Like me, I don’t think he takes too kindly to being chained.
I would warn the rebels, but…I suspect they already know, hence their refusal to remove the iron band. Besides…I’m not so sure I disagree with him.
As Rhian steps back with the iron band, the blond man moves in to untie the ropes. There’s a moment between the iron falling away and my next breath when I consider going back on my word. I’ve seen what rebels are capable of, how many innocents they’re willing to sacrifice for their “greater good.”
The moment passes as quickly as it comes. Even if I made a move, it would be futile. My magic only works one-on-one, and Taliesin has my dagger, so nowtheyhave it.
“What now?” I ask.
“I think I speak for all of us when I say it’s been a long day and a tiring journey from the exiled lands.” She nods, as if that settles it. “Now we get some rest. We’ll go over the plan in the morning, after we break our fast.”
They escort us outside and along the long row of huts circling the fire, its warmth fading at our backs as we move into the dark. The ruins loom larger ahead, jagged walls rising higher with every step until the remnants of a keep take shape. Largely intact, this section of the fortress must have survived whatever happened here, likely shielded by the outer walls.
Leather-clad guards stand on either side of a wind-beaten door. As we approach, they haul it open and wave us through, bowing at Rhian, respect clear in their eyes.
This is an odd place.
The rebels I’ve tracked before were never this organized, nor did they have a clear leader like this. They scattered themselves across the borderlands, taking shelter where they could— hiding in the tall grass or near streams lined with trees that broke the wind. I wonder if the Order even knows a group this large exists.
Inside, the central room is breathtakingly vast, our footsteps echoing across ancient stone. Far above, timber beams curve into a ceiling carved with elaborate firebirds. I stop and stare. The etchings stretch across the entire span—great birds frozen mid-flight, hatchlings nesting in clusters, and some larger birds with flames billowing from wide, curving beaks.
A strange sense of familiarity rushes through me, though I’ve never seen anything like it.
Carvings like this are banned by the Order. Any kind of drawing is. Any kind of art—except their prized portraits of our leaders, of course. All I’ve known of it is what I imagined, what I could only piece together in my mind, and what I thought the elves of old might have painted.
What I secretly doodled myself.
This surpasses all of that.
“We have rooms prepared for you,” Rhian says, her voice pulling my attention from the ceiling. “They’re the only two up that flight of stairs. Feel free to choose whichever suits you best."
I frown. "And you’re leaving us here to do as we wish. Just like that?”
She flashes me a smile that’s all teeth. “There are bars on the window, and Brioc and Meurig here will be on guard by the stairs. Two more outside the keep door. But if you really want to leave, you can. No need for violence.”
“Right. I’m sure you’d just let us walk away so I can return to Caer Draen and tell the Order everything.”
She laughs softly. “Not quite. We’d have to escort you back to the exiled lands, same as we brought you here. Though I’d rather not be forced to abandon this command post any sooner than necessary. The Order avoids the coast, but they’re like a dog with a bone when it comes to us. You go and report this to them, and they might not be able to resist.” She arches a brow. “So, are you staying, or are you leaving? You did make an oath.”
“We’re staying,” Taliesin says quietly.
I press my lips together as a prickle of irritation runs through me. The only thing I might hate more than being trapped is someone else speaking for me, like I don’t have a mind of my own.
Rhian eyes him warily, then nods. “Meet us by the huts at dawn.”
The rebel leader strides toward the door without so much as a backward glance. Two guards fall into step beside her, and by the time they’re halfway across the floor, they’re already deep in discussion about an “issue at the watchtower.”
The two remaining leather-clad guards take up their posts at the stairwell, lacing their hands behind their backs as they straighten, eyes fixed on the exit. One is broad-shouldered,olive-skinned, with a shock of white hair scattered across his brow. The other stands on the right—pale, with a long, narrow face and ginger hair tied back in a knot that does nothing to soften the severity of his stare. Neither looks at me for long.
“I guess we’ll be showing ourselves to our rooms,” I mumble, low enough I think no one will hear me.
The guard on the left grunts. “You should be thankful you got as much as you did. Right, Meurig?”
At my look of confusion, Meurig shifts his weight and glances at the stairwell. “The keep is haunted.”
“Haunted,” I repeat.
“Like the hills near the Twin Talons Inn,” Taliesin says, having stepped up beside me. “I’ve heard stories of this place. You can hear the screams of the dead at night.”
