Chapter 23 #2
“The deserter Wolf,” Stark announces, shoving me forward with his boot. The kick isn’t hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to make me stumble. His nudge makes me half-walk, half-fall forward until I’m standing directly before the desk.
The golden mask makes it impossible to tell where she’s looking.
My heart kicks up its pace as she approaches. I can feel it slamming against my ribs. I want to flee but the collar keeps me rooted in place.
She circles me slowly, taking her time. Her robes whisper against stone as she moves. They’re made of heavy silk with silver thread tracing guild symbols along the hem and sleeves.
The broken chain, the silent bell, the closed eye.
It’s not merely for decoration. They’re badges of office, magical sigils that grant authority and protection
I hold my head up as high as the collar allows, trying my best not to cower or whimper.
One full circuit, then another. She’s examining me from every angle, assessing and evaluating. I feel her eyes examining me through the mask’s slits. I meet her masked gaze with as much defiance as I can muster.
She pauses at my hindquarters, my flanks, my head. I try to maintain some dignity, but it’s hard when you’re on four legs.
“It’s an animal,” she says finally, stopping in front of me.
Her voice is flat, unimpressed. She looks at me like a piece of merchandise that doesn’t quite meet specifications.
“It’s him,” Stark confirms. “Check the tag if you want proof.”
The Quartermaster crouches, reaching for the back of my neck.
Her fingers are unnaturally cold even through the fur. She pushes fur aside, searching for something. I feel her nails scrape against skin, probing to find the spot where the guild brand was burned into me years ago.
Her fingers press against fur and skin, and suddenly magic flares.
Magic floods through me, invasive as it rifles through my essence. Her intrusion burrows deeper, past skin and muscle. I know the guild brand isn’t just a scar. It’s a signature burned into the soul, making it impossible to fake or remove.
Her posture shifts and her fingers stop moving. For several long seconds she doesn’t react at all.
“It really is him.” The disbelief is clear even through the mask.
She stands, turning to face Quinnlan.
“Your work is exceptional.”
Quinnlan accepts the praise with a slight nod, his expression unchanged. She stands and produces a heavy purse from her desk, tossing it to Stark who catches it smoothly.
The purse is substantial. I can hear the weight of it, the clink of metal on metal. My suffering has earned these fuckers a fortune.
“The guild thanks you for your service.”
“What will you do with him?” Quinnlan asks, curiosity breaking through his cold detachment.
It’s the first genuine interest he’s shown. I suppose he wants to know the outcome of his spell.
“We’ll ship him to Tiamat headquarters,” she says, crossing her arms as she looks down at me. “Let the Judges decide his fate personally.”
Stark and Quinnlan exchange a glance.
They know what that means.
The Quartermaster pauses, tilting her head as she considers me. “Though I imagine they’ll send him straight to the crypts.”
My stomach drops.
She snaps her fingers and two guild members appear from the shadows.
They materialize like they were always there, just waiting for the signal. Both wear standard blacks and are armed. Neither speaks.
“Put him in holding until the transport arrives,” the Quartermaster says without looking at me.
“Goodbye, Wolf,” Quinnlan says as the guards reach for my collar. His tone is almost friendly as if we’re parting colleagues.
“Maybe they’ll use you to train the novices instead,” Stark adds with a cruel smile. “At least you’ll finally be useful for something.”
The image forms of me in a training yard, young assassins practicing and using me as a living target. They’ll use me as a punching bag and a demonstration of technique.
Heavens fucking help me. It will be years of that before they finally get bored and finish me off.
The collar compels me forward with Quinnlan’s command. I have no choice but to follow the guards when the magical leash tugs. I’m a puppet on invisible strings, animated by someone else’s will.
The journey is a blur of stone hallways and locked doors.
We go deeper into the building and the sounds change.
There's less activity and more silence as we reach a small cell.
This is where they keep the things they want to forget.
The bars are made of poisoned malachite stone designed to neutralize any magic a prisoner might try to use.
Even standing near it makes my skin itch.
The green stone glows faintly in the darkness, pulsing with suppressive magic.
“Get in.” The guard shoves me forward with the blunt end of his spear.
Metal clangs as the door slams shut behind me. The guards leave without another word, their footsteps fading up the corridor. Complete and crushing silence follows, broken only by my own breathing. Suddenly, I feel the magical compulsion releases.
What?
The constant pressure against my thoughts vanishes. I’m alone in my own head again. For the first time in days, my thoughts are my own. Even if all they contain is despair.
My legs give out and I sink to the floor. The stone is freezing against my belly, my chest. I don’t care. I lie there and let it all wash over me. All the emotions I’ve been suppressing just to survive come flooding back at once.
They’re going to ship me to Tiamat tomorrow.
Kitty is out there somewhere and the thought that five hunters are closing in on her is worse than anything they’ll do to me in those dark catacombs.
She’s good, but five hunters against one target? She might already be captured. Maybe she's in her own cell somewhere, waiting for her own fate.
There’s not a damn thing I can do to help her.
I’m locked in a cell and cursed into an animal form. I can’t do anything except lie here and know she’s in danger and it’s partially my fault for dragging her into this.
I press my muzzle to the stone and close my eyes.