“It’s nice to look at something pretty before you die.”
“I’m flattered,” I deadpan, before I take a step closer, examining thegoiteíacarved into the iron bars. They’re basic markings, mostly to infuse strength into the metal and cause pain to anyone who touches them. It’s almost laughable how poorly guarded Xan is—but they would never imagine deception from someone within the order.
Just another example of the Eagle’s hubris at play.
Xan shifts, drawing my attention, and I take a moment to study him more closely. Fresh blood, weeping from half a dozen large cuts across his chest, stains his ripped tunic.
He averts his face from me, but I can still discern a split above his right eyebrow, blood dripping from it like garish face paint. He still wears the collar and cuffs, but is at least no longer burdened by chains now that they think he’s secure enough behind these bars.
“What happened to you?” The question is hollow and broken, leaving an acrid taste in my mouth.
His responding laugh is self-deprecating. The sound is like a knife twisting in my chest, tearing through nerves and tissue. “It would be much quicker for me to list all the things thathaven’thappened to me.”
I unsheathe my dagger and run my thumb along the flat of the feathered blade. The movement draws his eye, and he zeroes in on my weapon.
“Where did you get that?”
I frown, remembering how he’d appeared interested the first time he saw it, when I removed his muzzle. At first, I’d thought he was simply interested in any weapon. But maybe it’s something more. I shift the dagger, watching the way he tracks it. “I’ll trade my song for yours.”
“Typical bird,” he bites out, slumping back against the wall.
“I haven’t survived this world by just giving my secrets away for nothing.”
Xan tilts his head and considers me. Slowly, he pulls himself up from the floor and prowls toward the bars.
“And I haven’t lived this long by trusting poisonous words that fall from pretty lips.”
“Is that what you think this is?” I scoff. “A good captor–bad captor routine? I’m not here to spy on you, you daft bastard. I came here to help.”
“And why would you want to do that?”
“I just do.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, forcing my hand not to drift toward my throat as the memory of my collar burns through my mind.
Xan’s quicksilver eyes flicker in the faint light, and his lip curls, baring the sharp points of his canines.
I clear my throat and glance away. “So will you let me?”
“Let you what?”
“Help you.”
He watches me wordlessly, and I stare back. A drop of blood beads at his brow and drips to his cheek, making me wince. Xan’s gaze doesn’t waver, but there is a shift in his expression, as if he’s deliberating silently. The pause stretches, and I can’t help the flutter of unease in my chest as the rare moments I have left pass by. I steel myself, pushing the thought away, but my mind drifts unbidden to Myna—the moment she appeared like a lifeline in the depths of my captivity. I hadn’tquestioned it then. Her extended hand had been enough, and I’d taken her help without hesitation, clinging to the hope she offered. Would I have made the same choice if it had been a stranger extending that lifeline instead of her? In my desperation to escape, I suspect any sense of caution would have been silenced. Still, perhaps I was naive to believe he would so readily accept my help, without reason or a solid foundation of trust to rely on.
“All right, little bird.” Xan’s voice silences my thoughts. “If you manage to get me out of here, I suppose I can play along with this plan of yours.”
The door at the end of the corridor creaks open, and I freeze, relaxing when I hear Myna’s voice. She appears beside me a moment later.
“You need to go,” she murmurs. “Now.”
Knowing my time is well and truly up, I turn to leave, but I hesitate and glance back at Xan, wanting to extend an olive branch. A small offering for us to trust one another.
“The dagger belonged to my mother.”
A strange expression crosses his face, but I don’t have time to ponder it before Myna drags me from the cells.
I slink through the shadows of Santora, hiding in alleys and slipping past strangers. Even after the past couple of months, the cobbled streets and limestone facades are still so familiar to me, this path etched into my memory from the countless times I’ve walked it.
The pristine white houses and manicured courtyards of the royal isle pass by me in a blur as my feet carry me closer to the Palace of Sorrows. I’m not certain of what my standing is now that I have returned from my mission, particularly since I wasn’t supposed to return at all. Am I still Princess Aella Sotiría, or was that title stripped once again? I’m sure the Eagle and his Owls are frantically trying to weave a believable tale over the mess this mission has made.
