Andras ignored Lowar, focusing instead on Jensen. “We need to get to the king. How many men can you spare?”
Lowar scoffed. “You think you can just show up here with two strangers after disappearing for months—”
“Stand down,” Jensen ordered, his hand latching onto Lowar’s shoulder and forcing him back. He was quiet for a moment, considering, before he jerked his head back toward the docks. “You’ll need to take it up with General Dav. No one in or out without his approval, those are the orders.” He looked between them again, before adding, “He’ll be in the prisoners’ bay. A new shipload just came in. We’ll escort you.”
“Lead the way,” Andras replied. He yanked Aya forward, forcing her to fall into step behind him.
Aya’s gaze swept her surroundings. Signs of the attack still marred the port like fresh bruises—decimated ship bays, chunks of brick along the boardwalk, warped metal pushedaside to clear a path. The boardwalk itself had been patched over, slats of new wood covering the obvious holes. But that seemed to be the only repair Kakos had done since descending on the city.
They followed Jensen down the docks, Lowar bringing up the rear, the point of his sword grazing Aya’s back. The warriors they passed shot them curious gazes, but others…others stared resolutely ahead, as if afraid to draw attention to themselves. Those people, Aya noticed, weren’t dressed in Kakos livery, but in gray tunics and trousers.
Midlands prisoners, most likely, forced to work the port.
Jensen led them to the far end of the docks, where a large ship was waiting in a bay, its navy banners flickering lazily in the breeze that had begun to stir. A group of soldiers stood just before it, and behind them…
Aya’s stomach clenched.
Behind them stood a line of prisoners, each tied to the next. Their clothes were in tatters, their faces dirt-smeared and gaunt. There had to be at least fifteen of them.
“Prisoners of battle?” Evie questioned as she took in the group.
“Humans,” Jensen corrected. “Captured from Milsaio.”
Bile rose in Aya’s throat as she caught sight of a little girl. She was staring lifelessly ahead, her pink dress torn at the knees, her blond hair hanging in limp strands around her face. She couldn’t be older than eight. A woman with similar features stood beside her, her panicked gaze darting around the docks. Her mother, if Aya had to guess.
“General Dav,” Jensen called, tearing Aya’s attention away from the prisoners.
A man with jet black hair turned to face them. He was tall, with pale skin and sharp features that added to the severity of his face. He turned to Andras, and there was no hint of warmth as he said, “Nice to see you made it out alive, Kilonor.”
“Barely General.”
“Though you’re either foolish or naive to sail into this port with no notice.”
“If advanced notice were possible, General, you would have received it.”
The general’s gaze followed the rope in Andras’s hands to Aya. She met his stare unflinchingly. “Who’s this?”
Andras glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve heard of the Second Saint, no?” he asked with a grin. Dav stared for a beat, whatever gratitude Andras was clearly hoping to receive nowhere to be found.
Dav’s face flushed, his eyes flashing dangerously as he growled, “You brought Gianna’s spymasterhere?”
The warriors behind Dav closed in, forming a small circle around them. Aya stayed perfectly still. They were outnumbered, ten to their three, and for once, she was glad for it.
Andras opened his mouth, but it was Evie who spoke first. “I do think you will find her more useful to your king alive than dead, General.”
“And who the fuck are you?” Dav spat.
“You know me as Saint Evie, though Evie will do. I have come to pledge my allegiance to your cause.”
Silence stretched between them for a long moment before Dav shattered it with a gruff laugh. “Seven hells, Kilonor, where did you find this one?”
“She speaks the truth,” Andras replied. But Dav was shaking his head, barely concealed amusement dancing across his sharp features. “I saw her return with my own eyes!” Andras insisted.
Laughter rippled through the circle of troops.
“The First Saint is dead,” Dav argued.
“The gods certainly wished it so,” Evie retorted. Aya recognized the gentleness in her tone. It spelled danger. But Dav was still looking at the saint in bemusement.
