Caged Dove
Chapter Twelve
Pollock
The moment I stride back into the Sovereign Tuath Hall, I send word for my council to reconvene in the war room.
My jaunt to reclaim my horse and capture the White Witch cost us time we can’t afford to waste.
We have less of it now, and there’s still far too much we need to settle before Kahill and his army arrive.
Arthur is outlining new rationing measures when I realize I have not absorbed a single thing he’s said. Not really.
My mind has drifted off.
To her.
I suspected there would be beauty beneath the cloak she wore, but I hadn’t been prepared for the contradictions that shape her.
Warmth and ice—that’s what she is. Petite features and doe-like eyes with a glacial, otherworldly stare.
Freckles scattered like specks of cinnamon across her nose.
But skin as pale as newly fallen snow, as if her real coloring has been bleached out, like mine has, which shouldn’t be possible.
She mirrors me in many ways, though—her coloring, her eyes, and the way she stands apart from others. The unnaturalness humming just beneath her skin. Her existence, like my own, is a mystery on this plane.
And like me, even the air seemed to shift around her. People in the city stepped aside without thinking, parting before her path as if some deeper instinct recognized what she was. A predator, quiet and deadly, all of them giving her space without ever understanding why.
Her armor was not rudimentary, as I would have expected from someone surviving alone beyond the city walls.
It had been crafted for her lithe frame—fitted, intentional.
Not merely functional, but ornamental. Small silver religious symbols and a cross were inlaid in the metal, speaking of a righteous purpose, but what she envisioned that was, one could only guess.
Her skills with her blades had surprised me. I also sense she’d been holding back. At one point, she’d even voiced as much. Don’t kill him. Just test his strength.
The why of it is what I want an answer to. What was this game or task she’s set herself on, and why provoke me by stealing my horse? There were plenty of other ways she could have gone about getting my attention, but this is what she chose. A slight I would handle personally. Was that her aim?
“Sir? McTierney? Pollock?”
I blink back to the present and find Arthur watching me, one brow lifted in quiet inquiry. The other council members exchange a glance.
“Yes? Sorry, what were you saying?”
“Along with sending more men to hunt and fish, we were going to send a scouting party north and farther west in search of supplies and food stores.”
“Send more than two.”
Richard shifts in place but remains silent.
Arthur hesitates, “How many?”
“As many men as we can spare without compromising security. There’s food out there, and places less damaged by the fallout. Crops. Farming tools. Seed stores. Parts to rebuild machinery in case ours fail. Trades that we can establish with some of the better-off settlements.”
My gaze moves to the miniature showing the outer territories on a separate model.
“I also want them to entice survivors back here. Farmers. Bakers. Machinists. Mechanics. Masons. Carpenters. Anyone with skills we can use. We can protect them. We have walls. We have infrastructure. And there is land here that can be fertilized to yield better harvests, but we need more people to work it. We need to rotate the soil and properly manage irrigation. We need more water lines built.”
Arthur nods slowly. “Too many at once, without sufficient housing or supplies, could pose additional risk. And we shouldn’t allow just anyone inside. They should be vetted. Those who can’t contribute meaningfully may need to be turned away.”
“We are not building a utopia,” I reply evenly. “This is a sanctuary for those who need it.”
Richard speaks up then. “Yes, but you see the issue.
We already have people who squander resources—who take more than they give.
Some would rather steal from their neighbors than work a single day, even at the cost of their own family's survival. If we start vetting arrivals, we could eliminate problems before they arise.”
Cleary nods. “The last thing we need is more crime. It’s already running rampant.”
“I am aware.”
The room shifts at my tone. We have debated this before. They know where I stand.
Some of my council believe we should let in only those they deem worthy.
They want the gates closed, monitored, and certain newcomers turned away.
Essentially, they wanted to build a metropolis of people of their choosing and leave anyone under their standards to find whatever end they might find outside these walls.
Disappointing.
But not unexpected.
Not when I know what souls reside inside the bodies before me.
However, my influence grows with every soul under my thrall. In time, I could have this city working toward a single, unified purpose. Order. Stability. Progress. Survival—not merely scraping by, but something close to thriving.
Until the judgments begin, they deserve as full a life as this broken world allows. A chance to rise above their previous choices.
Also, it would limit my brothers’ and my travels in the end, giving up ample opportunity to test the multitude without having to traverse the entire world to do so.
Enough. I project the thought into their minds and quiet their concerns.
This debate wastes time.
“Have them encourage relocation,” I say. “Bring what supplies they can. The more people working toward reestablishing stability, the sooner we reach it.”
This time, I do not merely speak. I let the command carry my conviction. It threads into their thoughts. I guide the vision—fields restored, machinery rebuilt, markets functioning, walls secure. I reinforce the outcome I want them to see.
The tension in the room eases, deflating like a punctured wineskin. Shoulders lower. Resistance softens. The path forward is clarified in their minds. From there, progress began anew. There was only one way this would go, and I’ll see it done by any means necessary.
I remain at the table, reviewing documents I have already memorized, long after my council disperses and the war room empties.
Even when her presence presses at the edge of my thoughts like a splinter beneath skin.
When I finally leave, I head straight to my quarters. A deliberate choice. A test of restraint to deny myself any information about how she’s faring in her cell.
But my sleep is fitful. Each time I close my eyes, I see white hair against dark earth. Defiant light eyes laced with murderous intent. Hell’s gates. At times, I swear I can feel the haunting weight of her in my arms.
In the early hours of dawn, I use supply and inventory lists of the armory to keep my mind focused on important matters. But as soon as the sun fully breaks through the curtains of my office, I’m out of patience.
I descend to the dungeon.
The guard assigned to her straightens the moment I appear.
“How is she?” I ask. “Anything of note?”
Micah gives a quick shake of his head. “She hasn’t stirred much at all except to use the bathroom. Hasn’t touched the food I left for her. Or the bed. From what I’ve seen, if she rested at all, it was while sitting up.”
Agitation begins to crawl along my skin.
“She slept on the floor?” I tap the toe of my boot against the stone. The sound echoes faintly. Even through leather, the cold seeps up. Down here, it would chill a person to the bone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Wasn’t the bedding replaced?”
“It was.”
“And she didn’t touch it or the food?”
He shrugs, uneasy. “She likely thought it might be drugged or poisoned. Other prisoners have done the same.”
“What about the water?”
“Untouched.”
My mouth sets into a hard line. I raise a hand, cutting off any further explanation, and stride down the corridor toward the final cell.
As I draw nearer, I let my thoughts brush against hers.
Why must you be so difficult, Little One?
Outwardly, there’s no visible reaction. Her eyes remain closed. She sits in the far corner with her knees drawn tightly to her chest, cloak wrapped around her as though she could disappear into it. Though the cell has been scrubbed, the smell still lingers—damp stone, mildew, and waste.
Thankfully, I have a strong stomach.
But I do not care for the thought that she has endured it for nearly twelve hours.
I drag my knuckles along the iron bars. The ring given to me by my maker scrapes across the metal, leaving behind a scratch mark. The sound grates.
Her eyelids flutter open.
In the dimness, her eyes catch the light and return it—too bright for this place. Offset by the darkness surrounding her. She looks cold. Her skin has gone pale to the point of translucence. Her lips are tinged faintly blue, and there’s a hint of frost on her breath as it leaves her lips.
My gaze shifts to the bed and the mound of blankets there.
Stubborn, pitiful creature. Why suffer when there’s no need?
Get out of my head.
“Not in the mood to talk this morning?” I ask mildly.
She turns away, presenting me with her shoulder, spine straight despite the tremor in it.
“Are you going to starve yourself to prove a point? Truly, what sense does that make?”
Go away.
The words brush against my mind, brittle and shaky.
If you would just—
Go away.
Harsher this time and with bite.
So I do.
I turn and leave her to whatever state she has chosen.
But it is I who carries the discomfort with me.
The unease lingers long after I exit the dungeon.
Concern is not an emotion I entertain. Not for mortals.
Not in the centuries since my rebirth. Even my brothers are spared only practical consideration—how their instability might affect our purpose here.
This is different.
And I do not like it one bit.
This anxious feeling is overwhelming. Entirely new to me. As the hours drag on, the grip I have on my own emotions begins to fray. My control—something I have never struggled to maintain—slips at the edges.
A hunt is my answer.