“None of that,” the lieutenant grunted. “I know what you people do with those.”
He kicked Ky’s bad leg out from under him, sending him crashing to one knee in the dirt. Before Ky could recover, the man knelt and roughly unbuckled the leather straps, jerking the iron spurs free from his heels. He weighed them in his hand with a sneer—claiming the symbol of the Order as a common trophy—before shoving them into his own belt.
The journey to the stronghold began. For Ky, forced to mount his own horse with his hands bound and stripped of his namesake, the ride was a silent, humiliating agony, Polan’s words festering in his mind like a poison.
Ahead, the wagon rumbled on. He focused on the terrain, his mind cold and full of a rage that was beginning to feel like a weapon.
The stronghold was a fortress built into a box canyon. As they entered the gates, Ky on his horse and Gessa a captive in the wagon, the camp fell silent. Men stopped to stare, their gazes a mixture of curiosity and deference toward Polan, who was clearly the authority here.
They were led to a large, central tent. The container taken from the courier was dropped unceremoniously by the entrance.A scar-faced lieutenant met them there, watching with cold indifference. Two of his men went to the wagon and roughly pulled Gessa out, her legs still unsteady.
As they dragged her past the iron cage, Night let out a low, rumbling growl at the guards, his body tense. His blue eyes, however, were fixed on Gessa. “Night...” she whispered, her hand reaching feebly toward the bars in a small gesture of comfort.
“Don’t concern yourself with the beast,” Polan said smoothly. “He is comfortable enough. More than he deserves.” Stepping forward to intercept her, his body blocking her view of the cage, he lifted a hand and gently ran a knuckle down her cheek.
Gessa flinched violently away from the touch, a small, choked sound escaping her lips, her eyes wide with a more intimate terror.
Polan’s expression shifted to hurt patience. “Hush now,” he murmured. “There’s no need for fear. I even brought one of your favorite stones from home to help you... find your center. A lovely, smooth grey one, if I recall.”
The word ‘stone’ hit Ky. He remembered her terror in the valley, her fragmented words about a ‘single, smooth stone’. A roar tore from his throat. “Polan, you bastard!”
He surged forward, with murderous intent. Two guards instantly slammed their spear-hafts into his chest, driving him back. Ky fought them, snarling, but the blows had winded him, and the chains on his wrists held fast.
Polan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even step back. He watched Ky struggle against the guards with a look of serene, accounting satisfaction, as if tallying numbers in a ledger.
“There it is,” Polan said softly, his voice cutting through Ky’s ragged breathing. “You stole from me, Instructor. You damaged a delicate instrument and cost me valuable time.” He stepped closer, just out of range, his eyes gleaming with cold delight.“Your suffering isn’t just noise to me. It’s currency. Consider this the first installment of the debt you owe. And I intend to collect every single coin.”
He turned his back on Ky, dismissing him entirely.
Ky filled his lungs to lunge again, to force the guards to kill him just to get one hand on Polan’s throat, but her voice, a low, desperate hiss, cut through his red haze. “Ky, no! Don’t. Not now.”
He froze, his gaze locking with hers across the small space. He saw the terror in her eyes, but beneath it, a desperate, commanding plea. “Survive,” she mouthed, the word a silent order.
It was that word, that command, that finally broke through his rage. The tension left his frame, though the hate remained, burning cold and bright in his chest. He stopped fighting the guards and stood tall, meeting Polan’s gaze with a look of icy promise.
Polan watched the exchange with a faint smile, as if he had just watched a dog successfully obey a command. “Good,” he murmured. “There is hope for you yet, Instructor. Obedience can be learned.”
He turned to the scar-faced lieutenant. “Bring them inside. Both of them. The air out here is dusty, and I want to inspect my property thoroughly before we lock them away.”
Without another glance, he disappeared into the massive pavilion of silk and canvas that stood apart from the soldiers’ tents—a palace in the dirt, fit only for the man who owned them all.
Rough hands shoved Ky forward. He stumbled but caught his balance, falling into step beside Gessa. She was trembling, her face pale, but she kept her head high. As they were marched toward the dark maw of the tent entrance, Ky glanced back onelast time at the iron cage on the wagon. Night lay still, a dark shadow against the bars.
I’m coming for you,Ky vowed into the silence of his own mind.Hold on.
Then the canvas flap swept aside, and they were shoved into the monster’s lair.
38
CAGES AND WHISPERS
The interior of the pavilion smelled of beeswax, expensive wine, and the cloying scent of dried lavender. It was the smell of the Manor. It was the smell of home.
Gessa gagged, the sensory memory hitting her harder than the physical exhaustion. The guards lowered her onto a camp stool, and she slumped forward, her head swimming.
Polan stood over her. He didn’t offer her water. He didn’t ask if she was hurt. He simply stripped off his riding gloves with jerky movements that betrayed a tightly coiled irritation. He tossed the gloves onto a table and turned to her.
In his hands, he held the collar. Dull, dark iron. Heavy.
