Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Time dissolves in a cell without windows.
At first, I tried to tally it.
Heartbeats. Breaths. The number of times the guards came in with water or a bowl of food that barely deserved the classification.
I tried to mark the passage of hours by the rhythm of footsteps in the corridor outside, by the subtle shift in the glow of the wall lamps, by the distant echo of activity somewhere deeper in the building.
It didn’t work.
Pain interferes with time.
Exhaustion does too.
Eventually everything blurred together into a single long stretch of waiting broken only by moments of violence and the slow, grinding awareness that my arm is still broken and healing badly.
The throbbing never stops.
It settles into something dull and constant most of the time, a steady pulse under the skin that radiates from my forearm to my shoulder.
Every now and then, it flares hard if I move wrong or if the rough cloth binding shifts too much.
When that happens, the pain is bright enough to make my vision swim.
They haven’t asked me a single question.
Not one.
That part’s almost worse than the beatings.
The guards come and go, sometimes striking me, sometimes simply watching to see if I’ll react. Once or twice, they shove food towards me—thick grain mash, a hunk of stale bread—and a clay cup of water. Just enough to keep me alive.
Just enough to keep me useful.
I know exactly why. They’re waiting. Waiting for word to travel. Waiting for Varek.
The thought sits in my chest like a stone.
Sometimes, when the pain fades enough that I can think clearly, I try to focus on the bond between us. I seek a low hum under the ribs or a sense of direction that isn’t quite physical.
Neither come.
The words repeat over and over in my head.
Don’t come.
The Queen wants you here.
The rebels need you anywhere else.
But the bond doesn’t answer, or maybe it does and I just don’t know how to hear it.
I lose track of how long it’s been before the door opens again. Two guards step inside.
“Up.”
My body protests the moment I move.
My legs feel stiff and unreliable after so long on the cot. The bruises along my ribs have darkened into deep purple patches that ache with every breath. When I try to stand fully upright, the broken arm shifts slightly in its binding, and a wave of nausea rolls through me.
One of the guards notices. “Move.”
I do. Because refusing would only make this worse.
They drag me out of the cell and into the corridor.
The light is brighter here than I remember.
My eyes sting immediately, unused to anything stronger than the dim glow inside the cell.
We walk for a while—well, I limp slowly—down the same corridor, up a set of stairs, through a hall that echoes with distant voices and the metallic clatter of armour.
Something about the direction we’re moving makes my stomach twist.
We’re heading up towards the surface and daylight.
A sudden cold certainty takes hold of me. This is it. They’re done waiting. The thought is strangely calm.
They take me through one last door, and sunlight explodes across my vision. The brightness is blinding after days—weeks?—in darkness. My eyes slam shut instinctively, and even through my eyelids, the light feels bright enough to cut.
The air outside is warm and open and full of sound, wind, and voices.
Metal shifts against metal. For a moment, I simply stand here, breathing hard and waiting for my eyes to adjust.
When they do, shock hits me like a physical blow.
Varek stands across the courtyard, and the world narrows instantly.
I barely register the guards around us, the high stone walls of what looks like a palace training yard, the gathered soldiers lining the edges of the open space.
All I see is him.
He stands perfectly still, tall enough that the Glowranth soldiers nearby seem slightly diminished by comparison.
His dark hair falls loose over his shoulders, catching the sunlight, and his horns curve back from his forehead like something sculpted rather than grown.
His body is held taut with a tension that most people here probably mistake for calm.
To anyone else, he looks composed—controlled, commanding. But the bond between us flares the moment our eyes meet. It hits me like a pulse under the skin: anger, fury, and a cold, contained rage so intense, it almost takes my breath away.
He looks me over slowly. Not touching or moving. But I feel it anyway.
Every place his gaze falls is like a physical sensation against my skin. My bruised ribs. My split lip. My broken arm strapped awkwardly against my chest.
His jaw flexes. The anger hardens. I stay silent. Anything else would break whatever fragile control he’s holding onto.
A voice cuts across the courtyard. “Ah.”
I drag my attention away from Varek and towards the raised stone platform overlooking the yard.
Queen Serresta stands there, draped in dark blue silk that shimmers faintly in the sunlight. The bioluminescent markings along her arms glow brighter under the open sky, tracing elegant patterns that pulse softly beneath her skin.
Her luminous eyes sweep the courtyard. She looks almost amused. “You see?” she says lightly. “The human is alive.”
A ripple of tension moves through the gathered soldiers.
“Now,” she continues, turning slightly, “release my son.”
My brain stutters for a moment.
Son.
It takes a second before the rest of the scene clicks into place. Because Varek isn’t standing alone. A few steps to his right stands a figure I recognise immediately even though we’ve never actually met.
Prince Aelith.
He’s bound. Not roughly—his wrists are tied in front of him with dark cord—but unmistakably restrained.
Up close, he looks even more imposing than he did the few times I saw him from a distance in the city.
Towering, broad-shouldered. His blue skin is a shade darker than the Queen’s, and the luminous markings along his arms are subtler on his massive frame.
The distinctive royal sigil glows faintly on his chest, visible even through the torn edge of his tunic.
His luminous eyes narrow as he studies the Queen. Beside him stands a human.
At first, I assume he must be another prisoner. Then I notice two things. First, he isn’t bound. Second, he’s grinning.
He doesn’t exactly seem nervous, and I don’t see a hint of sarcasm. He’s simply just… grinning.
He’s about my height, maybe a little shorter.
Mid-thirties, I’d guess. White, strong build, athletic in the easy way of someone used to moving their body for fun rather than survival.
Messy light brown hair sticks out in several directions like he hasn’t owned a comb in years, and his brown eyes are wide with open curiosity as they sweep across the courtyard.
He’s holding onto the bottom of Aelith’s tunic like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he looks absolutely delighted to be here.
The realisation hits me slowly.
Dawson.
This must be Dawson. The human Varek mentioned. The one who nearly died and is apparently Aelith’s fated mate.
Dawson catches my eye across the yard. His grin widens. Then he gives me a cheerful thumbs-up.
I stare at him.
What.
The.
Hell?
Aelith greets his mother in Glowranthian, his deep voice rumbling through the courtyard.
Dawson blinks at him. “Mate,” he says brightly, “I have absolutely no idea what you just said.”
Aelith pauses. Then sighs and switches languages. “I told my mother that her theatrics are unnecessary.”
“Ah,” Dawson says. “Good call.”
The Queen watches the exchange with a faintly irritated expression. “Release him,” she repeats.
Varek finally speaks. His voice carries easily across the courtyard. “First the human.”
Queen Serresta’s luminous eyes shift towards him. “You are in no position to negotiate.”
“I disagree.”
The words are calm, but the bond pulses again with that same controlled fury.
Aelith glances between them. Then he speaks again, this time in English. “Mother,” he says, voice low and steady. “You have your spectacle. You have your soldiers. Must we prolong this any further?”
The Queen studies him. For a moment I think she might refuse. Then she lifts one elegant hand. “Very well.”
The guards behind me step forward immediately. “Walk,” one of them mutters.
Every step sends pain lancing through my ribs and arm, my weight shifting awkwardly through my hips to compensate, balance thrown off just enough to make it obvious I’m not built for this kind of damage.
My legs feel unsteady after so long in confinement, and I have to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
Across the yard, Aelith’s bindings are removed. He reaches down immediately, taking Dawson’s hand.
The human beams at him. “See? Easy.”
Aelith mutters something under his breath that definitely isn’t easy.
We start moving at the same time. Halfway across the courtyard, my balance falters. Pain spikes through my broken arm, and I stumble.
Dawson reacts instantly. “Whoa—hang on!”
He tries to move towards me, but Aelith grabs his sleeve. “No.”
Dawson looks at him. Then at me. Then gives Aelith the most ridiculous pair of pleading puppy-dog eyes I’ve ever seen on a grown man.
Aelith sighs deeply. “Fine.”
Dawson slips free and jogs towards me.
“Bloody hell, mate,” he says gently, sliding an arm carefully around my good shoulder, “you look like absolute crap.”
“Noted,” I rasp.
His gaze flicks over me—taking in the bruises, the dark skin gone ashy, the way my build holds onto weight even when I’m half-starved and the mess of my shorter dreads stuck to my forehead with sweat. “Nearly there.”
He steadies me for the last few steps. And then Varek’s right in front of me. His presence hits like a wall, and for a moment, neither of us moves.
For a few seconds after Dawson releases me, the courtyard seems to exist in a strange, suspended quiet. Varek’s presence fills the space between us like a magnetic field.