Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
They’d been on the road for a week.
Araya only saw it in flashes—thin slices of pale sky peering between the seams of the canvas covering her cage.
Every jolt of the wagon rattled the chains connecting her wrists and ankles to the iron collar locked around her throat.
The soft lining kept the metal from blistering her skin, but did nothing to protect her from the constant chafing that had left her raw and aching.
It did nothing for her heart, either.
The first two days, Araya jumped at every strange creak of the wagon or shout from outside—certain that this was it, that Loren had come for her.
She held her breath, waiting for the screams as his shadows tore into flesh and bone.
She imagined the canvas splitting, tumbling out of the cage and into his arms—
But it never came.
By the third day, she stopped hoping. They were too far outside the city now. Loren probably couldn’t even sense where she was anymore.
Or he could. And he’d chosen not to come.
Araya tried not to consider that possibility.
It was better like this anyway, she told herself.
If Loren had tried to come for her, they would have taken him.
She could picture it too easily—soldiers spilling out of the trees, the shadows tearing themselves apart trying to reach her as cold iron snapped around his wrists.
It was better that he stayed away. Better that he lived.
She couldn’t feel him at all now. Whether because of distance or something else, she didn’t know.
But Araya couldn’t stop herself from pressing a hand to the hollow place in her chest when she closed her eyes—clinging to the foolish hope that this time it would be different.
That she would feel him, even just for a few minutes.
But she never did.
Sometimes she’d hear Jaxon’s voice outside, speaking with the soldiers responsible for her care. But to her desperate relief he was never there when the guards pushed back the flaps to the wagon carrying her cage.
They checked on her twice a day—once when they stopped for the evening and again in the morning.
She got the same ration of hardtack each time, accompanied by a dented tin cup of water.
If she asked, they would pass the bucket too, watching without comment as she struggled to crouch over it with her chains.
But they had never stopped during the middle of the day.
So when the wagon lurched to a stop well before nightfall, Araya knew something was wrong.
She lifted her head, straining her ears for any hint of what was happening outside the wagon.
But this time she didn’t hear the grumbling of her guards or the familiar sounds of camp being made.
There were more voices. Orders being barked.
Horses snorting and stomping their hooves.
The long, dragging groan of heavy timber moving.
A checkpoint, maybe. Or—
The wagon jolted forward again, pitching Araya against the bars of her cage before she could brace herself. She hissed, yanking her hand back as sharp, stinging pain flared across her palm. Her restraints might be lined, but the bars weren’t. Voices rose—too many people for a roadside checkpoint.
They were here.
A cold ache spread through her chest. She’d told herself it didn’t matter where they took her. She was just as much a prisoner—no, an asset—in Elvanfal as she was in Aetheris. But to actually be here…
Everything she knew about Elvanfal was either Arcanum propaganda or the hushed whispers of fae children who’d forgotten more of their heritage than they remembered. Once, it had been a thriving fae town on the very edge of Orinfael—the vast, ancient forest that had once cradled the fae capital.
Now it was a military outpost. The Arcanum’s last foothold against the dangerous wild magic that had consumed the once-beautiful forest, driving even the fae out from beneath its sheltering branches.
The Arcanum claimed the fae had released that power deliberately—cursing themselves and turning Orinfael into a place of nightmares rather than allow the humans to claim it.
But who knew what the truth was. Humans lied.
Someone ripped back the canvas, bright daylight flooding Araya’s cage. She flinched back, blinking involuntary tears from her eyes as she struggled to focus on the figure standing in front of her.
“Well,” Caylin Pryce said, “you look almost as bad as I expected.”
A key grated in the lock, the front of Araya’s cage falling open so suddenly she tumbled to the packed ground at the human woman’s feet.
“Gods.” Caylin took a half-step back, her nose wrinkling.
“What are you doing? Get up.” She grabbed Araya’s chains, yanking hard.
“If you think you’re going to injure yourself and blame it on me, you’re sorely mistaken.
I take my assignments seriously—especially when they’re given to me by the High Inquisitor himself. ”
“You mean your father?”
Caylin’s hand cracked across her cheek, whipping Araya’s head to the side.
“Mind your tongue,” Caylin hissed. “It would be a shame if you injured it again. Maybe permanently this time.”
Araya swallowed hard, tasting blood. “Jaxon won’t let you hurt me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Caylin sneered. “He got here days ago. He left you behind. Because you aren’t his precious little bond anymore. You’re a prisoner. And I’m an inquisitor. Don’t forget your place here.”
Araya shivered, suddenly all too aware of the eyes of the lookouts on her and the way her filthy dress hung off her shoulders, barely better than a nightgown. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, the sensation of being watched pressing in on her from all sides.
“Get the rest of this to Commander Shaw’s tent,” Caylin said, waving a hand at two soldiers standing nearby. “I’ll take care of her.”
She yanked the chain again, making Araya scramble to find her feet. Her ears burned as someone in the watchtower laughed, everyone turning back to their work.
Araya struggled to keep up with the pace Caylin set through the camp, the chain between her ankles not quite long enough to let her take a full step.
Her feet were bare, standard protocol for transporting prisoners, and her legs ached, cramped muscles screaming in protest after spending a week folded into an iron cage.
But Caylin didn’t slow. She marched Araya through the heart of the camp, weaving through cook fires and shared barrack tents, their canvas sides thrown open to let in the spring air.
Soldiers turned to watch as they passed—some curious or amused, others assessing her with open interest, like she was livestock they might get the chance to bid on.
Araya kept her eyes firmly on the ground.
Finally, they turned down another row, the tents here well-maintained and lifted out of the mud on raised wooden platforms. Caylin slowed, stopping at the only tent with two guards standing in front of it.
“You’ll spend most of your time in Jaxon’s tent,” Caylin said, pushing through the flap. “He has it all set up for you.”
The smell hit Araya first, the familiar musk of warm vanilla mingled with the tang of magic. An aetherlamp hung overhead, casting the writing desk and a weapons rack beside it in warm golden light. The wide cot shoved against the back wall was thickly padded with plush bedding. And beside it—
Araya’s blood ran cold.
Someone had cleared space for a thin pallet, an iron chain coiled on top like a snake waiting to strike. The other end of the chain was already bolted to the thick post holding up the tent—waiting for her.
“Outside this tent, you’ll be in full irons.” Caylin knelt, nimble fingers making quick work of the shackles on Araya’s ankles. “Escorted by either Jaxon or myself.”
Araya bit her lip, swallowing a gasp as the metal fell away. Her abused skin throbbed, raw and swollen where the manacles had chafed, but Caylin didn’t spare it so much as a glance.
“If you’re going to cry over that, I can’t imagine what you’ll do when things actually get difficult.” She unfastened the shackles around Araya’s wrists next, dropping them to the ground. “But you’ve led a pampered life haven’t you? You’re not used to pain.”
Araya lifted her chin. “You have no idea what I’m used to.”
“Careful, halfblood.” Caylin wiped her hands on her dark uniform, her smile sharp enough to cut. “I’m doing you a favor. I could have taken you to command stinking and filthy, but we all know Jaxon likes you pretty.” She flicked her fingers at Araya’s stained dress, her lip curling. “Now strip.”
Araya slowly peeled off her dress, dropping it in a heap beside the abandoned chains.
“All of it,” Caylin ordered.
Araya shoved her underclothes down her legs, keeping her eyes fixed on the subtle pattern in the dark rug under her feet. She’d survived worse than this. She’d survived Kaldrath. She knew how to keep her gaze down and her mouth shut. She would survive this, too.
“Finally.” The hair on the back of Araya’s neck prickled, Caylin’s gaze sliding over her like a knife dragging across her skin. “I truly do not understand what he sees in you.”
Power, Araya thought. But she kept her lips pressed tight together.
Caylin crossed the tent, yanking back the screen in the corner to reveal a deep copper tub—a luxury fit for an Arcanum commander. Someone had filled it with water, a bar of waxy soap sitting atop a fresh towel on a nearby stool. But no steam curled from its surface.
“Get in,” Caylin said, waving a hand. “Make yourself presentable.”
Araya took a deep breath. She would survive this.
She stepped into the tub, biting back a gasp as the frigid water stung her raw skin. The waxy bar of soap smelled like Jaxon, but she used it anyway, focusing on scrubbing a week of filth from her skin instead of the prickle of Caylin’s gaze on her back.
She worked the lather into her hair last, closing her eyes to dunk her head.
It was hopelessly snarled, matted with dirt and sweat, but without a brush all Araya could do was rake her fingers through it.
Her broken nails scraped against her scalp, pulling as she tugged halfheartedly at the worst of the knots.
“Gods, Caylin. I told you to come find me when she got here, not march her through camp.”
Araya froze, Jaxon’s voice wrapping around her like a noose. She hadn’t even heard him come in.
“You’re on duty right now,” Caylin protested. “I’m perfectly capable of getting her cleaned up.”
“Are you?”
Araya flinched as Jaxon crouched beside the tub. He caught her wrist, his brow furrowing as he studied the swollen, abraded skin where the manacles had rubbed her raw.
“This is freezing,” he said. “Did you even bother to warm the water?”
“She’s fae.” Caylin sneered. “A little cold won’t kill her.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Jaxon guided Araya to her feet, his hand firm on her elbow as she stepped out of the tub.
“You know long-term iron exposure and magic depletion leave them more sensitive to things like this,” he scolded. “She’s shaking like a leaf.”
“My father put me in charge of overseeing her care,” Caylin whined. “This isn’t anything to be concerned about—”
“Everything to do with my bond is my concern.” Jaxon cut her off, his grip on Araya’s elbow tightening. “Get out. I’ll meet you in the command tent.”
Caylin stiffened. For a heartbeat, Araya thought she might refuse. Instead, her lips thinned, resentment shining sharp and naked on her face as she turned on her heel and stalked to the tent flap, shoving through it with more force than necessary.
“Gods—” Jaxon shook his head, grabbing a towel from the stool. “You’re shaking. Here—let’s warm you up.”
He dried her himself, taking care not to drag the soft towel over her wounds. Araya closed her eyes when he’d finished, fearing the worst—but Jaxon simply crossed to the chest at the foot of the cot and pulled out a stack of clean clothes.
For a moment, Araya stared at the dress he pressed into her hands. It was hers—from another lifetime. She ran her fingers over the practical, sturdy fabric, pausing on the tiny stitches where she’d mended the sleeve after tearing it on the loose door jamb at Serafina’s house.
“I’ll get you something warmer if you need it,” he said. “But for now this will have to do.”
Araya swallowed hard, yanking the dress over her head and pulling up her underthings after she was covered. Jaxon handed her a pair of boots next—her boots from the back of the wardrobe in the apartment they’d shared in Aetheris, a fresh pair of thick socks tucked inside.
She tied the laces with shaking hands, taking a deep breath to steady herself. At least Jaxon wasn’t going to chain her naked to the foot of his bed. Araya had survived a lot in her life, but she didn’t know if she could have survived that.
“I’m going to have the healer come look at your wrists. Your ankles too.” Jaxon’s hand closed around her elbow again, guiding her to the edge of his cot. The frame hit the back of her knees, her traitorous legs buckling.
“Are you hurt anywhere else, Starling?” Jaxon picked up a brush from the small table beside the bed, carefully starting to work it through her hair. “How is your tongue? Does it hurt?”
Araya started to shake her head, but the brush caught on a knot. She hissed, flinching despite herself.
“Easy,” Jaxon said, his voice softening. “I won’t hurt you.” He slowed, working the bristles free with careful patience. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”
Lie.
Araya stared at the floor, forcing herself to sit frozen as Jaxon pulled the brush through her hair in long, unhurried strokes. His other hand gathered her damp hair at the nape of her neck, until the brush finally glided through it without catching.
“There,” he said, setting the brush aside. “Now, we do have to go to the command tent. Rowland is insisting on laying eyes on you before he officially cedes command to Father—but it’s just a formality. Nothing to worry about.”
He sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as her. Araya twisted her hands in her skirt, counting her heartbeats to calm them.
“I think we can skip the irons given the state of your skin.” Jaxon held a hand out to her, his strained smile not quite reaching his eyes. “After all, I can always compel you if I have to.”
She supposed he could. Araya stood, ignoring his hand. She smoothed the wrinkles from the skirt like she had a hundred times before, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s get it over with, then.”