Chapter Eighteen
Alaya
My legs tremble beneath me, muscles burning as I stumble over roots and uneven ground. We’ve been hiking for what feels like miles through this thick vegetation, and my thighs shake with each step. I trip again, my knees buckling.
I throw my hands out blindly to catch myself, and pain shoots up my arms, making me grit my teeth. My palms, already scuffed from earlier falls, feel sticky with sweat and blood now. My bare feet throb, my body aching from the gruelling pace they force us to maintain.
A hand grabs my hair and drags me back up as I scramble to get my feet back under me.
“Move it,” Rawson growls behind me, shoving me hard in the middle of my back—nearly knocking me down again.
“Not long now, darling,” Domanikk whispers from beside me, and I feel a finger trace my cheek through the fabric of the hood. I shudder at the touch.
“Do we tell him who she is?” Rawson asks.
“You know I don’t lie to him.”
“Come on, Dom! I really don’t want to lose any body parts today. I’m on a promise with Penn later, and these balls are kind of important.”
Domanikk’s amusement is a low, velvet rasp in the silence.
“Depends on what’s in it for me. Is Penn the sharing type? Or are you the one who likes to play together?” he drawls.
“That mini harem you got going on not doing it for you lately?” Rawson growls back.
“I’ve never been accused of being a Fae with limits. If it’s on offer, I’m interested. I’ll make you a deal, as I’m feeling particularly generous after all that delicious violence. We don’t say anything if not asked directly, and this exquisite little ruin is mine.”
“Deal! She’s going to be more trouble than she’s worth when he finds out—that’s if he doesn’t just take her himself. I’m sure fucking Prince Kiernan’s wife would make his day.”
His name steals the air from my lungs. My chest constricts, ribs squeezing tight around something suddenly too large and jagged to contain. The pain radiates outward—sharp, physical, real—as if someone has reached inside and twisted everything I am.
I reach for the Bond, that golden thread humming beneath my skin since the day we got married.
Nothing.
Not even an echo. Just a hollow space where warmth should pulse, where his presence should anchor me. The silence stretches vast and cold inside my chest. Tears well and spill down my cheeks, hot against skin that feels too thin, too exposed, as if something essential has been carved away.
The earth beneath my feet begins to decline as we continue, and I instinctively lean backwards to keep myself from pitching forwards. Faint sounds of life—like a hum in the air—start surrounding us.
I stop abruptly as I hear a melodic song, high and sweet. It’s joined by more when I really listen, a chorus of different tunes and pitches dancing in the air.
Birds.
I let out an astonished laugh. I haven’t heard birds since we lived in the Whispering Glade, a life almost forgotten. A sharp dig in my back breaks my wonder, and I stumble on, their tune a welcome companion.
A large, rough hand grips my shoulder, hot breath on my neck.
“We are almost there. I’d suggest watching your mouth in front of him when we arrive,” Rawson growls. He guides me onto a thick log and holds me balanced in front of him as we inch across, the rough bark making my shredded soles burn.
All at once, sounds of chatter and music assault me, along with smells of burning wood and sweat.
Rawson’s hand on my shoulder guides me into what must be a clearing, I feel grass seeping between my toes and the sounds are less stifled, as if we’re in an open space.
The hum of noise becomes a chaotic symphony of shouting and laughter. We pass close to a fire; the heat laps my skin like an embrace, and the smell of wood, smoke, and lingering meat has my hunger grumbling in protest.
A voice cuts off mid-laugh. Then another falls silent. The music stops—still vibrating in the sudden quiet. Footsteps halt. Even the crackle of the fire seems to soften. The air itself goes still, as if every living thing has drawn breath and held it.
Rawson suddenly kicks the back of my legs and leans on my shoulders, forcing me down to my knees. The ground here is less grass and more dry packed earth. I hear the other two prisoners nearby, their breathing like mine—deep and rapid from the hike.
“Whose fucking bright idea was it to bring Earthbound Fae into Heartwood?”
The voice demands attention—rich and smooth, with a confidence and control that needs no volume to command obedience.
My skin prickles cold despite the nearby fire.
Every hair on my body stands rigid. Even without sight, I know this Equitae is looking at me with contempt; a dangerous, unyielding presence.
“I may have gotten a little carried away during the raid,” Domanikk replies, his voice soothing with a hint of deference.
“You may be my Lieutenant, Domanikk, but this doesn’t excuse you from following our rules—no Earthbound on Heartwood soil. You have signed their death sentences and wasted your own time bringing them here.”
“The King had the Thorn Guards ready to march on Heartwood. If we hadn’t distracted him, he may have beaten us here,” Domanikk replied.
He lets out a furious growl, and those gathered start shouting at once, tension building as tempers flare.
“We will be ready for them if they try to set foot in Heartwood,” he replies, his voice terrifyingly cool. “Now, what to do with his pets?”
“Can we bargain with them? For our captives at the castle, I mean,” Rawson suggests, speaking up for the first time.
As I puzzle at the mention of captives I’ve never seen, I feel a looming presence in front of me.
He quietly paces before us, back and forth, while the other Equitae call for our blood.
‘KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THEM!’
“Two days. We hold them for two days, see if that bastard wants to come and claim his property. Someone get Quinn to go and scout the castle in the meantime—I want to know everything. Rawson, take someone with you to put them in The Pits.” His commands are swift and unyielding.
“And Rawson—weapons back to the armoury the moment you’re done.
No exceptions, not with Earthbound Fae within Heartwood” He pauses, his voice dropping to a calm, velvet whisper “Domanikk, a word.”
A rough hand clamps around my arm, jerking me upright with brutal force.
“Move it.” A low, guttural voice growls in my ear, pulling at the rough rope tied around my wrists where it chafes in his harsh grip.
I stumble behind him, my legs refusing to cooperate, knees buckling with each step.
My feet catch on roots and stones I can’t see through the hood.
By the time we stop, he’s hauling me forwards, my toes dragging furrows through the grass.
The rope around my wrists is cut, the hood removed, and I feel a sharp shove to my back.
And then I’m falling.
I clench my jaw, biting back a whimper as I hit the hard-packed earth in a heap, pain radiating down my whole left side.
The darkness is absolute. I rise and feel around, realising it’s little more than a hole dug into the earth, the ceiling is so low I can only just stand fully upright.
The air is thick and stale. My breath comes shorter, faster.
My hands go numb as I press them against the walls, searching for something—anything—that isn’t there.
The weight in my chest makes each inhale harder than the last.
This is it. This is my grave.
My hands stop moving. They fall to my sides, palms open, fingers slack.
My legs fold beneath me and I slide down the wall until I’m sitting in the dirt.
My head drops forwards, chin to chest. Kiernan’s face surfaces in my mind—his smile, the way he’d tuck my hair behind my ear—but the image wavers like a heat haze, growing fainter with each shallow breath I take.
Hope—that last flicker of resistance—is gone.