The nearest soldier backhands him across the face.
The crack echoes.
Tavyn hits the ground hard, limbs sprawling. Blood streams from his nose, bright red against the pale cobblestones. My mother screams and drops beside him, her hands hovering over his face—afraid to touch him, afraid not to.
And something inside me snaps.
The fear burns away.
All that’s left is rage.
I’m on my feet before thought catches up, the sewing awl clenched in my fist. The stool clatters backward. “You overgrown mutts.” I step over the scattered spools of thread rolling across my table. “You want me? Fine. But touch my family again and I’ll?—“
“You’ll what?” Hadrun’s grin shows too many teeth, sharp and white and hungry. “Stitch me to death, little human?”
Laughter ripples through his soldiers. Rough, mean laughter that scrapes across my skin.
Heat floods my face, crawling up my neck and into my cheeks. But I don’t back down. Don’t let myself look away.
I step right up to the captain, close enough to smell the leather and iron and blood on him. Close enough to see the pale scars that cross his throat.
And I spit at his boots.
The laughter dies.
Cuts off clean.
Hadrun looks down at the glob of saliva on his polished leather. Then back at me. His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes. Something almost resembling respect.
His grin widens. “Oh, the clan lord is going toloveyou.”
He nods to his soldiers. “Chain her.”
The first orc grabs my arm—his hand swallows my bicep completely, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. I drive the awl toward his eye with everything I’ve got.
He jerks back with a curse, and the tool glances off his helmet instead, the point screeching across metal. Then the second one has my other arm, wrenching it behind my back hard enough to make my shoulder scream.
White light explodes across my vision.
The awl hides in my fist. My only means of self-defense.
Cold iron closes around my wrists with a click that echoes through my whole body.
The shackles are heavy. Heavier than they should be, dense and wrong. And they hum. A low vibration in my bones, invasive. Runes are etched into each link, silver against black iron.
When I try to jerk my hands apart, pain shoots up both arms—lightning striking straight into my spine.
I gasp and go still, frozen by the intensity.
“Runechains.” Hadrun’s voice is almost conversational as if explaining the weather. “Forged in the clan lord’s own fires. The more you fight them, the more they hurt. They read your intent, you see. Try to break free, try to harm someone—they know.” He pauses. “But don’t let that stop you from trying. It’s entertaining.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
His soldiers laugh again, but this time it sounds different. Uncertain. A couple of them exchange glances.
Good.
I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. Won’t beg or cry or plead.
