The iron structure was even more massive than I had imagined, a hulking weight of thick, interlaced bars. The Fae magic woven into its frame pulsed with a faint, dull gold glow.
My eyes traced the runes covering every inch of the iron, and a chill swept through me as the spell came into focus. It was containment magic—the kind used to shackle something dangerous. It wasn't merely a cage; it was a trap forged with the singular intent of smothering any hope of escape.
I drew nearer, pulled in by the siren call of the spell, until a heavy hand caught me, halting my advance.
"We don't know what it does," Malek said, his cold, calculating gaze fixed on the cage.
I knew exactly what I was looking at, and the grim purpose it served. It was a prison of light, one of the oldest and most dangerous inventions of the Autumn Court. It worked by snaring the essence of whoever was trapped within, slowly siphoning their power to fuel its own containment magic in a near-parasitic cycle. It was the kind of dark sorcery the Autumn Court reserved only for the vilest criminals.
A cold sense of dread settled in my gut as the questions began to gnaw at me. Why were Grìosach’s soldiers transporting such a prison toward Ceilte? What in the gods' names was happening there?
I buried the questions for a more opportune moment and turned my gaze back to the orc.
"Why do you think they were bringing this to Ceilte?"
Malek ran a hand along his squared jaw, his eyes never leaving the cage. "I don't know," he answered. "It’s been a long time since we’ve had any conflict with the kir’shakur." I furrowed my brow, the term unfamiliar. As if reading my thoughts, he clarified. "Invaders."
"Oh..."
The sound of my own breathing echoed through the cabin, loud in the sudden stillness. Words failed me; all I could do was swallow the hard knot in my throat, feigning a mask of neutrality while a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts took over my mind.
I was High Fae, raised to view orcs as the lowest form of existence. But every story has two sides, and from everything I had witnessed so far, theirs was the side that had bled the most for these wars. While Ceilte and the Courts grew wealthier with each passing year, the orc clans were merely trying to survive with dignity on the scraps they had left.
The memory of Merith’s curse surged up, bitter and cold. I remembered how the fae who had known me since childhood had simply turned their backs on me. They had witnessed what happened, yet their hatred had spoken louder than any memory or affection they once held for me. All because my appearance had changed.
In retrospect, between them and us, it was the High Fae who were the barbarians. We were the ones who had invaded their lands on a whim; my ancestors had decimated orc clans for the sake of territory we didn't even use.
It was a sickening realization, one that made bile rise in the back of my throat. The weight of it only grew heavier as I remembered that I was lying to them just to save my own skin, while the orcs had done nothing but help me.
I couldn't erase the atrocities my people had inflicted upon the Okshai and the other orc clans scattered across Lyraen. Those were scars that would remain etched forever in memory and in time. The least I could do now was try to help them in whatever way I could.
Starting with this cursed cage.
"I think I know a way to open it," I said, careful not to offer more than was necessary.
"How?"
"Do you trust me, Ruk’hai?"
I felt his gaze, piercing and laden with questions I couldn't possibly answer. The silence stretched between us, lingering long past the point of comfort. To my immense relief, he didn't try to press me.
"What do you need?"
Chapter 18
Malek’s gaze followed me like an invisible touch, tracking my every move in the silence of the cabin. I traced the line of the Fae runes with my fingers, careful not to make direct contact, focusing my attention entirely on the intricate pattern of the containment magic.
Unlike the orcish runes etched into Malek’s skin, where every stroke was stark and defined, Fae runes were far more deceptive. Each symbol held a small part of the spell. Many were formed by combining two or more signs, blending their meanings and intentions into a single, more complex piece of sorcery.
"I need obsidian," I said. "The largest piece you can find. And bring me sprigs of vervain, rosemary, and clean water."
Malek’s eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious.
"What for?"
"Obsidian acts as a magical conduit, a vessel," I explained, fighting to keep my voice steady even as my stomach churned with nerves. "The infusion of vervain and rosemary is for purification."
Malek studied me, his uncertainty written in the hard lines of his face. I wasn’t offended; after all, he had every right to be wary. Orcs didn't practice magic, or so I had always been told, yet I could feel the protective wards permeating the very air of the hut.
