Chapter 3
Chapter three
The ravine had become a maze of stone, walls rising fifteen feet on either side, sometimes opening to show darkening sky above.
Briar stumbled through the narrow passages, one hand pressed against her ribs, the other trailing along the rough stone for balance.
Each breath burned, shallow and insufficient.
The makeshift bandage on her leg had come loose somewhere behind her, and she could feel the warm, steady seep of blood down her calf.
The sky visible between the stone walls had shifted from afternoon gold to the purple-gray of approaching evening.
She'd lasted the whole day. Somehow, impossibly, she'd survived until dusk.
But her body was done. Each step took conscious effort, her muscles shaking with exhaustion, threatening to give out entirely.
The passage she'd chosen narrowed, then opened into what looked like another route—no. A wall of stone rose before her, smooth and impassable. A dead end.
Her knees buckled. She caught herself against the wall, fingers finding the grooves between stones, pressing her forehead against the cold surface. The stone felt good against her fevered skin. She could rest here. Just for a moment. Just—
"Well, well." Sarelle's voice floated down from above, honeyed and amused. "I'm genuinely impressed. A whole day. No one expected you to last past noon."
Briar forced her head up. The fae woman stood at the edge of the wall above, silhouetted against the dying light. Two others stepped into view. She recognized Lord Ashford, his face still bearing marks from whatever Thaine had done to him.
"You look tired," Sarelle continued, beginning to descend as the stone itself seemed to reshape into steps beneath her feet. "All that running, all that bleeding. And for what? To die exhausted instead of fresh? Pity."
Briar's fingers scraped against stone, trying to push herself up, to run, but there was nowhere to go and her legs wouldn't cooperate anyway. She slid down the wall instead, leaving a smear of blood in her wake.
"The huntsman made such a fuss," Ashford said, following Sarelle down. "Claiming you were already his. But he's... indisposed, indefinitely if we’re lucky." Something cruel flickered across his face. "Unfortunate timing."
They reached the bottom, approaching slowly, savoring her helplessness. Briar pressed back against the wall, her hand going to her throat where Eliam's marks had once blazed. Nothing. No warmth, no protection, no connection to call on.
"How should we do this?" Sarelle asked, those silver threads beginning to weave between her fingers again. "Quick would be merciful. But you did lead us on such a chase..."
A wet sound interrupted her. Like meat tearing.
Ashford's expression went from smug to confused. He looked down at the hand protruding from his chest—a hand covered in iridescent scales, holding something red and pulsing.
"You walked right past me," a voice said from behind Ashford. "ME. To chase this bleeding disaster of a human. I'm genuinely insulted."
The hand withdrew. Ashford crumpled, revealing the creature from the ravine.
He looked different without the chains—taller, broader, patches of scales catching the dying light like oil on water.
Blood painted his arms to the elbows. His reptilian eyes fixed on Sarelle with an expression of mild annoyance.
"A Drak," Sarelle breathed, silver threads going bright with alarm. "You're that thing Solandis was transporting—"
"That thing?" His voice dropped, losing its casual tone. "Now I’m offended."
Sarelle's threads lashed out, silver light cutting through the growing darkness.
They should have wrapped around him, should have sliced through scale and flesh.
Instead, he moved through them like smoke, if smoke could have teeth and claws.
One moment he stood by Ashford's body, the next he had Sarelle by the throat, lifting her off the ground.
"You fae always think you're so superior," he said, his tone light and cordial, as though they were having tea. "But in the end you burn just like everything else.
His free hand erupted in flame. Not the orange one might expect, but white-hot, tinged with blue at the edges. Sarelle screamed, her silver threads dissolving to nothing. The third fae, Briar hadn't even seen him move, was already backing toward the stone walls.
"Run," the Drak suggested helpfully, his eyes never leaving Sarelle. "It's more fun when you run."
The fae turned and scrambled up the wall with desperate speed. The Drak watched him go, head tilted with interest, still holding Sarelle like she weighed nothing.
"Should I chase him?" he asked, and it took Briar a moment to realize he was asking her. "I do enjoy a good chase, but you're bleeding quite badly. More than before, actually. You really should work on not bleeding so much."
Sarelle clawed at his scaled hand, her perfect face turning purple. He glanced at her with mild annoyance.
"Oh, right. Still holding this." He opened his hand. Sarelle dropped, gasping, and tried to crawl away. He stepped on her back almost absently, pressing her flat. "What to do with this one…"
"Please," Briar whispered. She wasn't even sure who she was pleading with or for what.
He looked at her again, those reptilian eyes bright with interest. "Are you asking me to spare her? The one who was about to kill you? That seems poorly thought out, even for a human."
"I just—" Briar tried to push herself up, but her body wouldn't cooperate. "I don't want to watch—"
"Then close your eyes," he suggested reasonably.
Briar squeezed them shut, but she could still see the light through her eyelids, bright white-blue, hot enough that she felt the heat wash over her even from several feet away.
Sarelle's scream cut off abruptly, replaced by a sound like logs cracking in a fireplace.
The smell of burning flesh and something else, something sweetly acrid, filled the air.
Briar gagged, fighting the urge to vomit.
When she opened her eyes, Sarelle was still standing there.
Or rather, the shape of her was. A perfectly formed sculpture of ash and char, holding its position for one impossible moment before the slight breeze caused it to collapse in on itself.
Black flakes drifted down like snow, some still glowing at the edges.
The Drak was examining his hands, little flames still dancing between his fingers before he shook them out like someone drying their hands.
"Much cleaner than the first one," he observed with satisfaction. "Though the smell is rather unfortunate." He turned to her, and something in his expression shifted. "You're about to pass out."
She wanted to deny it, but the edges of her vision were already going dark. The last thing she saw was him moving toward her, no longer casual but quick, catching her before she hit the ground.
"Humans," she heard him mutter. "So fragile."
Then nothing.
She was back in the Star Court's garden, but everything felt wrong. The colors were muted, like looking through frosted glass, and Arion stood with his back to her, perfectly still.
"You have to be here somewhere," he said, but not to her. His voice carried that gentle determination she remembered, the voice that had promised to keep looking for answers. "The forest can't hide everything."
He turned, and she tried to call out, but no sound came. His eyes looked right through her, searching for something that wasn't there. Light gathered in his palms, that cold, beautiful radiance that had once forced Eliam's mark dormant.
The scene shifted. Now he stood at the edge of a ravine staring down into darkness.
"She fell here," someone said. "The blood trail ends."
Sian?
"Then she survived the fall." Arion's light flared brighter, illuminating the depths. "I need to—"
The dream fractured, splintering into sensations: warmth against her back, rhythmic movement, someone humming tunelessly.
Briar's eyes opened to see trees passing overhead, their branches dark against a star-filled sky.
She was moving, but not under her own power.
Someone was carrying her, their gait steady and unhurried.
Her arms were draped over shoulders that radiated unnatural warmth, and when she turned her head slightly, she caught sight of scales glinting in the moonlight.
"—should have been more specific about direction," the Drak was saying, as if continuing a conversation. "Though I suppose precision becomes difficult when you're bleeding out."
She tried to speak, but managed only a croak.
"Conscious again." He didn't sound particularly interested. "That's three times now. You've been out about four hours. I cauterized your leg, you screamed, then went quiet. The silence was better."
The pain in her leg had changed from sharp agony to a deep, throbbing burn. She could feel bandages wrapped around it.
"Where did you—"
"The dead one had silk undergarments. Good quality." He stepped over something without breaking stride. "Shame to waste them."
"Why?" Her voice came out rough, throat raw. "Why are you helping me?"
A pause. When he spoke, his tone was matter-of-fact.
"You gave me the means to free myself. Now you're mine until the debt's paid." His grip adjusted slightly on her legs. "You belong to me now. I keep what's mine alive. Usually."
"I don't—"
"Your opinion on it doesn't matter." He sounded like he was explaining something obvious. "The debt exists. You're mine until I decide otherwise. It's simple."
She tried to process that logic and failed. "That makes no sense."
"It doesn't need to." He tilted his head slightly, listening. "The hunters are about two miles back. Moving poorly. Should I kill them all or just the loud one? He's irritating me."
"Don't kill anyone," she repeated, though her voice came out weaker than intended.