24. Zai
Zai
Our boots thudded against the steep wooden stairs as I followed Flint into the skyship’s belly.
Supply crates crammed every available space, fastened against the walls but still swaying and creaking with each shift of the ship.
Ropes and bundles of canvas hung from hooks overhead, brushing against our shoulders as we maneuvered through the cramped hull.
The far wall was dominated by two doors side by side. One of them had “food store” written in scrawled letters. Flint headed for the other. His keys jangled as he yanked them from his belt. Before jamming one into the lock, he threw a glance over his shoulder.
“You done this before?”
My teeth clenched. “You mean torture people?”
“Aye.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Yeah, well, I sure as the abyss have. Bit of advice—don’t let ‘em see your discomfort.”
With a sharp metallic click, he unlocked the door. The hinges groaned as it swung open, revealing the three prisoners sitting with their backs against the wall in the small room.
The copper-haired woman glared at me with fierce defiance. Metal bindings still pinned her arms to her torso. Leather straps wrapped around her fingers as well, preventing even the slightest use of moon magic. The other two had been secured with similar restraints.
The dark-haired woman’s eyes shone with fear, her gaze darting between Flint and me. The third one—the man—was awake now, but his face had a grayish tint, and he kept swallowing hard. The dark-haired woman obviously hadn’t managed to heal him properly before we tied them up.
Flint glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “Which one would’ya like to start with?”
Sweeping my gaze over the three prisoners, I swallowed down the nausea crawling up my throat. I wouldn’t let them see.
“That one.” I pointed at the fiercest one, the copper-haired woman.
She would likely refuse to tell us anything, but maybe the other two would talk if they believed they could save her. Standard interrogation method. Or so I’d heard.
Father had overseen countless interrogations over the years, especially when suspects were accused of plotting against the royal family. He’d encouraged Val to join him, and my brother had eagerly embraced the opportunity.
I’d never forget Val’s excited voice or Father’s proud smile as they discussed interrogation tactics over dinner. One thing they agreed on was that prisoners were easier to break in pairs, when they had more than their own suffering to endure.
Flint trudged over and hauled up the copper-haired woman by one arm.
“No!” The other woman lurched forward. “Rika!”
The copper-haired woman—Rika—shot her companion a stern look, her expression controlled despite Flint’s steely grip. “Remember your training, Ravena.”
Tears gathered at the corners of Ravena’s eyes, but she swallowed and fell silent.
Flint yanked Rika into the cramped supply area, kicking the door shut behind us with his heel. He grabbed a worn wooden chair from between two crates and planted it in the middle of the tight space.
He shoved Rika onto the chair and fixed his gaze on me. “Ye have any questions for her?”
I hid my discomfort behind a low growl, glaring at Rika.
She glared right back, unyielding.
“Where is the Dual Wielder heading?” I demanded.
“Eat silt.”
I forced myself to take a calming breath through my nose. “If you tell us, we’ll release you and the other two. No one needs to get hurt.”
Rika scoffed, a harsh sound that echoed in the confined space. “Liar.”
I narrowed my eyes, keeping my voice steady. “You have my word.”
A jeering laugh escaped her, sharp and derisive. “The word of the exiled sun prince. What an honor you bestow upon me, Your Highness.” Each word dripped from her lips like venom.
Heat flared in my chest at her insolence. I glanced at Flint, who gave a tired huff.
He lifted a hand and flames ignited in his palm. The orange glow cast dancing shadows across Rika’s face. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t flinch.
“All right then.” Flint’s voice came out flat, resigned. “Let’s heat things up, shall we?”
After what might have been the longest candlemark of my life, Rika’s screams and curses had turned hoarse and ragged. The skin on her arms bubbled and blistered.
Teeth grinding, I leaned over her. “What is the Dual Wielder planning?”
“Go rot in the deep,” she murmured, too tired to even glare at me.
Flint aimed another heatwave across her arm. Rika’s primal scream tore through the cramped space. Her already scorched skin blistered and bubbled as he held the heat there—one beat, two beats, three—before pulling back.
It was an endless loop: me asking questions, Rika refusing to answer, Flint following up with heat.
The acrid stench of charred flesh thickened the air, coating the back of my throat until I could barely swallow.
My stomach churned with each new wave of her suffering, but I forced my face into cold indifference.
I stepped forward with my water bottle, splashing liquid across her scathed arm. Steam hissed up between us, and she gasped, her whole body shuddering.
Good. We couldn’t have her passing out just yet.
The morbid thought slithered through my mind like something foreign, but I welcomed it. Relished it. My country wanted me to be ruthless, so that’s what I’d be. I would be the nightmare they’d molded me into.
Footsteps clattered down the narrow stairs, and Kestrel sauntered into view, his golden-brown hair catching the light spilling through the open hatch.
“Hey, do you mind?” His voice carried its usual cheerfulness. “I’m trying to write a ballad up here, and all this screaming is throwing off my rhythm.”
He didn’t even flinch at the disheveled prisoner or the stench of burnt skin. Could he really be that carefree? Then again, he’d spent time in Gravendale Keep. Who knew what horrors he’d witnessed behind those walls?
Flint’s lips curled into a smirk. “Oy, d’you mind? We’re tryin’ to get some answers down here.”
Kestrel arched a brow, his gaze flicking between us and the prisoner. “Well, you’re getting a lot more screaming than talking from what I’ve heard. Maybe it’s time to try a different tactic.”
A scoff escaped me. “Why don’t you try singing to her? That might do the trick.”
Bubbling laughter spilled from Kestrel’s lips. “Did you just make a joke?”
Even Flint’s scarred face split into a wide grin, the lines around his eyes crinkling.
I turned away, not dignifying that with an answer. But somewhere inside, warmth spread through the sticky unease coating my insides.
Kestrel spread his arms wide. “As much as I love a good torture session—especially when it’s done to anyone but me—our dear captain wants me to tell you we’re touching down for the night. There’s to be a funeral for the fallen.”
My insides curdled. The only funeral I’d ever attended had been pure agony.
Flint grunted. “I hate funerals.”
“Who doesn’t?” Kestrel beamed. “But it’s a great excuse to get drunk.”
Flint’s mouth twitched. “You know what? You’re growin’ on me, you little ash-wretch.”
Kestrel took the insult in stride. “And you, my dear sir, are still terrifying!”
They both roared with laughter. I glanced between them, lip curling. Scorching idiots, both of them. But the warmth in my chest bloomed wider.
A weakness I had to suppress. I couldn’t fall into the trap of caring about people again.
At least this funeral gave us an excuse for a reprieve. This copper-haired guard could marinate with her comrades for a while. Next time, we’d take the man.
The dark-haired woman was the likeliest to break, and we’d do it by targeting her friends first.
I stood by the railing, arms crossed, as the crew carried six cloth-wrapped bodies into the clearing below with slow reverence, placing them on a large pyre. Most clutched bottles of strong spirits as they gathered in a silent circle around their fallen comrades.
Kestrel slowed beside me on his way to the boarding plank, his usual energy dampened. “Aren’t you coming?”
“Why? I don’t know these people.”
“You can still pay your respects.” His voice held no judgment, just quiet observation.
My jaw clenched. I turned my back to the railing, studying the worn planks beneath my boots.
“Suit yourself.” His footsteps retreated.
Fragments of the captain’s speech drifted toward me. She named each of the fallen. Orrin the Cook was the only one I recognized. The last time I’d seen him, he’d joked about his terrible cooking. He’d even asked Kestrel to write a song about “Orrin, the worst cook in the land.”
Something squeezed in my chest. I drew a deep breath, ignoring it. These people had gone willingly into battle, knowing the risks. They weren’t my responsibility.
The crew raised their bottles as the captain finished. Flames sparked from almost every palm, lighting the pyre together. Fire caught oil-soaked wood, crackling as it climbed higher, engulfing the six cloth-covered shapes.
Kestrel’s voice rose in an achingly beautiful melody. Words about bravery and sacrifice. About saving friends. About the worst cook in the land.
When he finished, Flint rubbed his eyes and punched Kestrel’s arm. “That was too blaze-wretched sentimental. When I die, yer song better be scorchin’ epic. And funny!”
Kestrel patted the larger man’s shoulder. “I’ll think of something good.”
Flint shared a story about one of the fallen, how the woman had drunk too much and woken up naked in a pile of talanox dung. The rest sipped from their bottles as they listened, chuckling and adding affectionate jeers.
As others joined in with more stories, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I crossed the deck to the other side, getting as far away as I could, fixing my gaze on the dark forest beyond the railing.
Guilt was a weakness I couldn’t afford. A few sacrifices were needed to achieve victory.
I was doing the right thing.