The man sobs, then chokes it back. He’s not an assassin—he’s saving the conscripts. And she knows that sound he just made: he’s afraid, but he’s braver still. She presses closer to the wall, willing it to swallow her now. Witnessing a man who kills for money get his comeuppance she can handle, but a man trying to help innocents? A momentary madness overcomes her and she contemplates intervening—but what chance would she have against the prince and the king?
Stars, she’s a coward.
“I-I don’t know what you mean,” the man stutters before his voice strengthens. Astrid closes her eyes, unable to watch whatever will happen next, wishing she could block out the sound, too. But… nothing.
She cracks an eyelid. The prince is holding a golden pear, contemplating the man shivering in his chair. The king’s eyes flit between his son and the man, as if even he is unsure what the prince will do next.
Zryan lifts the pear to his mouth and takes a bite, the sharp crunch making the man flinch. The prince walks slowly, deliberately, toward him before taking another bite. The juices burst from the flesh inside, dripping on the man’s leg. Zryan wipes his thumb across his bottom lip, sucking it, and despite everything, Astrid follows the movement. She hates herself for it.
“Hold out your hand,” Zryan says. The man whimpers but holds out his maimed hand, the tomato red of his blood on the cloth horribly bright in the dark cell.
“No. Your other hand.”
Astrid can’t stop the squeak of distress that comes out of her. Zryan’s eyes flick to where she stands. She shrinks in on herself and prays to any Goddess who will listen not to let her be found like this. Cowering against a cell wall. It feels like an eternity until he looks away.
“Please, I don’t know anything,” Mikhael begs.
“If I have to ask again, I’ll take both hands.”
The rebel lurches forward, straining against his bonds, and Zryan watches him silently. Mikhael soon realizes it’s futile and finally sits still, panting. The two simply stare at each other. Then the man shakily extends his good hand, his wet breath rattling as he does so.Zryan takes another bite of the pear and offers it to Mikhael, who accepts it, confused, turning to the king, back to the prince.
“Take a bite,” Zryan says. The man doesn’t move. “What did I say about repeating myself?” The man heaves a breath, then takes the pear between his lips. “Good. Now, let the pear go. No, keep it in your mouth, that’s it, just take your hand off it.” The man does so, looking like some grotesque target practice, saliva pooling at the corner of his mouth. “There. That will ensure you don’t bite off your own tongue.” The man whimpers in response. “Now relax. Lay your arm along the chair.”
He closes his eyes, tears leaking as he follows the prince’s instructions. Zryan unsheathes his wavy blade and slowly drags the sharp tip along the man’s bare arm down to his wrist, gently testing the point against the softest part of Mikhael’s flesh. The acidic tang of urine fills Astrid’s nose a few seconds later. The king tuts in disgust.
“Father.” Zryan doesn’t take his eyes off the captive. “Would you like to give us a few minutes? When you return, I promise you’ll find his tongue as loose as his bowels.” Astrid shakes, unable to marry up the monster in the cell with the prince who calls her Dimples. The man who saved her life.
The king raises a brow, but it seems he’s going to play his son’s game, because he inclines his head and turns from the cell. “You have ten minutes,” he says.
Astrid doesn’t dare blink lest it draw his attention, but he sweeps past her and along the passageway without hesitation, the Dreki opening the door and moving aside for the king to exit.
Astrid jolts as Zryan’s voice comes from closer than she was expecting. “Go with the king,” he tells the Dreki. “I’m not to be disturbed until His Majesty returns, understand?”
The two Dreki nod and leave. Zryan waits a moment, then Teleports to lock the door behind them.Shit. This would have been her best chance to escape, and while she can cast an unlocking spell, it will require her to speak. She’s not sure she’ll be able to do it without the prince noticing.
Zryan Teleports back inside the cell, his dagger raised and pointingat his prisoner. Mikhael’s hair turns white, his Shifting out of control with his fear. Astrid watches from the shadows, wondering if her stomach is strong enough to handle what’s going to come next, but then Zryan, inexplicably, sheathes his blade. He pulls the pear from the man’s mouth, shushing him when he starts to hyperventilate.
“If you want to get out of here, you’ll stay quiet and you’ll stay calm.”
Mikhael gasps, his ragged, bloodied hand pressed against his heaving chest, before settling enough to nod. Zryan looks down on him, his demeanor changed now that the king has left. There is an urgency to him.
“You need to tell me where the conscripts are. If you were caught, then they could be at risk, too.” The slight shake of the man’s head tells her he’s as confused as she is. “We don’t have much time.”
“I can’t—I won’t give them up,” the man grinds out.
“You’re not.” Zryan’s tone lacks any of the cruelty it held earlier. He looks momentarily distracted, then he addresses the man again. “I am trying to help. Mjolnir is going to show you something to confirm what I’m telling you is true.”
The man tenses, his limbs shake softly, and after a few seconds, he slumps. Mjolnir—he must be showing Mikhael something in his mind. He’s silent long enough that Astrid wonders if he’s conscious. But then he sucks in a breath.
“The conscripts are already out of Talrok. We figured out you—” Mikhael stops, corrects himself. “They had moved the new consignment of carriages down to the warrens, then we followed the convoy and waited until they were outside the city walls. The Blooded we freed will be near the border of Jandara by now—”
“Stop, no more details, no names.” Mikhael bobs his head. “Good,” Zryan says.
He kneels in front of the man and ties a fresh strip of cloth around the stumps where his fingers once were, then he fashions a makeshift sling to keep the hand raised.
“A Curer will see to your hand.” He stands. “I apologize in advance for this.” He punches the man so hard in the face the chair topplesbackward, and he hits the floor with athump. He’s out cold. Astrid is still reeling when Zryan paces from the cell and grabs her, pushing her against the buttress, his hands encasing her upper arms.
“Tell me, Dimples.” Zryan leans in, his breath dancing over her cheek. “Why do I always find you in places you’re not supposed to be?”
