It felt like she had only dozed for a moment when the screech of the bolt woke her. The door swung open, grey morning light flooding the cell. Two large guards filled the doorway.
“Up,” one of them grunted. “Lord Polan is ready for you.”
39
THE SERPENT'S TONGUE
The interior of Polan’s tent was an island of sterile opulence in the heart of the wilderness. Thick, southern carpets covered the ground, muffling all sound. A massive, polished table held his collection of ancient maps, each one pinned with meticulous precision. A brazier of coals glowed, chasing away the damp chill but offering no real warmth. It was the scent that hit her first—the familiar, cloying smell of his expensive oils and the dry, dusty scent of old parchment. It was the scent of her prison.
The iron collar was a dead weight. The silence forced back upon her magic. Polan gestured for the guards to leave, and they withdrew, leaving her alone with him.
He moved to a small table and poured two glasses of wine, his movements as fluid and unhurried as always. He offered one to her. When she didn’t move, he simply placed it on the table beside a chair.
“Sit, my dear,” he said, his voice the same calm, reasonable tone that had haunted her nightmares. “Please. You look exhausted. Let us not make this harder than it needs to be.”
She remained standing, her chin held high, her gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder. She would not give him the satisfaction of her fear.
He took a slow sip of wine, a flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes. “Still defiant,” he mused, his voice a low murmur. “I admit, I missed your spirit.” He smiled. “But this silence? It worries me. It reminds me of the bad days, before you learned to trust me. I thought we had moved past this sullen phase.”
He set the glass down. “But your little... excursion has filled your head with delusions of competence. You interfered with my associates’ work, and you cost me a valuable courier. An impressive tantrum.”
His tone shifted, becoming one of feigned disappointment. “And now, I am forced to correct you. It’s a shame. I don’twantto hurt you, my dear. But youmakeme. You have forgotten your place in the world. You ran into the woods and let the chaos infect you. Now, I have to scour it out. It is going to be unpleasant, Gessa, but necessary. Like setting a bone.”
Every word was a carefully aimed dart, designed to rebuild the walls of her old prison. But it was drowned out by a newer memory: Ky’s voice, rough with awe, saying,You’re not broken.The contrast between the two men hit her with the force of a physical blow, and with it, a clarifying thought. What she felt for Ky, this fierce, protective thing... it was love. The realization was a tiny, fragile shield against the cold.
“Your Spur is devoted,” Polan said, swirling his wine. “Pathetic, really. A broken man playing hero, dragging you into danger to make himself feel useful.”
At the casual, dismissive insult, the new shield in her chest ignited into a hot flame. Without thinking, her eyes snapped to his, her expression hardening.
“He is not damaged,” she said, her voice low and tight.
Polan stopped. He looked at her with pity. “Oh, Gessa,” he breathed. “You didn’t. You fell for the first pair of eyes that looked at you with sympathy?”
Dread washed over her. His eyes had changed. She had made a mistake. A terrible one. She had revealed that Ky wasn’t just an ally. He was an attachment. A vulnerability.
And Polan had just found a new knife to put to her throat.
The air in the tent seemed to drop ten degrees. His voice, when it came, was a whisper as he circled her slowly. “This devotion is new,” he said. “Tell me, Gessa. Has your ‘partner’ been a good protector? Has he kept you...warm... on these cold northern nights?”
The insinuation crawled under her skin.
“This complicates your rehabilitation,” he said, his voice regaining its chilling composure.
This was her opening. Gessa lifted her chin, letting a spark of her genuine defiance show. “Don’t touch him. He has nothing to do with it. This is between you and me.”
Polan laughed, a short, sharp, delighted sound. “Oh, my dear, he is the root of the infection.” He retrieved the smooth, grey stone from its box. “He has filled your head with noise. We need to clear it out. We need to help you find your center again.”
Gessa looked at the stone, and terror coiled in her stomach. “No,” she whispered, taking a half-step back, her defiance crumbling into the genuine fear he had been waiting to see.
His smile was triumphant. “There now,” he said smoothly. He set the stone on the table, a silent threat, and stepped closer, cupping her jaw. “I have been so patient,” he murmured. “I gave you everything. And you threw it away for a cripple living in the dirt. You have... disappointed me.”
He leaned in, his voice a whisper against her ear. “So he needs to see the truth. He needs to see that you are not his to save.” His hand slid down her throat to the collar. “He willwatch as I help you remember who you are. He will watch until he understands that he is nothing to you. And when he sees that you are happy to be home... he will break.”
He believed he was announcing her sentence. But Gessa, her heart hammering with a new kind of courage, heard something else entirely.
He had handed her the key to his own trap. To validate his delusion—that he was the benevolent healer fixing a broken thing—he needed an audience. He needed Ky to watch her accept the cure. He needed Ky to see her break so that Ky would lose hope.
A cold wave of doubt washed over her. Could she do it? This was Polan. He wasn’t just going to hurt her; he was going to dismantle her. He knew exactly which memories to twist, which insecurities to press to make her feel small, crazed, and grateful for his guidance. She was in his tent, in his power, her magic locked away in iron. The old fear whispered that she was already his, that resisting would only make the “treatment” last longer.
