Chapter 22
They did not chain Ivan again. That was the first concession.
The second came in the form of hot food, dry clothes, and the understanding that no one in the camp would be permitted to strike him without consequence.
Dominic had said as much during their first meeting, though Ivan had not expected the promise to hold much weight once it left the traitor prince’s mouth.
Men said many things when they wished to appear honorable.
Yet, surprisingly, the command had endured.
It passed through the ranks slowly, like a bitter draught forced from one throat to the next. No “accidents.” No righteous bruising. No private vengeance in the dark.
The men did not like it. That much was plain.
Conversations stalled when he approached and resumed in murmurs once he passed.
Men who had once been hunted by him now sat sharpening their blades within sight of his back.
Others watched him with a curiosity they disguised as contempt.
Dominic’s order had settled over the camp like frost, dulling the worst of their temper but never thawing it.
Yoni, in particular, looked deeply displeased by the arrangement, which Ivan found immensely gratifying.
Truly, it was the little things in life.
The third concession was that he was no longer kept at the perimeter.
Instead, he was placed at the center of things—watched openly, escorted everywhere, but present.
A calculated shift. Dominic had decided it would serve him better to parade a cooperative prisoner than a bound one.
So, Ivan bathed under watch. Ate under watch.
Dressed under watch. It was tiresome, to say the least—but it was better than chains and the daily ritual of fists.
Through it all, the guards made a careful show of not noticing the shadow that sometimes stirred beneath his skin when the light caught him wrong. It was subtle, a ripple more than a movement, like dark water shifting beneath ice.
The others looked away.
Dario did not.
Dario noticed everything.
He kept two paces behind Ivan wherever they went, his hand never straying far from the hilt at his hip. He spoke little, but the animosity between them hung thick as smoke—an unspoken presence that shadowed every step.
Under different circumstances, Ivan might have found it amusing.
Dario wore his contempt too openly. His posture was stiff with it, shoulders squared as if bracing for a blow that had not yet come, Bravell’s open book wreathed in flame visible at his wrist whenever his hand drifted near the hilt at his hip.
In a camp full of unmarked northerners, his totem and Ivan’s Ulrithai sunburst made them the only southern men for miles—and Dario seemed to hate the shared distinction almost as much as he hated Ivan.
There was something almost admirable in the effort he spent pretending he didn’t despise the creature he’d been ordered to guard.
Almost.
Instead, Ivan found it far more interesting to test the limits of that restraint—and soon discovered there were countless ways to make a man miserable without lifting a hand.
He’d walk slower than necessary, then faster. He’d stop abruptly mid-stride, forcing Dario into a near collision. He asked needless questions about ward rotations, made idle comments on the quality of Vredian steel, and mentioned Elara just to watch the tendons stand out in the man’s neck.
Dario didn’t lash out. He didn’t reach for his blade or forget his prince’s command. He simply simmered beside him, fury banked deep, never allowed to break the surface.
Which, if Ivan were honest, was almost disappointing.
Still, it passed the time—and he learned plenty in the process.
The rebels were shifting camp every two nights now, never staying long enough for the Legion to find their position.
The Shades had grown bolder too, drifting along the ward lines after dark, testing the seams. Twice in the past week, men had vanished after stepping too far beyond the boundary.
The wards themselves were Vredian craft—ancient, layered, anchored to something deeper than spellwork. The mountains to the north were no natural barrier; they were sustained by an older will, one that did not welcome Osin’s hand.
He also learned that the northerners were far from disorganized. That much he conceded quickly. They weren’t amateurs playing at war—they were exhausted, hunted, and still holding their ground. For men so pressed, they were faring remarkably well.
He noted none of it aloud. Instead, he asked Dario if he intended to breathe down his neck until the end of days. Dario replied that if Ivan tried to run, he’d cut him down before he managed three steps. Ivan informed him, mildly, that he doubted Dario could manage two.
They didn’t speak for an hour after that.
It was almost companionable.
By late afternoon, Dominic had granted what he called “measured privileges.” Ivan was permitted to eat at the strategy fire rather than alone, to speak when spoken to, to keep his hands unbound so long as Dario stayed within reach.
By nightfall, a smaller council had been called.
Ivan was invited.
As they crossed the inner perimeter toward Dominic’s tent, a raven perched on one of the wardposts—black as oil, watching. It didn’t stir when they passed.
Dario muttered something under his breath, an old eastern charm against ill omen, but Ivan kept his gaze on the bird.
It tilted its head once, then took wing, gliding south toward the moorlands.
He watched until its shape dissolved into the dusk.
A faint prickle stirred across his chest; he pressed a hand there until the feeling passed.
Dominic’s tent stood ahead, larger than the rest but no grander for it.
War stripped ornament first. Maps were fixed with bone tacks along the central beam; lamplight wavered softly across them.
A long table took up most of the space, its top made from uneven planks balanced on crates.
There were no banners, no sigils—nothing to suggest this was the war council of a prince rather than a band of hunted men.
Dominic waited at the head of the table when Ivan entered, Yoni at his right and two lieutenants seated nearby. A single chair had been placed along the left side. For him.
Dario remained standing just behind his shoulder, hand resting on the hilt at his hip. Ivan pulled the chair back and sat without invitation. A bowl of stew waited at his place, the bread beside it still warm from the fire. He tore a piece free before glancing up at the prince.
“You wanted something.”
Dominic’s mouth curved faintly. “Direct. I appreciate that.” He gestured toward the bowl. “Eat.”
The stew was thick with barley and root vegetables—meat, too. He didn’t thank them, but he ate quickly, ignoring the way Yoni watched each mouthful, as if assessing how much he took. Measured privileges, indeed.
“You look better,” Dominic said.
“I bathed,” Ivan replied.
A flicker—amusement, maybe—touched Dominic’s mouth before fading. The coat they’d given him fit well enough: undyed wool, clean boots, no Legion black. He looked less like the High Hunter now and more like a wandering sellsword pulled north by bad luck.
“Let’s not waste time.” Dominic tapped the map once with the blunt end of a knife.
Ivan leaned forward. The map was stitched from scraps of parchment, the corners burned, folded, softened by travel.
Pins dotted the surface like a constellation of scars: iron for confirmed sites, bone for rumored ones.
Wooden markers clustered in the southern provinces, where Osin’s prisons were thickest—and most hidden.
Lines of charcoal threaded between them, tracing routes already tried, routes abandoned, routes that ended in loss.
Ivan studied the map in silence.
There were more markers than he expected.
The rebels had charted nearly every detention site the Legion used to hide its worst work.
Some were small—temporary holding houses where prisoners stayed only long enough to vanish.
Others were older, buried beneath monasteries or border fortresses whose walls had long ago learned to swallow screams.
A few pins lay exactly where Ivan himself would have placed them. That gave him pause. They knew far more than Osin would ever have imagined.
Ivan leaned back slightly. For the first time since arriving, something dangerously close to respect stirred in his chest.
Across the table, Dominic watched him. “Well?”
Ivan reached out and nudged one of the markers half an inch east. “You’ve been looking in the wrong places.”
A chair scraped somewhere behind him, and Yoni gave a derisive snort. “We’ve been looking everywhere.”
“No,” Ivan replied, eyes still on the map. “You’ve been looking where a prisoner would be kept.” He turned the map slightly, rotating it toward himself, and slid his fingertip along a narrow stretch of land drawn too shallow to mean much to a casual eye.
“Here.”
Dominic leaned forward. “Arwn’s Void?” he said. “That’s nothing but wasteland.”
“It was,” Ivan replied. “Before Osin took it.” He tapped his knuckle once against the parchment.
“There’s an outpost here. It was built decades ago as a supply depot for the western garrisons.
Reinforced after the third uprising when you rebels started burning caravans. Two winters ago, Osin repurposed it.”
“For what?” one of the lieutenants asked.
“Containment,” he said. “Experimentation. Interrogation.” His finger traced a faint line where three currents converged beneath the drawn marsh.
“The ground there runs thin. Void pressure moves close to the surface. It’s the perfect place to run tests on something that doesn’t belong in this world. ”
A muscle feathered along Yoni’s cheek.
“Sídhe,” Dominic said.