Her feet were moving before she told them to, knees sinking into the mud at the man’s feet. A throaty cry rumbled from his chest, his body too weak to even tremble.
“Shh,” she whispered, setting Night Carver next to her. Slowly, she placed her hands on his cheeks, lifting him gently until she saw amber. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The noise that left his mouth with a string of bloodied saliva sounded like disbelief.
“Please, I want to help. I’m not a soldier,” she breathed, choking on a sob as she leaned closer. “I promise I will get you out of here.”
The man watched a tear drip from her eye, tracking it down her cheek until it splashed onto her shirt. And then his eyes looked back at her. Narrowed as they darted between hers, studying them.
“Shit. They’re coming in here,” Cason hissed. He gripped her arm when she didn’t respond. “Brela.”
She blinked away the tears as the man’s jaw tensed in her grip. His eyes cleared slowly, like a fog lifting, before they darted over her shoulder. She turned to where he looked. A short stack of crates and chests… with a sliver of space behind them to hide.
Brela glanced back, the man’s head dipping in her hands. Not in weakness, but in confirmation.
There was no hesitation. She snatched Night Carver off the ground, dug her fingers into Cason’s arm, and yanked him toward the chests. Diving behind the crates, they ended in a tangle of limbs. Cason sank into the mud, his shoulder stuck at an awkward angle from the tube while also avoiding Night Carver’s point. Brela landed on top of him in the next instant, the satchel of vials clinking dangerously loud in the silence.
And then they held their breaths.
One. Two. Three.
“I swear I heard something,” a man said, voice growing in volume as the tent flaps opened in the middle of his sentence.
Two bodies entered.
“It’s always a false alarm,” the second man grumbled. Then snorted. “See, look. It woke up.” A beat of silence and then clinking chains. “Being a little noisy tonight, aren’t we?”
Boot connected with flesh. Bone cracked.
Cason winced. Brela squeezed her eyes shut as the prisoner let out a whimper, her forehead pressing into Cason’s chest. His hand stiffened on her back, the only comfort he could offer without shifting the satchel and alerting the Anfroy soldiers of their presence.
The first man huffed. “I really think—“
“It’s your first week here,” the second man said. “It takes time to get used to being this close to the wall. Even with your weak magic, it can still make you feel like one of your limbs has been ripped off.”
Fist met body, but this time it wasn’t the prisoner to groan.
“Weak magic, says the man with barely a mark of fire,” the first man jeered.
Tent flaps opened once again, the second man’s voice fading. “One more mark than yourzerofire marks.”
Every second they waited felt like a lifetime, until the shadows finally sighed in relief. Brela twisted herself out of Cason’s limbs and eased her way out of the hiding space. With quiet steps, she returned to the man, setting Night Carver and the satchel in the mud as she knelt in front of him.
His thigh. Brela cringed at the lump of bone pressing against his skin.
“Bre—la,” the man choked.
She moved her hands back to his face, helping to lift his head. “Yeah, yeah, that’s me. I’m the Veil Scholar. My friend here is Cason. What’s your name?”
“Fowke,” he rasped. Amber eyes faded in and out of focus on Cason. Losing consciousness. Life. “He is…”
“Yes, I’m friends with a fire wielder,” Brela said quickly, tapping his cheeks to keep the man steady. She needed something. Anything. “He’s quite handsome, don’t you think? Of course, if you’re into that. Or, if you prefer the ladies, I’m sure you and him could work out an arrangement with me.” Blood dripped from his lips with his small chuckle. “See? Stay with me, Fowke. We’ll make it work, the three of us.”
“You—Bre—have the blade…”
“Easy, Fowke, we’re going to get you out of here,” she whispered, running her thumbs over his cheeks. She glanced up at Cason. “A key. Find me a key for the chains. Or one of the tools to pick the lock.” Now, to Fowke, “Are there others being held here?”
“No,” Fowke murmured. “Leave me. I will… slow you.” He shifted slightly, groaning with the movement. “I met… father… Tyb—ost.”
