I don’t feel for them as they’re cut down.
I don’t feel for the newly captured humans with us who whimper and weep behind me.
I don’t quite feel anything, really.
I’m numb, watching the fights, watching the captures.
And I’m numb, still, when it’s all over and the unit marches through the streets that slope up and up at a gradual incline.
Then we stop.
The unit does what it always does—watches their grid burn.
The flames never go beyond that section.
The blaze eats through buildings like they are nothing more than paper and cardboard. Ash flitters in the air with the thick billowing smoke.
A while passes before another stream of smoke appears; thick and tumbling over the rising crimson light in the distance.
Another fire.
Another grid.
Another part of the city—another fae unit.
The warriors around me are disturbed. Some turn to watch the blaze, others spare it short glances here and there.
Ships passing in the night.
Warships.
These warships pass in the cities, in the darkness.
I watch the second blaze for a while, way down the riverbank, out of the city, in the boroughs.
When the light from the fire starts to fade, the cold warrior comes back for me.
Connie tucks her head down and slides a step back. Captives cringe away from his advance.
But the cold one doesn’t give a shit about them, doesn’t so much as glance at them, as he snatches the tether into his literallyfrostedgrip.
I watch, curious, as he threads the rope to his belt—then it hangs between us.
His annoyance sticks around.
He doesn’t even look at me as he turns on his heels and, with a harsh jerk of the rope, staggers me to meet his pace back to the middle of the unit.
I struggle with the brisk walk.
My shin aches more and more with each limped step—but that doesn’t slow him down.
Why would it?
It’s not going to slow the unit down either.
Don’t have a choice in it, I push through the sharp pains shooting down my shin with each hobbled step.
I look forward to the camp.
