The air around him seemed to warp and shimmer. He, along with his two martens, dove sideways into a shimmering distortion as it snapped open. The portal slammed shut with the sound of a thunderclap, catching the lead bandit’s lunging hand and mangling it.
The bandits, enraged at the courier’s escape but clutching their new prize, let out a triumphant roar. Their leader barked an order, his furious gaze sweeping the ridge where Ky and Gessa were hidden. They were exposed.
But before the bandits could advance, a figure strolled from the mine entrance with the casual air of a man inspecting his garden.
It was Polan.
He was dressed elegantly, his tunic immaculate, his boots polished. He stopped near the edge of the ravine, looking down at the mangled hand of his bandit captain, then at the bodies of the men Ky and Gessa had dropped.
Gessa braced for the rage. She expected the cold, dead eyes he showed when a servant broke a plate, or the stillness that preceded the feedback stone.
Instead, he sighed.
It was a sound of weary disappointment that carried clearly in the silence. He lifted his gaze to the ridge and locked instantly onto their position.
“Gessa,” he called out. His voice was a warm, projecting baritone, rich with relief. “Thank the gods. I was beginning to worry this rough country had swallowed you whole.”
“Though I suppose I shouldn’t have,” he added, his tone light and conversational. “Did you truly believe you could vanish? I have eyes everywhere, Gessa. Even behind the walls of your precious Silverstreak outpost. There is nowhere you can go that I will not know.”
He shook his head, offering a sad, patient smile. “Ihaveto keep watch, my love. You know how you are when you get these... moods. You’re so fragile. If I didn’t monitor you, you’d only end up hurting yourself. I’m simply ensuring you survive your own poor judgment.”
Nausea roiled in her gut. There was no venom in his tone. It was worse. It was forgiveness. It was the voice he used when he was about to hurt herfor her own good.
He gestured to the carnage below with a sad shake of his head. “Look at this. Violence. Bloodshed. It’s so... unnecessary.I send men to bring you home—for your safety, my dear—and it ends in this chaos.” He looked up at her, his expression tender. “You’ve always had such a chaotic spirit. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Fighting the world?”
Gessa gripped her sword hilt until her knuckles turned white. He had sent killers. He had poisoned the mountain. Yet here he stood, washing his hands of the blood, painting her as the confused child flailing in a tantrum.
He snapped his fingers. From the shadows of the mine, the heavy wagon rumbled forward. On its flatbed sat the cage, and within it, a shadow of coiled fury paced the iron bars.
Night.
Polan walked to the cage. He trailed a finger along the bars, inches from the lynx’s snapping jaws.
“Magnificent,” Polan murmured, his voice full of genuine admiration. “Truly. A king of the forest. It breaks my heart to see him confined like this. It’s undignified.”
He looked back up at the ridge, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“My associates... they are crude men, Gessa. They want to kill him. They see a monster.” He paused, his expression shifting to one of pained negotiation. “But I see potential. I am trying to hold them back, but you know how these things go. If we cannot come to an agreement... I may not be able to stop them from doing something regrettable.”
He smiled then—that beatific, charismatic smile that had fooled her father, her neighbors, and half the Concordium. It was the smile of a savior offering a lifeline to a drowning woman.
“Come down, my love. Let us end this ugliness. Come back to the carriage, and I will open this cage myself. I will let the beast go free.”
He rested his hand on the cage, looking at her with imploring, reasonable eyes.
“Don’t force me to let them hurt him, Gessa. Don’t put that blood on your conscience. You’ve carried enough burdens. Let me take this one from you.”
The trap snapped shut in her mind. It was perfect. It was the Ironwood logic all over again:Look what you made me do.He was offering her the chance to be a hero. He was handing her the knife and telling her that if she didn’t surrender,shewas the one cutting Night’s throat.
The world narrowed to two points: the caged lynx, snarling and helpless against the iron, and the man standing beside him, offering mercy with a poisoned hand.
And Gessa knew that he had already won.
37
THE COLLECTOR'S PRICE
The clamor of the fight died into an unnerving silence. Polan’s voice, calm and reasonable, cut through the quiet like a blade wrapped in silk. Ky’s mind locked away the shock, forcing him to view the situation with a Spurs’ cold eye.
