Uno, dos, tres…
I cut off abruptly. Counting doesn’t help me. Not anymore.
There is a sensation in my gut that connects to the glittery magic from my Fuegorra. That bond shows me that he is alive and well. Surely, he must be planning to come for me, but I am not stupid. I know how many Enduares there are—not enough to launch an attack—even if he might wish it.
He has already done enough.
The last day has given me time to think about my time under the mountain. In my head, I relive the cruel words spewed from my mouth and the deaths I witnessed.
First, Tirin, the young hunter who believed in matehood and sacrificed himself so humans could continue living under the mountain.
Then… Dyrn, the noble hunter protecting his people from the cold ones who attacked me. I still remember watching him on the table, bleeding out. I called for someone to grab herbs, only to find that I had used up the precious ingredients for a poison meant to kill my mate.
Iam the link between the misfortune that’s fallen upon the Enduares of late. I was selfish when I tried to escape. Even though I didn’t want to hurt innocent people… I’m learning that intent doesn’t equal culpability.
Even thinking about what the giants could’ve done to get me here makes my heart race. I was unconscious, but I am sure they damaged Enduvida. Perhaps they killed some of the Enduares.
Their deaths wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t walked into their lives.
The responsibility to escape should fall on my shoulders—I must pay them all back for everything I took for granted.
My head tilts back against the bars in my cage.
There are no windows. No light seeps through the door. Not a single soul had crossed the threshold into the small cottage since my last conversation with Rholker, and the torch has long since burned to ashes.
I’m as hungry as the day I was rescued by the Enduares. Time stretches on, muted in this pitch-black cage as I discard plan after plan. Searching, grasping, for any thread of inspiration while so utterly, chest-crackinglyalone.
Sadness pricks against my skin with the same intensity as getting a branch of fresh pine needles whipped repeatedly across my bare back. There’s no voice in my mind, no palpable presence to scoop me up and hold me until the emotion passes.
There are other sounds, though. Slave foremen and giant warriors shouting, the laughter of my people, the gentle lilt of the human tongue, and the occasional scream. They all filter through the walls like a nightmarishballad.
The cottage must be somewhere near the lumber yards—but the exact location is harder to discern.
I have tried to call to them by kicking until my bare feet became bruised, scratching until hot blood streamed down my painfully cold hands, and screaming until it felt like I swallowed a pile of stone shards, but it made no difference.
At least I have a few reminders of home. The Fuegorra heals my broken skin, and I rub my ring with one hand and slide the necklace from its hiding place in my pocket with the other.
Amor?1, the ring says. A message of love frommylove.
And the necklace says…?
I don’t know.
Without light, I cannot inspect the stones well enough to know their names, but I can recognize a few energies—amethyst, sapphire, emerald, ruby, obsidian, and moonstone. The first letter of each word appears in my mind, and I draw them on the dark, dusty ground while I hum single notes just to hear them bounce off the gems and warm my insides.
Depending on where I hold the necklace, it feels different. But mostly, it feels like home—myhome.
I was just starting to learn the ways of peace. Of planting seeds and laboring for their growth, of healing, of caring for others, of being loved in a manner previously unknown to my selfish, armored heart.
Now I have been yanked out of the quiet, welcoming place and put back in the hell that is Zlosa, with Rholker threatening me to take my agency, body, and burn everything I love. It fucking hurts.
And Mikal… Mikal is somewhere here, in this same city. Does he know that I’ve come?
Tears burn my eyes as I listen to the rhythmic chopping of wood. I cry for all the humans who have withered in this damned place, enslaved from birth and expected to chop, toserve, and to be grateful enough for their scraps to never fight back.
And if the giants can’t have their gratitude, they will gladly take their fear. I think of the merciless deaths—whipped to shreds, torn apart by spreaders, or simply rammed through with spears.
More threads of dread weave together and wrap around my now-chilled heart. The princes only left Mikal alone because of their father, King Erdaraj, and the decree that Mikal should remain alive and I should remain untouched. Now he only lives because of Rholker’s obsession with possessing me.
