Chapter 24 – Rowan
ROWAN
Ineed a plan. Despite going over and over it in my head, I still only have the same two options: escape or die. Both of which I’ve already failed at.
Despite his words, Ayer wants me dead. I read it, clear as day, in his eyes. He basically promised me death if I only begged him for it.
Begged. Him.
That I won’t do, but what if—what if I were to push that seemingly thin patience of his just a little too far? It shouldn’t be too hard. His profound irritation at my being alive is palpable. He’s just biding his time, his fingers practically twitching at the promise of gutting me.
The soldiers regard me carefully as they spur me forward, leading me from Ayer’s tent by my bound hands. The two not holding the rope have their hands on the hilts of their swords, ready and waiting. I know they think us worse than demons.
Hypocrites.
The monster they summoned to do their dirty work is far worse than anything the fae could ever possibly be.
My thoughts turn to the Raven, a shudder running through me at the mere thought. I hope the reason they kept me alive has nothing to do with that stars-cursed shadow demon.
But the wariness of the guards’ gaze sparks a new idea.
Let me play into the worst of their fears about my kind.
I’m sure the carefully constructed reputation my father has worked tirelessly to perfect already precedes me.
The pretty, poised, and perfect Princess of Sitara.
Let them think me spoiled and weak—anything but a threat.
And then, when they inevitably drop their guard…
I’ll be ready.
It’s a weak plan, and not without its flaws, but it’s still a plan. It’s enough to give me the strength required to follow the tug of the rope down the long line of tents, ignoring the burn of the rough material against my already raw skin.
Ayer’s soldiers pull me through the packed war camp. The smell of smoke, leather, and sweat fills my nose.
As if drawn to him, my eyes find Ayer immediately; he’s waiting just up ahead with a few more of his men, all dressed all in black. So different from the silver armour the rest, like Theo, wear.
The captain’s cold eyes fall on me with one last look of warning before turning and striding down the narrow path that cuts between an endless stream of tents and soldiers.
We fall in line behind him.
There are armoured soldiers milling about everywhere; some sharpen their weapons, while others take a minute to grab some food, eating out of tin bowls, and others busy themselves cleaning leather tack.
I feel their eyes, even more than I can see them, as we progress through the camp. My guards, as if wanting to be as far away from me as possible, leave me quite a bit of slack in the rope.
The two soldiers with Wyatt fall in beside him, murmuring quietly to each other as we continue on, ignoring me, too interested in their own conversation. Their voices are too low for me to make out anything of use.
Looking around, I realize it’s a good thing I didn’t get much further than I did last night.
Surprisingly, Ayer was telling the truth when he warned me I’d never make it.
I’m so far behind enemy lines, in the center of a vast camp full of an army who—judging by the stares and glares I’m receiving—hate fae.
The men’s stares weigh more heavily on me the further we go, making me increasingly uncomfortable. Whistles ring out as I’m paraded past, on full display for the camp to ogle; a growing group of soldiers trail menacingly at my back.
Inching closer to Wyatt, I discreetly gather the excess rope in my hands.
I blink in shock at the glares of bitter hatred and contempt shot my way.
I know they hate the fae, but it’s one thing to know, and it’s another to experience it.
The way they look at me… An awful feeling of unease settles over me.
Stares turn to scowls, and those scowls become jeers. The men grow more rowdy by the minute, and the commotion only serves to draw more attention, emboldening them further. It’s not long until I find myself the spectacle of the camp.
Shouts ring out, and curses too. With so many yelling at once, it’s hard to make out their words, but “Fae filth, trash, faerie scum…” make their way through.
The growing crowd presses in, and it’s not long until I lose sight of the captain up ahead, though I keep close to Wyatt and the other two guards, winding the slack in the rope carefully around my palm so I don’t trip on it, and so no one else can grab hold of it.
Refusing to kowtow to their jeers, I continue forward with my chin held high, keeping my eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the insults and obscenities thrown at me and not rewarding them with my attention.
My fists tighten on the rope. I remain stoic—impassive—until I feel a sharp flick against the delicate skin at the tip of my ear.
Curling my lip, I let out a snarl, my temper immediately getting the better of me.
Don’t do it, Rowan.
I can practically hear Riven’s voice in my head.
They need to think you are weak for that plan of yours to work. Harmless.
But pain comes again, in the form of a pinch this time. The fine, pointed tip of my ear is caught between two stubby fingers. The man they belong to tugs so hard, my head jerks violently to the side along with it.
I don’t even hear what insult he sneers at me, too busy moving. I drop the excess rope I had gathered at my feet. My guards have gone on ahead, too focused on clearing a path through the thick throng of curious soldiers to notice.
The amount of slack I gathered allows me only seconds.
But seconds are all I need.
Reaching back, I grip the man’s hand—the one still holding my throbbing ear between his fingers. The pain is now only a distant ache. Especially when I catch the look of shock on the man’s face when I flash him my fangs inside a vicious smile.
For all his boldness in grabbing my ear, the man flinches, cringing away from me with a shout, trying and failing to tear his arm free.
I hear nothing the lard spouts before I’m airborne, using the grip I have on his arm and the momentum of his tug to propel myself up into the air.
Effortlessly, I hook one leg around his neck before swinging my body back down, taking him with me as I fall to the ground.
The two of us crash into the dirt. Working quickly, I grab hold of what slack remains in the rope, winding as much as I can around the man’s neck while climbing on top of him.
I easily dodge his flailing hands as he clumsily tries to fend me off. I’ve just wound a second loop around his neck when the rope’s slack finally finds its end, going taut when it meets resistance.
Wyatt, having not noticed the situation unfolding at his back, jerks back hard from the sudden anchor. And before he can realize what’s happened and loosen the rope, I take it in my hands myself and pull.
The man chokes, spluttering under me, his eyes bulging from the tight pressure around his neck. His legs flail uselessly underneath me as he once again tries and fails to shove me off of him, caught between whether to push me off or tear at the cord cutting off oxygen at his throat.
All of it happens so fast, no one ever had a chance to stop it, and even now, no one moves to intervene, an unsettled silence falling over the onlookers as they gape at us.
I’m nothing but a mask of calm. My eyes are as cold as the northern pines as I glare down at the writhing Kovari soldier, blowing an errant lock of hair out of my face.
Unbothered by the shouts and growing commotion around me, I take my time, leaning down to growl softly into the ear of the struggling man at my mercy.
“Don’t. Touch. Me.”
The man freezes when the sharp edge of a dagger—his dagger—presses into his throat. I had swiped it from the sheath at his waist, holding the rope taut with his blade between my fingers.
Bright red blood dribbles at the faintest increase in pressure, turning the corners of my mouth up in dark pleasure as I realize I’ve answered my own question.
The rune can’t stop me from hurting everyone.
Just him.