He doesn’t wobble, doesn’t lose a step of balance as, with his other hand, he seizes his satchel.
Around the muscle of his leather-wrapped arm, I see Mika and Arwyn standing, packed, ready to go, and their chins angled up at the head of camp.
I trace their stares.
The deputy is dragging a heavy rope out from the front cart.
I hear it thud to the earth before he hauls it into the middle of camp, but the way he does it reminds me of tug-of-war, with thatheave, heave, heave.
That spooled rope must be crazy heavy if even a dark fae needs to really put his back into it.
I’ve seen fae rip car doors off their hinges.
Samick’s arm pushes into me—
And the instinct takes over. Because that’s what it is now. Instinct. He guides me, manoeuvres me. I follow.
It’s all learned and natural.
I’m a shadow stuck to his side as he heads to the peak of camp. All the other warriors do the same, and the guards with the herd of captives.
In rows of one and two, we all make our way to the general and her deputy.
Some move faster with brisk steps, legs cutting through the dying light of campfires, and others jog right by us.
My neck aches as I look back at the captives.
Crowded by the guards, a rope is spooled between them, their wrists fastened, and it’s so horribly like a row of slaves that it churns my stomach.
Then a guard stomps on the embers and flames of the small fire closest—and darkness steals them.
I turn back around, my face twisted.
The warriors have blended into a fast-moving stream—and one by one, they grab the giant spooled black rope on the dirt.
It unspools down the camp, thudding on the earth.
The more warriors that reach it, that grab a handful and move on into the dark, the closer we get.
Samick’s pace is swift, determined, his bootfalls are faithful, but he isn’t rushing like some of the others, the ones who overtook us in the queue.
I stumble to keep up with him.
I jump over slippery rocks and slick slopes of mud—but his grip on my wrist is steel, so I don’t think he’ll let me fall.
As we reach the rope, Arwyn in front of us, Mika and Shark behind, more campfires are doused, dirt kicked over them in passing, in the rush—
Samick grabs onto the rope and moves us into the depths of the blackout.
The last campfire goes out.
Torches are turned down.
And it’s back to total, blinding darkness.
The urgency in the fae doesn’t falter.
Steps are louder than they’ve ever been in the blackout. The pace is quicker, and my legs are starting to ache already.
