“Wonderful,” Tairna murmurs. She offers me a watery smile that I ignore. One of her men unties our mare and leads the horse away.
Tairna clears her throat, then gestures to another one of the rebels. A burly man approaches us, iron cuffs glinting in his hands.
A snarl builds in my throat, sky darkening in response.
“A precaution,” Tairna says quickly. “Your reputation precedes you, Vayru. Just until the camp acclimates to your presence.”
Every muscle in my body locks tight, teeth clenching. But then I remember the wretched night that Lev died—when I obliterated an entire Tundrayni camp with my rage.
I present my wrists. Mayah watches with wide eyes, guilt flitting through her gaze, as the rebel locks the thick shackles around them. My power snuffs out like a flame.
But when he walks toward Mayah, I see red.
“Not her,” I growl.
Tairna looks apologetic but shakes her head. “No exceptions, Vayru. It’ll only be for a short while.”
The rebel approaches Mayah, a slimmer set of iron cuffs clutched in his hand. Three long strides, and I cut him off, angling my body in his path.
“Don’t fucking touch her.” My low snarl has him retreating a half-step.
“It’s all right,” Mayah says softly. Her hand wavers at her side, as though she wants to rest it on my shoulder. “I’ll wear them.” Her so-called friend says nothing, does nothing except glare at me with the heat of the sun.
Jaw clenched tight, I snatch the cuffs from the rebel’s meaty hands. Then, I turn to Mayah.
Please, merciful Skies, let this be the last time I ever shackle her.
My heart can’t bear it anymore.
The carriage ride to the rebel camp passes in stilted silence, broken only by Sura’s apologies about the iron shackles—apologies clearly meant only for Mayah judging by the venomous glares aimed at me.
Based on what I can observe from the smudged window, we’re heading northwest. I’m surprised they didn’t blindfold us. The carriage jostles, and Mayah bumps into my side, quickly scooting away.
“You’ve been well, Mayah?” Sura asks, hands clutching her knees. “And Daak? How is he?”
My spine goes rigid, knuckles blanching. The taste of ash blooms bitter on my tongue.
“Daak is dead,” Mayah whispers. Her voice splinters on the last word.
“Mayah,” Sura gasps, eyes wide. “Tides carry him to peaceful waters. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, you must have been—”
“Tell me about the Rebellion,” Mayah cuts in. The waver in her voice has me gritting my teeth. She can’t bear to talk about the dead captain.
Sura tells Mayah about her life in the camp, where she cares for the orphans and other children. She tells her about Tumaas, her brother, and his work in the forge.
Tumaas. I’d tried to kill him, too, that night. I’m not concerned about what contempt he holds for me, though. It’s what he might feel for Mayah that plagues me. Was he just a friend, or did Mayah harbor feelings for him, too? Will she find solace in his arms?
I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.
I do, and I despise myself for it.
The carriage jolts to a stop.
“We’re here!” Sura announces in a grating sing-song voice. “Don’t move.” She flounces from the carriage, leaving me alone with Mayah.
A beat of stretched silence.
Then—“You didn’t have to come with me. I would’ve been fine on my own.”
