Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
IAN
Fire rains down from the clouds, and the sky roars here in the pass.
If the Book of Kings didn’t confirm the death of the dragons, I might think the creatures still flew here.
The air seems to buzz with an energy right before the fire comes down in streaks, cracking open the sky.
But we have the kings of old on our side and your might at our back.
We will not bow to nature, as capricious as it may be.
My men remain fearless and devoted to your cause.
Aunt Cecilia left for the lower city before Ian had finished getting dressed. He was hungover, but at least he’d come home last night. His aunt had made him promise as much.
It had been over a week since she’d somehow joined the resistance despite his suggestion that she let him burn Leon’s letters and never speak of them again.
In that time, she’d managed to obtain more food and medical supplies than Ian thought possible, and had taken to bringing them down to the safe house each morning under the pretense of donations to be distributed to the poor.
Ian, on the other hand, had helped “transfer” two Dragonborn from the prison on Harlow’s behalf and had watched them both get whipped and threatened in an ongoing escalation of the chief commander’s rage.
He was glad Sofia had escaped, but Harlow had taken the failure personally and was lashing out at anyone left.
Ian splashed ice water across his face before he finished buttoning up his uniform, not bothering to eat before he left.
He’d lost weight over the past few weeks, but he reminded himself that there were Dragonborn in the lower city doing much worse than him.
Cecilia was doing her best to help with that—all while Ian cleaned the Dragonborn blood off his hands every evening.
His aunt had only been a part of the resistance for a week and had already done more good than he ever had.
Perhaps he was cursed, destined to bring pain and death wherever he went.
Every morning before his aunt left the house, he watched her get ready, memorizing her face in case it was the last time he saw her.
He knew one day it would be. No one survived the resistance. At least no one he loved.
Ian stopped at the door that separated the dark staircase from the cavern beyond, taking a deep breath and letting his mask slip into place.
“Get over the self-pity, Martín,” he muttered as he pushed open the door. The brightness and cacophony hit him like a wall as he stepped through.
Soldiers milled about at the top level, chatting and shuffling papers, while in the pit below, a thin scream told him Harlow was with one of the Dragonborn.
Ian nodded to the others as he passed, smiling at the few he liked well enough.
None were truly good people, but there were a few Ian thought wouldn’t have been bad had they found themselves in different circumstances.
After watching Fox change and his aunt throw herself into the resistance, he was beginning to wonder if there were more of them out there than he thought.
Leon had felt like the exception to the rule when he’d chosen to join the resistance, and Ian had always wondered if he’d only done it for him.
But any hope he had for the kingdom withered and died as he came to the platform just above the pit.
Blood painted the floor as Harlow brought his whip down on the Dragonborn man cowering in the center, his hands chained in front of him.
Some of the blood was fresh, but it mixed with the stains that had sunk into the stone as a permanent scar.
There would be no cleaning this place when all was done.
The blood would forever stain its foundation.
“High Sergeant Martín,” Harlow said jovially when he glanced up. “Meet me at my desk. We need to talk.”
Ian nodded with a subdued “Yes, sir,” happy that Harlow never expected smiles in return.
Ian was too busy keeping his gaze raised away from the crumpled man.
He’d been the one to help arrest him—Samil—after he’d been caught with a sword tucked under his mattress. They’d sent his family to the farms.
Ian kept his head down, not looking at the others as he walked over to the small wooden enclosure that Harlow had ordered built on the second floor.
Ian judged the Dereyans for their complicity, but who was he to say what was evil and who deserved punishment?
Did Ian’s good intentions matter when the blood splattered his face and stained his skin, the same as it did with Harlow?
He stood outside the door until Harlow let them both in. There was no roof above the office, and the sounds of the cavern beyond echoed through the small space, but Harlow didn’t seem to notice. He sat at his desk and waved for Ian to take a seat.
The desk’s surface was filled with papers and books, neatly stacked, never scattered.
He also had a small pile of large feathers stolen from the dragon.
They’d tried using them to control her as some books had dictated, but their attempts had gotten them nowhere.
The only breakthrough they’d had was her following a few basic instructions when the Dragonborn’s lives were threatened.
Next to the feathers was a large white bone—her finger—acting as a paperweight. It was about the size of a child’s arm. Harlow had had it cleaned after Sofia escaped, a prize from his failure.
“It was a rousing speech yesterday, sir,” Ian said, trying not to focus on Harlow petting the bone, fingers tracing it almost lovingly.
The speech had been the same template Harlow had been using since the week after the bomb—the Dragonborn were trying to kill them all, and only the king’s men could save the soul of the city.
Harlow’s eyes flickered with warmth at the words, though, ever the prideful creature.
“We’re getting so close. I can almost taste it,” he said, clenching the bone in his hand like a baton. “Those things will not best us much longer.”
Ian nodded in agreement.
“I got a bird this morning. The army is holding in the foothills and has a path to the dragons,” Harlow said.
Ian waited, something left unspoken in his tone.
“Why are you loyal, Martín?”
“Sir?” he said, not faking his surprise at the question.
Harlow only raised his eyebrows and waited, the bone clicking on the desk with his patient taps.
“I don’t have any other choice, sir,” he said, watching Harlow’s cheek twitch at the words.
“I’ve seen what chaos and fear can do. And I love this country—I love my family and the people here.
It seems to me that if I want them to be safe, the only choice I have is to protect this city from threats.
Whether those come from the inside or outside. ”
He looked away from Harlow, eyes catching on the bone as he tapped it on the desk in a perfect syncopated rhythm.
“I will do anything and everything to protect the people of Suvi,” he continued. “I don’t think I have a choice but to do so when I see the city suffering.” The words weren’t a lie. Perhaps that was why Harlow only nodded, a gentle smile on his face.
And then it disappeared.
“You are friends with Junior Major Ocon?”
Ian’s stomach dropped, though his mask stayed firmly in place. “I don’t know if friendship is the correct word,” he said. “His brother and I were close.”
“I remember. You and Leon joined the king’s men together.”
Ian swallowed back the lump in his throat.
“We did, yes.” He didn’t hide his discomfort.
He’d learned over the sun cycles, it was best not to fake emotions, but rather to use them.
“I always felt guilty after his death. The day the bomb went off, I was there. I didn’t see anything wrong.
I didn’t catch the resistance, and Leon died because of that. So, I’ve tried to watch over the boy.”
Harlow nodded. “You know, my great-grandfather worked in the palace. He worked for the king’s grandfather.”
“I didn’t know, sir,” Ian said, unsure where this story was going.
“He was serving dinner the night of the uprising, when the Dragonborn tried to assassinate the king over peace talks. After it was all over, they said he had a chance of killing one of the Dragonborn terrorists—he’d had a butcher knife from the kitchens and he was a large man, larger than me.
He let that terrorist escape instead. He was tried and executed for his crimes, leaving my great-grandmother alone to raise their three children. ”
Ian swallowed. Harlow’s eyes were burning with such hatred for a betrayal that took place before he was born.
“My family carried the weight of his crimes for sun cycles. I entered the king’s men bearing his name until I wiped the city of his memory through my own deeds. I made sure that people knew I didn’t tolerate disloyalty.”
“Of course not, sir,” Ian said. His lips were numb, his chest aching with the pressure of keeping his breathing steady.
“I received troubling news from General Luna,” he said, suddenly pulling the bone back, pressing it against his chest as if it were a weapon.
Ian went pale. Fear thudded through his chest. “Sir?” he asked.
“We must find a way to control the dragons. They will do what we say. As you said, we don’t have a choice but to protect this country from the threat they pose.
The Dragonborn will destroy centuries of progress in their quest for power.
I will not let that happen. That dragon in there will bow to my will. That is the only option.”
Ian’s fingertips tingled, and he tasted metal on his tongue.
What did you do, Fox?
Harlow opened his mouth and Ian waited, but the door snapped hard against the wall behind him, the entire wooden structure of the office shaking.
“Sir,” Junior Sergeant Graci said before Harlow even had a chance to snap at him about privacy and protocols. “You need to come see this. It’s the dragon. It’s started acting strange—it’s—just come see.”
Harlow crossed the room in two strides, the bone still clenched in his fist. He placed a firm hand on Ian’s shoulder.
“We’ll finish this conversation later,” he said, and left with the junior sergeant.
Ian stared down at the bloody handprint Harlow had left on his shoulder. Dread coursed through his body as he followed them out, the handprint a physical weight.