Chapter Three #2
I am silence incarnate. My hand slips around in front of the first arrogant guard’s face and falls across his mouth; my blade drags along his throat, silencing his protest before he’s even thought about doing so.
The warm spray of his blood is a reassurance that I can do this—I’ve done this before.
I unfold him onto the ground, and move swiftly to the next guard, who turns to face me just in time.
I slash his throat, the shudder of muscle giving way, and shove him back onto the crate he came from, his head lolling like he’s slipped back into the dreamscape he never should’ve left.
I check the ale-riddled guards around the fire have continued their conversation, and when I’m confident they haven’t heard a thing, I push through the once-guarded door to whatever lies beyond.
A cluster of holding cells stands apart, their iron bars blackened and warped as if they’ve absorbed The Tannery’s misery.
The captives inside are little more than shadows, their faces obscured by the low light and their movements sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, chains or worse.
This place isn’t just a tannery; it’s a purgatory. A place where things—hides, people, souls—come to be stripped of their essence and discarded. And if I’m not careful, I’ll be next. I move along the strip of cells to check if Ronyn occupies one of them.
His wavy mop of chocolate brown hair is the first thing I see—his face is marred with bloody cuts and mottled bruises.
He looks up at me with his signature lopsided smile that I’d recognize anywhere, and says, “About time you showed up, Isk. I was just about to start composing a tragic ballad about my untimely demise.”
Thank the Stars. I loose a breath of relief, and I can’t help but allow myself a silent chuckle. “What in the Stars happened, Ronie?”
“Perhaps we could debrief on my errors when we’re not in enemy territory, Isk? I think the first order of business should probably be getting me the fuck out of this cell.”
“Obviously,” I scoff.
The cell door rattles, and I curse the sound. I jab my dagger into the lock, desperate, reaching, but have no luck. Frustration and urgency get the better of me, and I jab my dagger in again. “For fucking Stars sake, Ronyn, you couldn’t pick a cell with a normal fucking lock?”
“Sorry, next time I’m beaten and snatched, I’ll request the deluxe suite,” Ronyn shoots back, leaning casually against the bars despite the blood on his lip and bruises darkening his jaw. “You know, maybe one with snacks and a key under the mat.”
I roll my eyes and look around, trying to come up with a plan before huffing and grunting in frustration again.
“You know, Isk, I don’t know if you’ll be able to huff or grunt the lock open, unfortunately,” he quips.
“Shut up and let me think! What if I—”
“Uh, Iskara?” Ronyn interrupts, his tone suddenly sharper. “We’ve got company.”
“No shit,” I hiss, scanning for a plan for this Starsdamned lock. But before I can move, a low, amused voice interrupts us from behind.
“Struggling with a lock? How... quaint,” the voice muses.
I spin, my dagger flashing in the dim light, to find a man stepping out of the shadows. He moves too quietly, as if the darkness itself bends to his will. A hood obscures most of his face, but the smirk glinting beneath it is infuriatingly visible.
I size him up—smug, too confident, too clean for this place. A wolf at the edge of the campfire.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, keeping my voice hushed and my blade steady.
“Kael,” he says after a pause, like he’s deciding whether to lie. Like his name should mean something to me. His tone is as maddeningly casual as his posture. “And if you don’t keep it down, you’ll have the entire guard down here.”
There’s something in his tone—a quiet confidence that feels too practised, like he’s holding secret agendas and hidden motives behind that infuriating smirk. My instincts scream at me to keep my guard up, but right now, curiosity wins out.
“You know,” Ronyn pipes up. “If he hasn’t killed you yet, he may actually be helpful.”
Kael glances at Ronyn briefly, as though weighing him up. “Your friend’s smart—perhaps you should listen,” the man, Kael, says, pointing at Ronyn with the gleaming tip of his blade.
“I’ll decide who I listen to,” I snap, pointing my own dagger at Kael. “You’ve got about five heartbeats to explain why you’re following me, or you’ll find this blade somewhere uncomfortable.”
Kael’s smirk deepens. “You’re cute when you’re threatening.”
Ronyn snorts. “She’s not cute. Trust me—she’s decidedly grumpy in the mornings.”
“Ronyn,” I growl. “Shut up before I leave you here.”
“You’d miss me,” he says, but he shuts up—for now.
Kael crouches beside the lock, ignoring my glare. “Enchanted,” he says by way of explanation. “You’ll need more than brute force. Lucky for you, I’m feeling generous.”
“No one is generous without an agenda around here,” I say, watching him pull a strange device from his belt.
He glances up, his dark eyes gleaming with a challenge. “I’m not from around here.” Well, he’s not lying about that—his accent is definitely not from Virellin.
Before I can probe, he presses the device to the lock. A soft click, and the door creaks open. Ronyn steps out, rubbing his battered face. Seems this man doesn’t want us dead—at least, not yet.
“Remind me to send you a thank-you card,” Ronyn says, dusting himself off.
I huff a laugh at his infinite optimism. “You’ve looked better, Ronie,” I say, taking in his injured body. “But I’m happy to see you,” I say with a genuine smile, squeezing his arm.
Kael’s gaze lingers on me for a moment before he says, “Happy reunion, lovers. Now, move. Quietly, if you can manage it.”
“We’re not— Never mind,” I roll my eyes and huff in irritation, but we fall into step behind him.
We barely make it three steps before the door at the end of the corridor slams open.
Four guards pour in, magic gifted from The Crimson Hydra constellation they were born under flaring red in their eyes.
Their blades are at the ready, a snarl twisting their mouths.
Their leader—a hulking brute with a face like a badly smashed anvil—looks directly at me and licks his lips, as if preparing for a tasty meal.
“There’s nowhere to run, darlin’. Slum rats like you won’t make it three heartbeats,” he snarls.
“Care to make it interesting, darling?” The last word drips from my mouth like a seductive invitation, and I see Kael smirk from the corner of my eye at my flagrant cockiness.
“Iskara,” Ronyn hisses, already reaching for a dagger sheathed at my thigh, seeing as he’s unarmed. “Maybe don’t provoke—or enter into a wager with—the murder squad?”
“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t,” I lilt. The tightness in my chest turns molten.
Not fear. Not hunger. Something else. Something waking.
I unconsciously clutch my hand to it—the sudden, searing heat beneath my ribs is too much to bear.
Kael notices my discomfort and nods slightly, stepping forward to edge in front of me.
He snarls with primal fury, and I can practically feel the killer instincts dripping from him.
Without warning, he unsheathes the twin swords from their scabbards across his back in a single, seamless motion, the blades glinting with a dark, deadly sheen even in the dim light. I don’t know what his swords are forged with, only that they’re beautiful. Lethal.
He moves like a predator—silent, calculated, and terrifyingly fluid.
Every step, every pivot, is a dance honed through years of training or battle, or both—a symphony of razor sharp precision.
His muscles coil and flex beneath his armor, the sharp lines of his body mirroring the cutting edge of his weapons.
The swords blur as he wields them, each strike a masterpiece of controlled power, each feint a whisper of death.
Kael cuts down two guards with ruthless ease, his blades blurring into arcs of muted black, and his dark gaze locks on to the third as if daring him to make a move.
The final guard—a broad-shouldered thug with a snarl carved across his face—skirts the clash of swords and fixes his eyes on me. Claiming me. Branding me as his kill.
“Ronyn, run!” I scream, my voice raw.
“I need my bow and the ledger!” He screams back, his voice hoarse.
That fucking ledger. He’s not wrong—we do need it. Without the supply routes and guard rotations it contains, we’ll starve.
“GO!” I scream again, shoving him into motion as the thug charges.
Ronyn hesitates, clutching the dagger I gave him, but he knows it won’t do a damn thing against the Bloodbond brutes—their magic for battle fury, regeneration, and enhanced stamina renders our blades useless unless we can kill them with a clean slice through the throat or heart.
He bolts around the other side of Kael, disappearing into the chaos of The Tannery.
The thug charges, his rotting teeth bared in a feral grin. “Aww, I get you all to myself. How sweet,” I taunt, dropping low at the last moment. The slick floor burns against my thighs as I slide beneath him, my blade slicing clean through the tendons behind his knee.
He roars, collapsing for a moment, but he moves faster than I expect. His good knee slams into my stomach, driving the air from my lungs in a gut-wrenching wheeze. I lash out, dragging my dagger across the thick muscle of his arm.
“That won’t do much, girl,” he snarls, baring his teeth in a sadistic grin as his wounds begin to stitch together before my eyes.
He’s regenerating. My dagger might as well be a spoon.
Fucking Bloodbonds.
I claw for the dagger in my boot, but his massive hands close around my throat, cutting off my air. My vision blurs, and my arms flail, desperate to pry his fingers free.
Stars help me. I can’t die here—not like this.
His weight presses down on me like a boulder, pinning me to the floor. My fingers finally close around the dagger, and with the last of my strength, I drive it into his ribs. He barely flinches, his focus still locked on choking the life out of me.
The burning in my chest explodes into agony. Heat pulses under my skin, and before I can move, blinding light floods the corridor, searing through the cells and walls. My body curls instinctively, arms wrapping around my legs as the light devours its path.
Searing light erupts—it stills time, consumes thought, hijacks my senses.
The heat behind my ribs recedes, leaving a hollow ache in its wake.
The light around us begins to fall, evaporating into the air as if it never was.
I look down at my own body, light glimmering and glowing under my skin, illuminating me in a fine dusting of what looks like starlight falling around me.
The heat ebbs, the light fades, and the world around me sharpens into focus. The thug lies next to me, skin disintegrating before my eyes.
I scramble back, horror coursing through me.
“Wh— What is happening?” I stammer the words, struggling to sit up.
“Isk!” Ronyn rushes over, pulling me into his arms. “What in the fucking Stars was that? Are you okay?” His eyes roam my body, searching for wounds, but I know he won’t find any. “You just turned that Bloodbond to fucking dust!”
His expression is unreadable—a mix of fear, surprise, and relief.
“I’m... okay,” is all I can manage.
“I have a lot of fucking questions,” he says, pulling me tighter.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to say it. So I say nothing at all.
As the light clears, my gaze sweeps the room. The guards lie dead, twisted and broken, dissolving into nothing but ash before our eyes.
But my magic is bound. This shouldn’t be possible. Unless... my magic is fighting back.
Kael leans casually against the cell door, his twin swords sheathed, arms crossed, not a single strand of his perfect hair out of place. His smirk sharpens as he steps out of the shadows, his eyes cutting through the ash and dust like a blade.
He leans down just slightly, closing the gap between us.
“Hello, Lightborne,” he says, his voice low and heavy with meaning.
My stomach drops, blood draining from my face.
He knows who I am.
Fuck.