She’s just … crying. Silently.
I cross to her and lower myself to the ground beside her, keeping space between us. I don’t know what touch means to her now, but she was beautiful once … and that would have put her in the same row of cages as me.
“Serath.”
She doesn’t look at me.
I want to tell her it’s over. That the cages are empty and the guards are dead, and she’ll never wear iron again. But Serath’s skill was an affinity for hearing lies, and everything I want to say would ring false to her. The collars may be off our throats, but that’s not the same as free. We both know it.
So I don’t speak. I just sit with her while the sun breaks over the horizon, and I let the silence be enough.
Serath’s breathing hitches. Her hand moves, inching across the ground toward me. I place mine beside it, close enough that our fingers almost touch, and I wait. I don’t take her hand. Idon’t know if she would want that. I know how unexpected touch makes me react.
That’s where Therin finds me.
He comes around the corner, a human sword in his hand and blood coating his arms to the elbow. He takes in the scene—me on the ground, Serath weeping softly beside me—and immediately lowers himself to the dirt on her other side, mirroring my position.
The three of us sit there in silence while the sun climbs higher. Two warriors who remember what she was, and one who’s forgotten everything except how to grieve.
Eventually, Therin shifts. I know that move. It means he needs to talk to me, but he’s giving me the choice of when to do it. I turn my head, and let my fingers brush against Serath’s hand lightly, before rising to my feet.
We move far enough away that our voices won’t reach her, and Therin turns to face me.
“I saw what you did to Cowen.” His mouth curves. “Didn’t know you were such an artist.”
“I had time to practice. In my head, at least.”
“Didn’t we all?” He rolls his shoulders, working out tension, and the action is so familiar, it hurts. How many times have I watched him do that after a fight? Shake off the killing, ready for whatever came next. “The guards are all dead now.” Something dark and satisfied crosses his face. “A few tried to run.”
“And?”
“They didn’t get far.”
I wait. Therin has always liked to savor his reports, and this is his first one in a long time.
“One of them was the bastard who used to spit in our water. Big one with the crooked nose.” His grip shifts on the sword hilt.
“How long did it take him to die?”
“Long enough that he had time to regret every mouthful.”
The rage in my chest purrs at that. “Good.”
All those years in cages, and Therin is still Therin.
He looks at the fae surrounding us, and some of the brightness fades from his expression. “It’s bad, Cairn.”
It’s worse than bad. Centuries of iron, isolation, and abuse … this is what’s left.
“What do we do with them?” The question is quiet, soft, a plea to his commander to have an answer for him.
That’s what I was before the Sealing. And it seems cages don’t change the chain of command. Assuming any of us survive long enough for a chain of command to matter.
I draw in a deep breath. “First we deal with the basics—shelter, food, water. Then we figure out what we have. Who can move, who can hold a weapon if they need to. I will set some wards to turn away anyone who comes close. But that won’t work for long. The mage escaped, and he won’t stay silent.” I don’t mention Alleria. That’s something I need to think through first.
“After that?”
“Let’s focus on the immediate for now.”
