Chapter 33
By the time night fell, I could scarcely hold myself upright. My eyelids were drooping, and I had to slap my cheeks to keep them open. It wasn’t just our Flight that was exhausted. Our horses were strained, their breaths coming in heavy pants and perspiration dotting their necks.
Fortunately, with no sign of pursuit and none of the soldiers who had attacked us getting away, Raven thought it was safe enough to get a few hours’ rest. We set up a makeshift camp just beyond the tree line of the forest, hidden behind the low-hanging branches.
Despite my sheer exhaustion, sleep evades me.
Or rather, I evade it.
Every time I close my eyes, unwanted memories rush to the surface.
They cling to my conscience like a festering wound, seeping poison into my veins.
Sleep has always felt like my enemy. But now it is a tormentor that grants no respite, no solace from the things that haunt me.
It’s as though the depths of my mind have become a labyrinth of darkness and despair, not unlike the maze in the mountain that lies beneath the Palace of Eretria.
The sting of leaving the somniseed behind is undeniable, though the choice was never mine to make.
Still, it could have offered a small measure of relief.
Every night has been the same. I give in to the pull of sleep, but as soon as it drags me under, I find myself on yet another journey through the twisted corridors of my subconscious.
The bitterness of bile in my mouth.
A blade slicing deep.
Echoing screams.
Honey-brown eyes brightening to the color of freshly spilled blood.
Fear grips me, its icy tendrils coiling around my heart, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My vision blurs, and I kick the tangle of blankets from my body, digging my nails into my palms until they break the skin.
The cold night air and bite of pain manage to ground me, drawing a line between memory and reality. I force myself to breathe, and after a few painful moments, a steady rhythm returns as the panic bleeds from my body and mind.
The sound of my sleeping Flight presses in around me while I stare sightlessly up at the leafy canopy. Restlessness itches its way through my limbs, and my scattered thoughts chase each other until I finally relent, slipping out from my place amid the slumbering bodies.
The cold eats its way into my skin, spreading goosebumps in its path as I put further distance between myself and the circle of body heat the others provided.
My gaze drifts toward the wagon and the shrouded crate atop it. Myna leans against a nearby tree, looking out toward the road.
I should be relieved to see her alert and keeping watch, but frustration fills me. The incessant restlessness tugs at my being again, like silk sliding beneath my skin, tiny sparks of energy making me shiver. It tries to pull me forward—but Myna is standing in my way.
My steps are light as I stalk deeper into the forest, taking extra care not to step on the dried leaves littering the forest floor as I skirt around the campsite.
When I reach the road, I kneel and pick up a small rock.
Standing, I throw it as far as I can into the distance and then slink back to the shadow of the trees.
Myna pulls out two daggers and prowls toward the sound. When she’s far enough away, I dart from the shadows, crouching by the wagon. As I work on the ties, a metallic sound comes from inside, and I freeze, waiting for the moment I’m caught out.
For Myna to return and catch me in the act, or for Raven to appear behind me.
Time stretches out, the moment dragging by.
But nothing happens.
The restlessness gnaws at me again, a relentless itch beneath my skin.
I know I shouldn’t. I know Raven would never forgive me if he caught me.
But the crate looms in front of me, a dark and terrible secret waiting to be uncovered.
And I’ve had enough of secrets. I take a steadying breath, palming my dagger, and then, in a single smooth motion, I throw back the heavy sheet covering the crate.
The air seizes in my lungs.
Not a crate.
A cage.
Behind thick iron bars, a man stares back at me.
His eyes lock on to mine, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
There’s something untamed in his gaze, something that feels like it could strip me bare and see every secret I’ve ever tried to hide.
I should be afraid. Instead, I feel a strange, inexplicable pull—like the wind itself is urging me closer.
All I can see of the man’s face are quicksilver eyes lined with thick, dark lashes, glaring at me with the fury of a thousand storms. The rest is concealed behind some kind of cruel leather muzzle.
Sliver-white hair, streaked with dirt, clings to his face and falls in wild, uneven strands past his broad shoulders.
It’s a stark contrast to his darker, frowning brows and the fierce energy radiating from him.
He looks Arkhadian, with the same fair coloring as Lady Cynna, though his presence is far more dangerous.
His clothes are no better than rags, his tunic shredded, revealing intricate markings on every visible inch of his muscled torso. Even crowded into the cage as he is, I can tell he has to be taller than six feet.
A metal collar circles his bloodied neck, carved with goiteía that are sickeningly familiar. Heavy cuffs bind his wrists, chained to the bottom of the cage. But it’s the leather muzzle covering his face that has my stomach revolting.
My hand lifts, and I graze my fingertips across my mouth. The memory of the suffocating sensation makes me flinch.
He can’t breathe.
Chains rattle, jolting me from my horrified stupor.
“What have they done to you?” My words are rough, each one choked like it had to claw its way out of my throat and into reality.
The man cocks his head at that, the movement more animal than tycheroi. It looks like his mouth moves beneath the muzzle, but whatever his reply might be gets trapped behind the thick leather. A growl rumbles in his chest, and he shakes his head in frustration.
I stare at the leather, a small seed of fury taking root in my chest. It grows and flourishes, taking over my shock and disgust.
The vile thing encases the whole lower part of his face and is secured by thick straps around the back of his skull—
The hard wood of the bed pressing against my back.
Cold metal at my throat.
Something firm across—
I blink the memory away, panting raggedly, and look down at the dagger in my palm. My eyes flick up to see the man’s gaze narrowed in on the blade.
“I don’t expect you to trust me,” I say, watching as his quicksilver eyes finally drag from the dagger to meet mine. “But there is one thing I could do if you’re willing to try.”
His shoulders stiffen as I glance pointedly at the muzzle.
After what could be seconds, or minutes, or hours, he shifts forward, holding his shackled arms close to muffle any sound from the chains.
Finally, he kneels before me, only the iron bars between us, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself to hold my ground against the sheer intensity of him.
It’s not until my lungs start to scream that I realize I’m holding my breath.
I release it on a tenuous exhale, my eyes never leaving his as I reach up, angling my hand between the bars to cradle his leather-lined jaw in my palm.
I tilt his head to the side, gaining better access to slip the blade beneath the leather, but then I hesitate, the dagger poised in my hand.
The smooth texture of the muzzle makes my skin crawl, the memory of what it had felt like wearing one and suffocating silence flashing through my mind.
I know what it’s like to be stripped of your voice, to be reduced to something less than human.
And I can’t stand by and let it happen to someone else. Not again.
But it’s more than that. This isn’t just about him—it’s about me. About reclaiming the agency I’ve been denied for so long. The Aviary took everything from me, caging me in ways I’m only beginning to understand. And Keres continued to take, drawing relentlessly from a well long since depleted.
Now, standing here, I have the power to make a choice.
To defy them. To do something that’s mine.
My grip tightens on the dagger, and I meet the man’s gaze. His quicksilver eyes burn with fury, but beneath it, I see something else. Desperation. Hope. I take a steadying breath and slide the blade beneath the leather.
“Hold still,” I whisper, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I feel like I’m in control.
When my blade nicks his temple as it slices through the straps, I hiss, but he doesn’t even flinch.
His blood spills at the same time the muzzle falls, and I retreat a few steps. My eyes widen as I take him in.
The strange markings disappear beneath a matted beard the same shade as his hair. Full lips set below a strong nose and sharp cheekbones complete the striking image of his face. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s several years older than me. With our kind, though, it’s always hard to tell.
I’m starting to understand why everyone called him a weapon. Despite the goiteía collar and shackles binding him, I can sense his power. It runs so deep, it seeps into every part of his being.
He stretches his mouth wide, flashing rows of white teeth and pointed canines that give me pause.
I’ve never seen sharp teeth on a tycheroi before.
The thought simmers in my mind as I watch him work his jaw like it’s the first time he’s been able to in months.
He slumps back against the bars, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.
His hand lifts to touch his jaw where the muzzle had been.
For a moment, his expression softens, the fury in his eyes dimming to something quieter.
Pain, maybe. Or relief. He closes his eyes, and I catch the faintest whisper of words under his breath.
I can’t make them out, but the rawness in his voice makes my chest tighten.
When his eyes open again, the storm is back, but that fleeting glimpse of vulnerability lingers in my mind.
“Do you…” I start, but now that he has the ability to talk back, words fail me. A fact he clearly finds amusing when he flashes those strange, sharp teeth in an even sharper smile.
“Lost your song, little bird?” His voice has a low timbre, raspy from disuse.
“What are you?” I don’t mean to ask, but the question escapes me anyway.
He gives a low, gravelly chuckle. Like the sound of rolling thunder in the distance, echoing over the open seas.
“Many things and nothing at all,” he says, his tone self-deprecating, “but you can call me Xan.”
“Xan,” I say, testing the sound. Those three simple letters don’t seem quite enough to name the man in front of me.
“And what shall I call you, little bird?”
“Starling.” The name feels like sandpaper scraping over my tongue. I hold back my wince, but I get the impression he sees it anyway.
“Ah,” he says, “so it’s to be like that, then?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Xan smirks knowingly but offers no reply. Instead, his silvery eyes drop toward the dagger still gripped in my hand. An odd expression flashes across his face too quickly for me to discern. But it makes me nervous enough to slip the blade back into its holster and out of sight.
I’m about to offer him food and water, but as I open my mouth, he speaks first.
“Better go back to sleep, little bird,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Your friends won’t be too happy if they discover what you’ve done. And trust me—this is only the beginning.”