Chapter Text
The brazier burned low with embers spitting faintly as he fastened the cords of his sash. He hadn’t slept, only laid still through the night with ears tuned to the slow drag of chains each time she shifted in the dirt behind him. He hadn’t needed sleep. And yet…
His jaw tightened.
Each time darkness had threatened to take him, he saw that seething fury in her eyes again, even as her knees went out from under her, still tasting the phantom tang of copper at the back of his throat.
Tch.
He pulled the sash tighter than necessary as iron stirred again behind him. He glanced back to find her laying where he’d left her, bruised, filthy…alive.
Shackled in the dirt, the Crimson Blade breathed on with her grimace set, as if refusing to surrender even in whatever shallow refuge exhaustion had granted her.
His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary before he stilled, irritated now. He’d already assessed her injuries when he’d declawed her, finding a few bruises and a cracked rib. Nothing fatal, nothing new. And yet…
He’d looked.
Persistent little worm.
She should’ve died yesterday. Her head would’ve sent a clear message. And yet…
His head snapped forward as his fingers flexed against the buckles of his pauldron.
She’d met them like equals without offering a single bargain or plea, without a lick of self-preservation.
Spite, he told himself. That’s all it was. Stripping her pride piece-by-piece would be entertaining. That was reason enough. And yet…
She never begged. Not with steel at her throat or with his weight pinning her, not even when she thought she knew what he’d take. Anyone else would have broken. And yet…
She hadn’t. That should‘ve annoyed him. It did, it’d infuriated him, in fact. Intrigued him, even. Then, it did something else.
He fed kindling into the brazier, watching as the embers licked greedily at the offering as fire always did. It devoured until only ash was left.
She’d thought death was victory.
The fool.
Better she live, chained and crawling when he called, until she learned that fire guttered out in time.
The iron moved again, with a measured jangle this time. She was awake.
He finished fastening the last strap of his spaulder before settling the weight of his sword at his hip, allowing the quiet to stretch.
“Still alive?” he grunted without facing her. “Hmph. Maybe you aren’t as weak as you look.”
The chain rattled as she forced herself upright. He could hear the effort in it, the crack and strain of tendon and bone, but she made no other sound until she spoke.
“If I were, you’d have killed me already.” The barb came dry and hoarse.
He glanced over his shoulder. Scarf wound back around her throat, she was watching him now, gauging for weakness or threat. Whichever it was, it was testing his patience.
He turned fully then, giving her the full weight of his attention as he stepped toward her, before squatting and closing his fingers around the links in the dirt. Her wary gaze never faltered as he began wrapping it around his gauntlet, continuing even after it pulled taut between them. Slow and deliberate, he drew her nearer with each loop.
She moved gingerly on palms and knees. Tremors ran up her arms as her jaw clenched with every bit of the resistance her body no longer had the luxury of refusing. He stopped finally, once her neck was in his claw’s reach.
He could’ve wrenched her closer with a sharp yank. She’d fall on that rib. She’d deserved it. And yet…
“Don’t mistake this for mercy. You live because I allow it.”
“I live because Apris allows it,” she shot back, tensing the name from her throat like it was armor.
That brought a leer to his face. “And yet, he delivered you to me.”
“Apris tests the faithful.” There’d been no room left for pause or doubt as her gaze held steady, “I endure.”
Ruby searched amethyst, waiting for the fracture, hesitation, fear, any hint of the instinct to survive asserting itself. When it never came, something foreign and frigid settled in his chest. Not quite satisfaction nor disappointment, but a new resolve:
He would deny her the escape of death.
With it, he rose, letting lengths of the tether unwind itself from his claw just as her arms buckled under her. She fell to her elbows with a harsh grunt, sucking in a sharp breath at that rib. An ache she’d brought on herself.
He watched her wince for longer than he liked. Her spirit was resilient, but her body would betray her pride. Finding weakness there would have to suffice.
“Up.”
Head snapping to him, her glare intensified through the pain. However, she lifted herself back onto wobbly arms, slowly, then knees, then legs, refusing the edge of the trunk for support. Her balance faltered but, in time, she rose to meet his chest without ever looking away.
Something tightened again between his lungs and he masked it with a scoff. “Tch, you can barely stand.”
She swayed, but never fell.
Persistent little worm.
Good. Let her exhaust herself clinging to that delusion of strength. It would make it all the sweeter when it finally broke.
His eyes lingered on her before he tugged the chain, sharp and decisive, turning for the tent flap. “Come on, it’s time you learned how real war’s fought.”
—
Jerked forward and into the gray morning, she squinted into its cold light.
The yard outside reeked of char and sea salt as smoke still curled from the gutted husks of crates and caravans with blackened ribs of timber clawing at the sky. Soldiers moved about the wreckage with armor singing to the steady tune of training steel, but the moment the captain emerged, every eye turned and murmurs swelled like tidewater.
“The witch still breathes.”
“Thought he’d have skinned her by now.”
“Must’a earned her keep on her knees, then.”
“‘Course she did, look at the dirt on ‘em.”
Ugly laughter followed from some while several gave sidelong glances or spat at her boots as she passed. Those who did neither instead nudged each other with eyes crawling over her bruised and dirt-streaked skin like scavengers pricing a carcass.
She straightened, refusing to bow her head. If they saw shame they’d call it proof, and she refused to give them either.
Albel walked as though he heard none of it. Whether he truly didn’t, or if their filth only served to feed his infamy, she couldn’t tell. Regardless of which, the chain jerked when she lagged, drawing her closer whenever space opened and an unsettling realization dawned when she closed the gap preemptively: she was safer on his heel than anywhere else in camp. That stung worse than the manacles pressing fresh bruises into her wrists.
She thanked the stars for the clearing as they neared the command tent, following close enough at his back that her tethers dragged against grass.
Inside, maps were unfurled across a long table, with their edges worn away by battleworn hands and dotted with hand-carved wooden markers to show positions, supply routes, choke points. The sort of intel she and Clair had spent years and lost lives trying to come close to, all laid bare before her. She knew, then, that she was only seeing it now because she would never carry it home.
The duke and count were already seated with lieutenants and guards bristling along the edges of the tent when Albel dropped into his chair across from them and drew her to his side with a flick of his wrist.
She forced her chin high as Vox’s glare cut across the table. His mood soured at seeing her no worse for wear but otherwise continued his point.
“The units already present are more than adequate. We need to strike Arias now, before Aquios can follow up on last night’s…interference.” His gaze flicked to her on the last word.
Her lips twitched.
Woltar’s voice came, steady and measured, with a shake of his head. “With what? Our stores lie in cinders. To march now would starve the men before they reach Arias’ walls, much less sustain a siege.” He swept a pointed glance toward Vox. “Discipline wins wars. Not fury.”
“Discipline?” Vox snorted, speaking to the old man, but grimacing directly at her, now. “Does discipline allow enemy commanders to sit in on our councils? Aquaria will fold faster to her severed head on a pike than ours will to an empty granary.”
Nel’s fingers tightened as the weight of the irons bit into her wrists. Before Woltar could speak, Albel’s voice cut in, lazy and sharp.
“She’s mine. Or have you forgotten?”
The tent stilled as he leaned back into his chair and gave the chain a slow, deliberate tug. Not to hurt, but to force her down and close until her shoulder brushed up against his knee, so that the forearm of his gauntlet came to rest comfortably on her, the heavy weight of it casual and proprietary.
Apprehension rippled through the guards and Vox’s scowl tightened, fury seeping out. “This childishness of yours risks the very discipline Woltar speaks of.”
Albel propped his cheek against his knuckles while his talons idly clicked on the links, mockery in every line of him. “Discipline is knowing who holds the chain. Or would you like to take it from me, yourself?” His indolent glance carried the dare across.
Quiet stretched, sharp as a blade, while Vox only glowered. It was Woltar who broke it, as calm as he was exasperated.
“Then it is decided. All units will return to their garrisons, posthaste. Once stores are replenished, we reconvene at His Majesty’s order.” His gaze shifted briefly to Nel, stoic now. “And the prisoner will be…preserved. For the time being.”
Vox rose with an indignant huff. “Continue playing your foolish games,” he scorned at Albel, cape billowing as he turned for the exit. “If you refuse to see reason, then we’ll see whether His Majesty shares your appetite for pets.” His eyes cut toward the Crimson Blade with open contempt before he stalked out into the frosty morning, “Rest assured, I’ll enjoy personally overseeing her execution.”
The council room splintered with tension as the count’s creased gaze lingered on Nel, taking in her condition with a thorough sweep. He seemed almost pleased to find her upright and unbowed.
“Nevelle’s daughter,” he paused, as if recalling a memory, “Nel Zelpher, is it? It would seem you favor him in more than looks. He would be proud.”
Her throat seized. From the enemy, her father’s name sounded almost reverent. Being told he would be proud whilst she knelt in chains at a Glyphian’s foot wound grief and rage so tight in her chest she thought she might choke on it.
Albel’s smirk thinned as he cast her a curious glance before flexing his claw on the tether, wrapping the links around his knuckles just tight enough to grind against bone. “Don’t bother dredging up dead men’s ghosts. Whatever she was, she’s nothing now.”
She bit down hard on her tongue under the count's scrutiny.
The old man shifted his sights back to the boy he’d watched grow jagged and untamed. “Some enemies are worth more breathing than bled out,” he said at last, voice edged with weight and a touch of esteem. “I’m pleased to see you learning the value of such restraint.”
The younger man scoffed, sharp and dismissive, but she caught the shift. Woltar hadn’t spoken to her, not really. All of his words had been for Albel, and Albel alone. A reminder of the strategic value of his new toy, of her pedigree.
“Mind yourself.” The count leaned forward, gathering the carved markers from the map with slow precision, “Duke Vox will seek His Majesty’s ear, and his patience is not infinite. Not even for you.”
Smirk long gone, red eyes narrowed and slid away without a word, instead simply tossing a nearby marker to bounce and roll across the wood to the old man.
In retrieving it, the mayor’s gaze shifted once more onto the Aquarian. “Stand tall, Commander Zelpher. Your queen may yet need you.”
Her name and rank, spoken in that old Kirlsan accent, struck like another blow and before she could respond, Albel’s grip tightened with a low, reproachful sound.
The old count paid no mind, disappearing the last marker under the sleeve of his cloak as he turned for the exit. At the threshold, he paused, voice low but carrying. “You’ll do well to remember, boy, that chains can break just as easily as they bind.” Then he was gone, cloak gliding over frozen grass as the flap fell closed.
Nel released a breath she didn’t know she was holding when the links slackened just so.
“Don’t take his riddles as wisdom,” his head inclined to her just a fraction. “The old windbag just likes to hear himself talk.” But his eyes burned hot, and for a fleeting heartbeat, she wondered if Woltar's words had struck deeper than he wanted to admit.
Before long he was pulling her back through the yard, “Thanks to you, we’re going home.” His tone was quick to rebound with that edge of sadistic mirth, “It won’t have the comforts you’re used to, so pray your queen appreciates your sacrifice.”
Grim resolve hardened in her stomach at where home was for the Black Brigade and its captain: the garrison, no, the execution grounds, steeped in the blood of Aquarians and Glyphians alike who'd dared to follow Apris’ teachings.
The Kirlsa Training Facility.
She angled her chin just enough to meet the leer he threw back. “A word of appreciation from her is worth more than any comfort you could offer.”
Like a weight lifted, Albel chuckled into the crisp morning.
—
The march from the war camp to Kirlsa stretched over days of uneven terrain where frost clung to rock and root. At each dusk, tents rose in hasty columns around fires spitting orange against the dying sun, and each night, she was shoved into Albel’s quarters to sleep on the cold, unforgiving ground.
Then, each day, the leers and whispers continued as she marched, tethered behind him, with the men’s eyes heavy on her searching for marks of what their captain did with her in the dark.
The routine and exhaustion had stripped her bones raw. By the end of second day’s march, her legs trembled and her stomach ached hollow. Still, she hadn’t touched a single scrap he’d tossed her.
Pride was all she had left, and she clung to it like a talisman.
On the final night before Kirlsa, the irons weighed heavy in her lap as she stared at the newest piece of bread that landed before her. It was thicker than the others had been, fresher even.
Albel watched from the cot, arm folding behind his head and scarlet eyes half-lidded. “Still wasting rations?” he drawled. “You’ll fall before we reach the gates. Do that and I’ll drag what’s left of you behind the lums.”
Her lips cracked, “If I die, it denies you your amusement. That’s victory enough.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
“Victory?” He slid off the makeshift bed to crouch before her in quick, fluid steps. “Willingly starving yourself is no victory. Depriving your body of strength, it’s pathetic.” His hand darted, gripping her jaw and tilting her face up, with his thumb pressing into the hollow beneath her cheekbone, until her eyes bore into his.
“I’d rather starve than beg.”
“Tch.” His grip on her tightened as the corners of his mouth fell a fraction. “I don’t want you begging.”
The admission hung in the space between them before he let go to snatch the ration off the ground. Stale crumbs scattered into the dirt as he bit off the rest, took it between his fingers, and pressed it to her mouth.
She turned her face aside, breathing sharp through her nose as his thumb dragged the crust against her lower lip with the motion.
“Eat. Or I’ll shove it down your throat, myself.” His head craned to follow hers.
“I’d sooner choke on it before I let you," she spoke through gritted teeth. Her body lacked the strength to resist, but her will endured.
“Then I’ll chew it for you and force it past your teeth.” The corners of his eyes lifted, “You can swallow and pretend it isn’t mine. I’ll win, either way. But if you fall, you’ll only prove me right that Aquaria breeds nothing but weak maggots.”
For a long, brittle moment, her ego held despite her innards churning, trying to conjure a worse fate than the taste of him. The thought shattered the moment he opened his mouth again to make good on it.
Her lips parted to protest before she could stop them and his thumb drove the scrap past.
With an uncouth sound, she snapped hard at the hated bite, teeth snagging on the pad of the intruding digit in the process. If it’d hurt, he made no indication as he grinned victoriously; hand moving to cradle her jaw as if to guide her chewing while she scowled.
“Good dog.” He swept the nipped thumb across her cheek. It was meant to be demeaning, yet the touch felt too steady, too lingering, and for just a heartbeat, almost like something other than cruelty.
Violet eyes blazed at the shift and she jerked her head back from his grasp, teeth bared. “Say that again and I’ll bite your hand off.”
“There it is.” He cackled a harsh bark that echoed in the tent before bringing the nicked thumb to his mouth and drawing it between his lips without ever breaking eye contact. At last, he rose and settled back onto the cot with a lazy satisfaction, as if the exchange had cost him nothing.
She swallowed the hated bite, her throat working painfully around it as it tasted of ash and did little to ease her hunger. Sitting rigid, the echo of his words simmered in her chest long after he’d turned away and his breathing slowed.
She told herself she’d done it to survive. To deny him his sick satisfaction. And yet…
Somewhere beneath the fiery indignation, something cold sliced in. He hadn’t forced her or struck her. He’d simply known where to press.
And she’d answered.