“How is the war going?” Lucien asks.
Kazia stiffens, then shoves his chair back with a screech. “How every war goes,” he says, and strides from the room.
***
Lucien’s drasgard escort is much less talkative than their bratty prince. They haven’t said where they’re taking Lucien, though from Lucien’s rough memory, this hall leads to the makeshift cell he slept in last night.
A mere two soldiers, who Lucien could strike down in two seconds under normal circumstances. The stocky barrel of a woman leads the way, and the lean, grouchy man follows close enough that his toes sometimes clip Lucien’s heels. They both have weapons. They may or may not have magic—doesn’t matter. Lucien could incinerate them with a snap of his fingers.
But circumstances aren’t normal, so Lucien decides to attempt drastic measures.
“What are your names?” Lucien asks brightly.
No response.
“Looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together,” Lucien continues, undeterred. “This will be more pleasant for everyone if I don’t have to make up nicknames for you.”
That twitch from the woman might be suppressed laughter.
Lucien cranes around to look at the man. “I thought about calling you Blue Hair, but you would not believe the number of guys with blue hair I’ve met this—”
Lucien staggers as the man’s heavy boot collides with his calf. Instinct drives Lucien around, fist clenched. Except the impulse doesn’t reach his limbs. Under the collar’s influence, all Lucien can do is stumble half around. Fury stings more from his own helplessness than the minor pain.
Don’t damage my people or property.
Blue Hair’s already-furrowed brow deepens. His grin is a mean sliver of teeth. “What were you saying, Silaisan?”
“I was saying, you’re lucky I’m wearing this earring,” Lucien drawls.
Blue Hair’s grin widens. His next kick aims for Lucien’s stomach, which is when Lucien learns that dodging works. Mostly. The toe of Blue Hair’s boot catches him in the gut, and stumbling back knocks him right into the woman’s solid grasp.
A short blade presses against Lucien’s throat. Breath catching, Lucien holds still.
“Enough,” the woman growls. “No nonsense from either of you.”
“Don’t look at me, Yudra,” Blue Hair protests. “You didn’t see. He tried to attack me.”
Yudra laughs and lowers her blade. “Tried. His Highness has him well muzzled. Open the fucking door.”
Blue Hair sidles past to unlock the cell door. Lucien bites his tongue on more jibes. These two clearly aren’t up for casual banter with the enemy, and being obnoxious will only make him feel better in the moment.
Silence doesn’t protect him, though. Yudra shoves Lucien through the open door, so hard he staggers down to one knee.Lucien scrambles back enough to take Blue Hair’s boot in his side instead of anything more important. His arms fly up on reflex, protecting his head—
The door slams shut. Lucien’s alone.
Breath returns slowly to his lungs. Battle instinct drives hot blood through his veins, but there’s nobody to fight. They didn’t even beat him. Just some roughness with a mouthy prisoner who couldn’t defend himself.
Lucien sits with that helplessness. Forcing himself to feel it until his self-pity burns away and leaves only determination. Then he shoves himself up and begins inspecting his cell. He was too exhausted last night to do a proper job.
He first felt helpless ten years ago, when a Dire magic storm swept away the remnants of his childhood. That night drove him to the Silaisan army, fire on his blades and vengeance in his heart.
Today is nothing in comparison. But Lucien can still use it to fuel his resolve.
He’s going to escape. Not today, but soon. Kazia’s orders keep Lucien from escaping or trying to escape, but not from figuring out how he might escape, hypothetically. The collar appears to have no influence over Lucien’s thoughts.
His cell isn’t even a proper cell. It’s a plain stone room without windows, and the only light comes from a fading mage-lamp hanging from the ceiling, out of Lucien’s reach. The door is heavy, but simple wood. If Lucien had his magic, he could burn it down.
Judging by the scuff marks and stains, the room once held a proper bed and rugs. Now there’s only a rock-hard mattress on the floor and a chamber pot in the corner—no. Lucien frowns at the cabinet that definitely wasn’t there this morning. A plainceramic washbasin sits on top, and when Lucien opens the single cupboard, he finds a pitcher of water and several small jars.
