“Well,” the general said, hands spread wide, sending me a nasty glance, “then I guess her punishment falls… to me.” He leaned in, filling my vision. “You think you can stop the captain from using you in any way he sees fit, using you like the tool you are? Now is your chance, slut. Impress me.”
“Sir, I—” the captain cleared his throat, pendant lodged between my shoulder blades, sidearm bruising my kidney. “With all due respect, sir,” he began, muzzling me. “I don’t think Mila is quite ready for a demonstration ofthatmagnitude.”
With a shrug and careless flick of his wrist, the general turned, gesturing for us to follow. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”
For a few long seconds, the captain didn’t budge. Didn’t release me, or make further argument, merely tightened his grip on my skin. Only when the general was out of earshot, did he abandon my lips to cradle my throat in a grip that trembled with fury. “Are you completely insane?”
I laughed, deep and throaty, letting my head fall back against his shoulder. Enjoying the thrum of power set between my shoulders that I could onlyjustfeel.
“Move,” he snarled, shoving me into the general’s muddy footsteps.
Still grinning as we marched through a corridor between two uninspired concrete bunkers, my gaze fell upon the distant glimmer of rebel shields once more.
Six.
Six massive blue shields protecting good men. Allies. My vessel to freedom, if only they could break the Caledonian line.
I picked at my collar, tearing skin.
Were I armed with more than my wit and temper, I’d salt the leeches clinging to this fallen Eloran city and fling the doors wide open, welcoming the true owners home.
As it was…
The earth trembled with a nearby explosion, making me jump, fists raised.
“Only a taste of what comes next,” the general cooed, appearing before us and fixing me with a twisted smirk. He stepped into the bunker on our right, and when he reappeared, it was with an oblong chunk of chrome nestled in the palm of his hand. “Now. Rawlings, get out there and kill some rebels.”
Jaw flexed and rigid, the captain nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Stop him if you can, slut,” the general said, and dumped the egg-shaped thing into the captain’s outstretched hands.
I gasped, eyes jerked down, to my wrists. Burning! My manacles wereburning,just as they had in the kitchen! Veins pulsing with molten gold crawling up my arms.
Eyes cold and black, the general stopped, taking hold of my chin, tilting my face back and forth. “Interesting. A Triloth of moderate potential, you say?”
“Sasha said so, sir,” the captain said, tucking the egg into his jacket pocket—and in doing so, separated his skin from the polished metal.
At once, the gold slid from my veins, leaving me sweaty and shaken, but without pain.
Glaith. Whatever the egg was, ithadto contain the Glaith. Italwayscame back to that hated ore, didn’t it? But… if thecaptaintouching the Glaith affectedme…could the same be true if our positions were reversed? What if I were to steal his sidearm and turn the general into ki-soup? Was it not powered by Glaith? Did filling Marco’s weapon withmyki not turn my veins to gold?
“Apparently Mila was never formally trained at the Temple, sir. Perhaps a demonstration of this magnitude is—”
“A perfect learning opportunity,” the general snapped, eyes tight though he released me, jerking his chin toward the battlefield. “Go.”
Feeling a strange, woozy moment of camaraderie with the man I hated most, I grinned as the captain jumped to do as he was told. It was good to see his opinions ignored, good to watch him swallow the acidic retort I could feel bubbling beneath the surface.
He snapped his fingers. “Mila, come.”
My grin slipped, and I picked at the gold embedded in my neck, forced to trot along behind the captain or remain with the general in his dank little bunker.
Emerging from between the utilitarian buildings, the captain led me to an unmanned turret flanked by a shallow ditch and yet another concrete wall—this one perched on the rim of a trench bordering the battle-scarred soil between us and the good men. Promising a measure of protection for the dozen or so filthy soldiers who hid in its shadow, though hardly an equal comparison to the glorious glimmer of rebel shields in the distance. Rebels whose faces I could see, even from this distance. Distorted by a shimmering wall of blue death, but there all the same.
“Marco,” the captain hissed, hopping into the trench and tugging me down with him.
The soldier in question grunted in surprise, then spun to face us, lit cigarette dangling from slack lips. “Captain! What isshedoing here? I know you’re getting old, but senile, too?”
“I’m beingpunished,” I sang, clawing at my wrist and fixing a toothy smile on Marco.
