"They all say that in the beginning, but I am looking forward to your… performance." Thaine stepped back and gestured grandly. "Shall we? Your chariot awaits."
The vines lifted her, not roughly but with purpose, and then she was moving, carried above the ground. Thaine walked beside the writhing mass of green, hands in his pockets, whistling something that sounded wrong to human ears.
"For what it's worth," he said conversationally, "you lasted longer than most. One hid in a shopping mall once. Thought the crowds would help. I had to get... creative with the glamour that time."
"Let me go. I’ll do anything."
"Careful, little rabbit, of making such offers." He glanced at her, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes—not sympathy or consolation, but anticipation. "A word of advice? When we arrive, kneel immediately. Press your forehead to the ground. Don't speak unless spoken to. Let him rage. Weather it like a storm. Fighting will only make it worse."
"I won't kneel."
"They all say that." He looked ahead, and his smile returned, sharp and knowing. "The clever ones learn to kneel before he makes them. The stupid ones... well. Have you ever seen someone's pride physically extracted? It's messier than you'd think."
The forest grew denser with each passing moment, ancient trees pressing close. The vines carrying Briar had settled into a steady rhythm, and Thaine walked alongside, returning to his whistling.
"You know what I find fascinating?" he said suddenly, examining a dark stain on his sleeve. "The creativity he brings to punishment. True artistry. Not just pain, anyone can cause pain. He crafts consequences."
Briar tried not to listen, focused on testing the vines for any weakness. They held firm.
"Take the pixie who foolishly thought iron gates could keep him out," Thaine said, his voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "He turned her wings to autumn leaves. Beautiful, really. They crumbled a little more each time she tried to fly. They'd reform each dawn, her hope renewed, only to watch them decay by sunset. Last I heard, she still tries to fly. Every. Single. Day."
The mark pulsed harder, thorns definitely spreading now. She could feel them following her veins like invasive roots.
"For you, though?" Thaine tilted his head, studying her. "You're special. The daughter who was promised. A debt twenty-five years in the making. I'm sure he'll want to make an example that lasts. Something... memorable."
"Shut up."
"Perhaps he'll grow you into one of his trees," he continued, undeterred. "Your consciousness trapped in bark and wood, aware but unable to scream. Watching seasons pass, decades, centuries. Or maybe he'll be more poetic and make you forget. Every sunrise, you'll wake thinking you're free, only to remember by nightfall. The hope, the despair, the cycle. Delicious."
The vines tightened slightly, as if responding to his words.
"My personal favorite was the noble who tried to set the forest on fire. He made him cold, all the way to his core. No flame could warm him, no coat could help drive away the chill. Ice in his veins that never melted. He begged for death by the end, but even that was too warm a mercy." Thaine's smile was fond. "I do hope he lets me watch whatever he chooses for you. It's been so long since—"
He stopped mid-sentence, head snapping to the left. The whistling died.
"What—" Briar began.
"Quiet." All playfulness vanished from his voice. His hand moved to a blade at his hip that she hadn't noticed before. "We're not alone."
The forest had gone silent. No insects, no wind—even the vines had stilled. Thaine turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning the darkness between the trees.
"I know you're there," he called. "This is Court business. Interference will garner quick and—"
An arrow of pure starlight split the darkness, striking the ground at his feet. Where it hit, the earth hissed and steamed.
"The only interference," a voice said from above, quiet but carrying, "is yours, Thaine."
A figure dropped from the canopy, landing in a crouch that barely disturbed the forest floor. He rose slowly, bow in hand, another arrow already nocked. Tall, lean, with dark hair and eyes that held their own light. Everything about him seemed slightly wrong—too bright for the darkness, too still for the living forest.
"Arion." Thaine's voice shifted, calculation replacing amusement. "The Star Court's wayward son. How... interesting."
"Let her go, Thaine."
"You have no business here, no claim. She belongs to Eliam, she bears his mark." Thaine's hand drifted to his blade, casual but ready. "You of all people know what breaking such laws costs."
"His claim is built on cruelty and coercion." Arion raised the bow, the arrow flickering with cold fire. "I don't recognize it."
Thaine tilted his head, studying the arrow. "That light won't last long here. This deep in his domain? You're already fading." He turned his back on Arion with deliberate insult, addressing Briar directly. "Time to go, little rabbit. Your lord is wait—"
