody,” the shorter chokes out. “I’m sorry—”
His words cut off on a low moan. Both of them begin to shake beneath my grip.
“Please.” The shorter one begs. “Give it back.”
The other says nothing at all. His breathing stutters, but his hands grip the bars, not attempting to push me off. I turn my attention back to the blubbering one. “Give what back?”
“My sight.” Half-cry, half-sob. “I’m sorry.”
I release him, letting him stumble away as he chokes on air and rubs at his face as if checking that I’ve truly restored his vision instead of tearing through his mind. I point at him, and he shrivels. “Stand there. Do not move.”
When I release the second boy, restoring his vision, he doesn’t turn around. But his hands grip the bars so tightly that his knuckles have bleached. “Look at me, soldier. What’s your name?”
He pushes himself away from the bars and turns, the movement quick. The boy glowers at me with dark brown eyes—eyes that I recognize, and I step back before I can stop myself.
“Wes,” he grits out. “Weslyn Tenebris.”
Fuck.
He lifts his chin, lip curling as he addresses me without looking away. His eyes are tight, his tone cutting. “Yeah. My brother was Owen Tenebris.”
I know.
He’s the double of his brother. Exactly as Owen had been. Gangly. Tall, with a messy shock of dark hair that I suspect doesn’t fit within Eldritch’s rules. But there’s a fury in this boy that I never saw in my friend. Owen never lost a smile when he could share one. The band in my chest grows tight again, so tight that I almost lean forward. “I know who you are. I’m sorry that you lost him.”
The anger wavers, replaced by something deeper. More pained, and more vicious as Weslyn stares at me. “Are you really sorry?”
His hand slams back against the bars, so hard it sounds painful. “My brother is dead because ofher.Everyone in my family—all of them, dead, and I was the one to light the offerings at the Gloam for Owen because there was nobody elseleft. She sits here with his blood on her hands, and we’re supposed to be protecting her? After everything the witches have done, she can simply walk into Umbraxis and demand protection when she hasn’t earned it?”
“Weslyn,” I try to keep my voice gentle. “She didn’t kill Owen.”
