Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
IAN
At night when the house is quiet and my mind won’t stop spinning, I think of you.
You are my weakness, my crutch, and a balm to my very soul.
May you never forget the strength you’ve given me to acknowledge what I know is right without shame.
But then again, am I truly without shame?
I hide here in the shadows, writing this under the cover of dark.
I know secrecy is essential, but I hate that one secret begets another.
All of this to say that I miss you and I’m counting down the hours until I see you again.
-Handwritten letter from Leon Ocon to Ian Martín, date unknown
Ian watched Fox rush away, the breeze off the ocean cutting through his uniform and sending goosebumps rippling across his skin. He couldn’t chase after him. He knew Fox would need time, and there was nothing Ian could say to fix that.
Guilt churned in his stomach heavy and hot, but when his body bent in half, he only dry- heaved. He hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch. He needed to, but feeding his body felt like a betrayal when the rations he was given were even now better than what most Dragonborn ate when the city flourished.
Once his stomach had finished revolting, he took a deep breath and strode back to his men with a straight back and a grim face.
He picked up where they stopped, lining up the Dragonborn from every house, going through the registry and emptying out their belongings until they were sure there was nothing left hidden.
And every book and journal they found made his stomach twist and his heart pound, but he collected them all.
He’s looking for their nesting grounds and a way to control them.
As Ian lined up the guilty for arrest, he reminded himself of the greater good and his place in the resistance.
He had killed Dragonborn in the name of the king, and these wouldn’t be the last. He’d always done his part as best he could, but today he couldn’t convince himself it made him a good person.
Would he have been better off defecting from the beginning—throwing off the cloak of his false parentage?
How was his hiding among the king’s men, lying about who he was, protecting anyone?
How did it make him any better than any other Dragonborn who kissed the boot of the king, hoping he’d pat them on the head and call them worthy?
He could run. He could escape and never look back, but who would he be truly protecting? Only himself.
“Sir, do you want to take the written contraband to Chief Commander Harlow yourself?”
Ian had to actively stop himself from startling at the sound of his second-in-command’s voice. “Yes. Thank you, Vin.”
The older man gave a curt nod before handing over the small stack of journals and papers.
Today’s haul looked to be two children’s books, a small red journal that contained only a few strange symbols, and some scraps of paper with various messages on them.
It seemed the king’s work to eradicate the written language had only gone so far.
“Junior Sergeant Vin, you can take the Dragonborn to the prison. Please ask for a copy of the intake and drop it off at my desk before you return to the barracks. The rest of you are dismissed until tomorrow morning. We’ll meet back here at sunrise.”
Ian ignored the groans, knowing that admonishing them would do nothing. At some point tonight or tomorrow, he needed to write up a formal reprimand for Holt and Lago. No one would care that they killed a Dragonborn without trial, but disobeying a superior’s order was enough for a suspension.
He was the last to leave, the rest of his men having marched off the moment he’d dismissed them. The remaining Dragonborn picked up their belongings from the street. No one looked at him. There was no spit on his feet or curses under their breaths, and the silent obedience made Ian’s chest cold.
He wished he could say something—give them hope. But perhaps that wasn’t his place. Who was he to offer platitudes to the people whose lives he had just torn apart?
The walk was quiet, the only sound his feet on the stone streets and the wind between the buildings.
Even the sky was empty, a single hawk circling above, hunting for something it likely wouldn’t find here.
Every rodent that had once lived on these streets had been eaten as the king cut the rations, and curfew made it more and more impossible for the Dragonborn to hold jobs.
The sun disappeared behind the horizon before he made it out of the slums, but it only made it easier to for him to let the children’s book and a few notes slip from his pile into the small crevice behind the box in the alley as he passed by.
He’d be back in a few days to destroy them, but it wasn’t safe right now to go through and try to decide what to do.
Once he’d dropped off the journal and the last few notes that looked innocuous enough at the prison, he didn’t return to the barracks, choosing instead to walk back into the slums. It was eerily quiet passing through the gates.
They were guarded as always, but there wasn’t anyone on the streets on either side of the city.
The houses were dark behind closed curtains, and he wondered how many of the houses were empty.
How many families were under the rubble in the northern part of the city?
How many had been arrested and were in prison under meaningless charges?
How many were underground with the people he’d helped save, hiding from him and his people sweeping the city?
He kept his head down and hurried, not wanting to face what the city looked like tonight because of him and the king he worked under.
When the glowing lights of the Wall’s Inn came into view, a weight lifted off his shoulders, and he breathed an audible sigh.
It hadn’t been his idea to check the inn first thing in the sweeps, but he didn’t argue with it.
He wasn’t the only soldier excited to see it open again.
Right now it was the only place on this side of the inner wall to get an ale and a hot meal.
After the long walk through the cold, the heavy, hot air of the dining room fell over him like a cloak as he stepped inside.
The fire was blazing in the large stone hearth, and the room was full to the brim with people drinking and laughing.
Torches lined the walls beside faded and moth-eaten tapestries, and someone he vaguely recognized was playing a harp in the corner, adding to the cacophony.
There were no Dragonborn milling about the room that weren’t working. The only ones brave enough to come out at night were the soldiers. But it was a break from the war-torn city that lay just behind the tightly closed windows.
In here, Ian could almost forget what he’d been doing all day. He could forget the look of utter anguish on Fox’s face as he’d told him the truth.
“High Sergeant,” a soft voice said, just over his shoulder, and he turned to see Isadora stepping away from the group she’d been sitting with, a genuine smile on her face. “It’s been too long.”
Ian didn’t say that he’d been counting the days in his mind since he’d last let himself come this way. It was before he’d nearly fucked up the resistance’s plan by letting Fox get kidnapped instead of Lieutenant Luna’s son, like they’d planned.
“I’ve been busy, but I promise I didn’t forget you.” He hated how much truth was in those words.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, even as she pressed against him, warm body against his cold one.
“You don’t have to lie to me,” he said, smirking, but she only slapped him softly.
“I don’t need to lie to you. So, what are you having? Frankie’s made a charro bean stew and fresh tortillas, or I can get you an ale? Wine?”
He pulled her closer into him, pressing his face into her shoulder before he spoke.
“Get me a bottle and let’s take this to your room.”
“I can definitely help with that.”
A few minutes later, she stepped out of the kitchens carrying a bottle of wine and a steaming bowl of stew. Ian smiled. His stomach turned, but perhaps it would be good to eat something.
The moment the door was closed behind them, Isadora moved over to her desk and wound the large music box there until the metallic notes began to play.
Her shoulders dropped, and she turned, no longer smiling.
Any remnants of her working facade had fallen away.
Her brows were pinched, and she looked him up and down.
“You look exhausted. I can see your dark circles from here, and when’s the last time you ate? You look gray.”
Her words washed over him, and he realized just how much his head was spinning.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a shit liar despite your occupation.”
Ian only shook his head, putting out his hands. She shoved the bowl of peppered stew into them before dragging him over to the bed to sit.
“It’s been too long.” She pulled up the small stool from the corner, sitting on it so their knees were touching.
“I missed you too, Sis.”
“Eat first. Talk later.”
The first bite of food took his breath away, and he shoveled the stew into his mouth, barely chewing. The beans were just spicy enough he could feel the bite of them in the back of his throat. There were even a few potatoes and greens in the thick broth that melted on his tongue.
“If you throw up, you’re cleaning it,” she said, swatting his knee.
It was too late for the admonishment. The food was gone. He scraped the bowl a few times just to annoy her before setting it aside.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You need to start taking care of yourself. You’ve been getting worse.”
“I’ve just been busy. The resistance is destroying the city. Didn’t you hear?”
She rolled her eyes, grabbing the bowl from him to set it on the table and then throwing herself down on the bed beside him.
“That’s not an excuse, and you know it.”
“What’s been the gossip around here?”
She looked pointedly at the music box, but spoke anyway, her voice low.
“There’s been the usual complaining about the reduced rations and increased work hours from the soldiers.
But a few of the girls have also had their customers talking about the dragon.
” Her voice dropped even more at the last word.
“Not in so many words, but they want to know who saw it—who believed what they saw.”
“The king and Harlow think they can ignore what happened, but even the soldiers want an explanation. We can’t arrest every single civilian and soldier that saw the dragon that night.”
“Don’t tempt him,” she said, voice harsh. “I’m sure he could try.”
“Have you heard from our people?”
She shook her head. “No one except you.”
Ian sighed. He didn’t expect otherwise, but he’d hoped. If anyone could find a way over the wall in its current condition, it would be Sofia.
“Did you grab glasses for the wine?” Ian asked, looking around.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Isadora smiled as she grabbed the wine and took a heavy swig. “I’m off for the night, so we’re going to drink more wine than we should, and you’re going to take a nap.”
“I’m fine.”
“Shut up and let me take care of you.”
He smiled, but grabbed the bottle from her, taking a long pull. The wine had just the slightest bitter edge at the end, but it was perfect. He rarely let down his guard with anyone—not since Leon had died. But his half-sister and fellow resistance worker was the one person he had left.
It didn’t matter when the music box ran out a few minutes later because they talked about nothing important as they passed the bottle back and forth, and it was everything he could have asked for.
***
Ian stumbled out of the inn too many hours past midnight.
With his badge shining on his chest, he didn’t need to worry about being stopped, though.
The streets were emptier than he’d ever seen them, only a few soldiers pacing in their rounds.
The Dragonborn had been on a curfew since the breakout, and anyone caught after dark was immediately sent to the prison just long enough to ship them off to the labor farms. The king had ordered the prison to be only for short-term stays, as if they were afraid of another uprising.
Ian could have pointed out that the more Dragonborn they arrested, the more vitriol they created against themselves.
“Vato.” The name was a raspy whisper, said so quickly he might have thought it was a trick of the wind.
Ice spiked through his chest, and he froze in the middle of the street.
He didn’t look around immediately, unsure if it was some trap.
But no one else knew that name except those in the resistance.
The person who stepped from the shadows down the nearby alley wasn’t anyone he knew.
Their hair was cropped close to their face on one side and hung long and limp down the other side.
Their outfit was strange, looking more like an old flour sack than a dress.
In fact, he was just sober enough to know it was definitely a flour sack.
He didn’t answer, moving casually toward them and slipping into the shadows. He pressed them back into the wall with a hand on their shoulder, eyes narrowed in distrust.
“And who are you?”
“Sofia sent me. I need to talk to you and Fox.”