“She is Cenric’s wife,” I say to Jasce, even though I’m not sure he’s listening to me. “She shouldn’t be in that cage.”
Jasce’s attention jerks to the wagon as it rolls forward, but still, he doesn’t speak.
Hades! He’s going to just let this happen.
Damn him!
Damn all of them.
Stop it.
Calm down.
I exhale and inhale, breathing slowly, desperately searching for my peace.
The warriors obey Red Beard and kill the wounded. Sadness and anger roar through me like a thunderstorm as I look away, unable to watch, unable to face this kind of cruelty.
“Please,” I choke out, not wanting Everly’s Fate to be the same. “She’s my friend.”
“I know who she is,” Jasce says in a flat voice as he urges his horse forward, and we ride away.
The rhythmic movement of the horse lulls my mind into a state of numbness. It’s the only way I can continue to breathe after what these monsters did to the wounded. The Hematites from House of Crimson killed each one with no mercy. No ceremony. Then, they left them for the vultures to feast on.
I look to my right, staring at Everly in that cage. My chest constricts with sorrow and helplessness, seeing her confined like that. Each bar of the cage echoes the cold, hard truth of our situation.
“Do you know who I am?” I ask Jasce, needing to know if Everly and I are in the past or the present.
“What kind of question is that?”
Desperation tinges my words as I try again. “Please. Do you know who I am?”
“Of course.”
Then, we must be in the present day. Or we could be in the future.
I blink, shoving aside that last thought. Besides, Jasce doesn’t look that much older than the last time I saw him.
My gaze shifts to Everly again, to that fear lining her face. To that agony, I long to lessen.
“Are you a man of mercy?” I ask softly, not wishing for anyone else to overhear me.
He doesn’t speak.
I don’t allow his silence to deter me. “Your sister, Wrenley, is kind and compassionate. Are you?”
“What do you want from me, Sol?” Jasce asks, his tone tired.
“Mercy and freedom for myself and Everly.”
His knuckles whiten as he tightens his hands around the horse’s reins. “My father isn’t in the habit of granting mercy.”
“I suspect that you’re not like your father.” Or maybe I want to believe he’s not like his father, and he’s the answer to escaping these Hematites.
The Hematite warrior doesn’t reply.
Again.
The sun sets as we ride through the barren landscape. The wind picks up, bringing with it the scent of smoke. My heart races when we reach the edge of a cliff, and I take in what awaits us in the valley below. A massive camp hums with activity as Hematite warriors move back and forth between tents and fires.
