Page 3

Kidnapped

Rumi

The world shifted from darkness to blurry grey.

The air that filled her nose carried the scent of fish and salt and men.

Flashes of memory assaulted her as she fought her way to consciousness.

With the wakefulness came a bone-deep soreness and throbbing muscles that refused to move.

Air scraped through her throat with each breath and her body pleaded for water.

Her eyes were heavy grapes pulling at an overladen vine as she blinked them open.

Slats of wood above—a couple of feet from her nose—came into focus, and soft lumps pushed gently into her aching back.

Much like the childhood bed she had shared with Mbali, the one she found herself in now had four posts that she imagined held a second bed aloft.

But where their bed had been twisted and organic, this one was straight and cold.

Still, she could almost see her cheeky brother peeking over the edge above her.

His was a white flash of a smile that appeared in the darkness when they were meant to be sleeping…Oh how she missed that smile.

A wave of nausea tore through her as the world swayed.

Rumi slammed her eyes shut.

Clenching her jaw, she willed the sickness to abate.

She drew labored breaths against the tightness that formed in her chest and opened her eyes.

She refused to be afraid.

Aba always said fear was the enemy of shrewdness. She needed to be sharp.

Rumi took stock of her body.

Tingles of awareness twitched through her limbs.

Her fingers shifted and she could wiggle her toes, each deep breath allowing more movement.

Good.

But a metallic sound clattered in her skull and another wave of nausea followed.

Chains. Manacles wrapped around her wrists connected to her shackled ankles by a length of chain. What kind of monster would chain her like an animal?

A knot formed in her gut.

Sezsha and Temlee—had her attackers killed them?

The weight of Sezsha’s body when she had flung herself over Rumi to protect her was imprinted on her ribs.

Sweet Sezsha…Did this green-eyed devil know that she wrote poetry and collected snails in her garden, naming and caring for each one? Did he know how her nephew would miss her? And what of Temlee? Were they laying there dead where the humans had left them? Hot tears brimmed along her lashes and the twisting in her stomach wormed to her throat, threatening to steal her breath.

Please, Behiba, do not let them be dead.

Rumi took a deep breath and willed the tears away.

She would not grieve until she knew their fate.

Her Ti’la moved languidly beyond her reach, waves of energy gently pulsing within her spirit.

She did not have the strength to use it.

But soon.

Once this oppressive dullness cleared from her mind and Rumi could access her magic, she would free herself from these villains.

Her gaze swept the small room, her head falling to one side like a dead weight from the effort.

A porthole window, bolted shut, revealed a wide-open sky with fluffy clouds and seabirds flying overhead.

A military jacket—draped over a wooden chair secured to the floor—obscured the chair’s red padding.

Rumi investigated the insignia on the jacket under the dim light, but the bend in the collar and the way the coat folded over itself made the symbol impossible to make out.

Her eyes moved to a nearby desk lined with orderly stacks of documents secured by a large metal clip.

A leather-bound book rested beside the papers. She had helped load enough trade ships to recognize that this was an officer’s room. Bed on one side, a desk and a chest of drawers opposite the door, everything bolted down so it would not shift on the rolling waves.

She had to figure out where she was, who had taken her, and why, and then return home—in that order.

She was aboard a ship, likely crossing the Deep.

Dread tumbled like a spiked ball in her stomach.

Crossing the Deep was dangerous…Was this ship equipped to defend against the leviathans that roamed the seas?

If she could find out where they had crossed, she could work out where they were going.

Few of the paths that carved through the ocean were safe, but narrow borders of leviathan territories were tracked carefully and cartographers marked the stars to direct the sailors and tradesmen through the seas and to the ports.

Breathe, Rumi, she told herself.

No one was foolish enough to risk crossing without the proper precautions.

She remembered Jonathon, her trade liaison from Corsin, teaching her about leviathans soon after aba had named her Ambassador of Trade, and that—as long as the boats hugged the border of two territories—the monsters would leave them alone.

On the off chance they disrupted a beast, sailors would rely on a loud contraption designed to drive it away.

Rumi had never seen the sea monsters but had witnessed the wreckage caused by them in the debris that washed upon her shores.

Once, she had purchased a large scale from a shop in Corsin that the shopkeeper claimed was from the body of a great beast that had run aground years prior.

It was the size of her palm and eerily warm to the touch.

Luckily, advances in sea travel, driven by Yetoben minds, had improved in recent years, increasing maritime safety, which pleased aba.

And when he had made Rumi responsible for trade and commerce, she had worked hard to prove herself and make him proud.

She and Jonathon had even begun developing a form of wind travel to avoid the monsters completely.

Durask…was that what her kidnapper had said?

She had a vague idea of where that was.

Learning the trade ship routes and the leviathan territories, as well as every port that lined the west side of the continent, was paramount to her role as Trade Ambassador.

The next question was a little more difficult: Who had taken her?

Green eyes flashed in her mind and her fingers spasmed with anger.

If she were to believe the kidnapper, then Governor Cesair Anders was behind her arrest.

Arrest for what, she was unsure.

She conjured an image of the governor, recalling the only time she had ever seen the man.

It had been years ago, but she remembered the ornate cane that clicked on the floor with each step he took.

That was before she had taken over trade.

He and aba had come to a tense arrangement over a special kind of glass.

She still did not know the details of that day, but aba and the governor had been in regular contact since then.

Aba, in his wisdom, had created ties and treaties with the countries outside of her fair Gallilion. Was that how the kidnappers knew where to find her? Did one of the other countries hope to use her as ransom to force aba’s hand? What other reason could there be?

Rumi cursed her captors and tried to move again, shifting in the bed.

The manacles on her wrists still allowed some movement.

Excellent.

She needed to get to the desk and see what was written on the pages.

Maybe it would reveal the reason for her abduction.

The door opened with a soft creak.

A short male, with round glasses perched on his hooked nose, entered the room with a clipboard clutched to his chest and a bowl in his hand.

The scent of fish that wafted in along with him like an old friend had her stomach twisting and her mouth watering simultaneously.

Gods, she was hungry.

His rumpled uniform smelled like brandy and salty sea air, the scent dancing through the stuffy room on a light breeze as the door opened.

“Good mornin’,”

he said cheerfully as he removed his hat and settled into the chair beside the desk, setting what she told herself was the putrid contents of the bowl on the desk behind him.

Human food was probably disgusting anyway.

“I’m Doctor Blaine, and I’ll be assessin’ your health ‘til we arrive in Durask.

What’s your name?”

Rumi glared at him, her lips tightening, and she turned her head away.

“The prisoner has regained consciousness at half-past nine bells.

Hmm.

Interesting.

It usually lasts longer.”

He said the last part quietly, but not so quiet Rumi missed it.

This “doctor”

made several marks on the clipboard as he spoke, then looked back up at her.

“I need to perform a physical examination.

No needles—nothin’ that should hurt or be too intimate.”

He paused, then his brow creased when she did not voice her consent.

“Is it too much to ask for your cooperation?”

Rumi hoped her scowl would answer that.

Her lips moved quickly, hoarse sounds lilting from dusty vocal cords in a series of words that she was certain he would not understand.

She spat about how birds would pluck his eyes from his skull, their beaks tearing his skin, and scavengers would eat his insides, his blood nourishing Verenestra’s green earth.

Her fingers clenched into fists.

The little man looked at her over the brim of his glasses, his brows knitted in puzzlement, lips pursed.

Watery eyes flicked over the cuffs on her wrists—as though he was reassuring himself that she was still chained—before meeting her face, betraying his apprehension.

Good.

He should be nervous.

The physician stood, his hands brushing over the front of his uniform.

He approached the bed, reaching for her wrist.

“I’m goin’ to check your—ay!”

He ripped his hands away as she snapped at him, her teeth crashing together to punctuate her snarl.

Pressing his fingers to his chest, he tried to calm her.

“Now, now, no need to bite! I’m merely assessin’ your health.”

Rumi gnashed her teeth again, and mimicked lunging toward him with what little mobility she had and strength she had regained.

“Fine,”

he huffed, slamming the clipboard down on the desk.

Ramming his hat back on his balding head, he grumbled as he scuffled to the door.

“They don’t pay me ‘nough to deal with savages,”

he muttered, as he opened the door and slipped out.

Through the porous wood, she heard him say, “You’ll need to get her a muzzle, Colonel.

I’m not riskin’ my fingers to take care of your prisoner.”

A muffled response from another male voice had her craning her neck to hear better.

Boots thumped away.

Then returned, and the door opened once more.

This time, her abductor entered her cell.

He was taller than she remembered, his tan uniform crisply pressed, the insignia shining in the dim light.

It was clearly the governor’s symbol—he flew the same design on his ship flags—but she did not know enough about the humans to glean any more information than that.

He pulled a small cart behind him, its wheels creaking as he rolled it across the floor.

“Mornin’,”

he said as he removed his hat to reveal a halo of golden fuzz.

“Are you hungry?”

Green Eyes looked pointedly at the bowl.

So it was food.

He grabbed the clipboard from the desk, added a few new sheets of paper, and sat on the chair.

An inquisitive expression made his face look somehow more youthful.

Her gaze dipped to his side and she remembered her knife sliding between his ribs.

She looked back to his face. His expression was guarded but soft—he seemed nothing like the aggressive thug he had been when they first met.

“I’m Colonel Reid,”

he said amicably, almost sweetly, his voice deep and smooth, like the rich mead aba sometimes shared.

“What’s your name?”

She scowled.

His accent was stronger than the cowardly doctor’s and took a moment longer to decipher.

He wanted something.

No one was this polite after being stabbed.

She hoped he still hurt.

With great effort, she lifted her fingers in a very impolite gesture she had learned from Jonathon.

“Hmm.”

He tapped his pencil on his clipboard.

“Motor skills are recoverin’.

That’s good.

Mental acuity…”

he made several marks on his page, “…returnin’.”

He set the clipboard back on the desk and tipped his head as he studied her.

She was exposed and vulnerable; his gaze seemed to peel back the layers with unerring accuracy, as if he could see everything beneath the surface of her mind.

She spat at him and shouted abhorrent and colorful curses, damning him to the depths of the ocean where the merfolk would strip his flesh and use his bones as toothpicks.

The colonel began repeating the sounds as he stood and stepped around the desk, turning a key in a locked drawer and pulling out a notebook.

He flipped to a page and began scratching on it.

As he thumbed through the book, he paused every now and then to scratch more shapes on his paper.

Then he studied the new marks and let out a nervous chuckle of realization.

Was it her eyesight, or had he paled slightly? He fidgeted, tapping his pencil on his paper a few times before sobering.

His body shifted and the unease vanished.

“You’re a feisty one.”

Apparently he did understand.

Good.

He set the book and clipboard on his desk.

“Let’s try this,”

he said in a very business-like tone. “Water.”

He picked up a short glass and splashed a small amount of water into it, set the cup on the tray and wheeled it closer to her.

Then he neared her bed, removed a ring of keys from his pocket, and unlocked a single cuff to free her wrist.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed instinctively, a dry choking gulp.

Desperate for relief, her throat aching, she glanced nervously from her bare wrist to the water and back again to her captor.

Heat rose from her core and beads of sweat pushed up through her forehead as she laboriously lifted her hand to the tray, focusing intently on the cup.

Her arm began to shake and faltered, landing on the tray and making the water in the cup ripple—it was just out of easy reach.

She cut him with a glare.

He smirked and waited.

When it became clear she had no intention of wasting anymore precious energy performing for him, he tipped his head.

“Funny, I thought you’d be thirsty.

Seems I was mistaken.”

More furious words tumbled from her lips.

She hoped he could understand these foul curses too.

He deserved them all.

How dare he attack her friends.

How dare he poison her.

How dare he test her.

His pale green eyes slid from her hand to the cup before meeting her own, which she made sure held a message that was sure to translate to murder, in any language.

“I’m not sure I understand what you want, Arryvian.

Would you like some water?”

His tongue pushed against his cheek, wiping the grin from his mouth.

Her teeth clenched.

The nerve! This time her fingers worked better as she once again gave him the universally offensive gesture.

When her Ti’la was better, she would make him suffer as she had.

She would get away.

She did not need his help or his water.

For a moment she considered speaking in the common tongue and telling him exactly how she felt, but she suspected she had more advantage if he did not know she spoke it.

So she kept her lips tightly sealed and turned away.

He moved swiftly, one hand encircling her wrist while the other snapped the metal band around her flesh.

Without another word, he left the room.

Her shriek of rage made the room shudder and the wooden boards creak.

Her fury fueled her Ti’la.

A spark of victory splintered through her veins and she smiled.

At last, she could feel the magic.

It was unfocused and weak, but it was there.

Soon, she would be free.

Her obscenities and curses were loud—enough to follow him, she hoped, long after he left the room.

Rumi tugged and pulled at the chains, her weakened body begging for reprieve, but she still thrashed and struggled.

Several moments later, boots thudded down a flight of stairs.

His whistle announced his arrival even before the door swung open.

When he re-entered the room, she met his eyes boldly, daring him to come closer.

This time, he had a funnel.

She bared her teeth, a hiss grating from her throat as he placed it on the desk.

“Woman, you are dehydrated,”

he stated, “You need water.

I’ve been able to get some down your throat with this while you were restin’, but it’s not enough.

It’s part of why you’re so weak.

Since you’re awake, you’re gonna need to participate so you can stay healthy.

Either you drink from a cup like a civilized person—no more crude language—or I shove this down your throat and put fluids into you that way.”

“This,”

he lifted the cup and held it out to her so she might reach it with her chained wrist.

“Or this,”

he brandished the funnel.

She inched forward, each moment buying her more control over her limbs, and she snatched the cup with clumsy fingers.

Never dropping his gaze, she brought the cup to her lips and took a single swallow.

Then she spat it at his face, sending an arc of water through the air, dribbling down his chin and onto his pristine uniform.

She felt a tiny smirk curl her lips, smug as a cat with milk.

Rumi jutted her chin toward the funnel, still sporting the victorious expression.

Then, for good measure, she snapped her teeth, watching as his eyebrow twitched and his jaw feathered, satisfied by the flash of surprise on his face at the clear way she spoke in his tongue.

He took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face and brushed the drops from his jacket, his previous humor sloughing away with every swipe of his handkerchief.

“I’d prefer your cooperation,”

he said sternly.

“But since you insist on behavin’ like a feral creature, that’s how you’ll be treated.”

He knocked on the door, a trio of short strikes, the reverberation hammered behind her eyes.

A man in a matching tan uniform appeared, a second uniformed man with him.

They approached the bed, a pack of hunters closing in on their prey.

She thrashed, kicking and screaming as they bound her to the bed, unlocking the shackles to rearrange her bindings and restrict her movement further.

Hands above her head and feet stretched apart, she was spread across the bed like an offering to whatever demon these monsters worshipped.

Chains, frigid and unyielding, now locked her wrists and ankles to the bedposts.

The lackeys clamped a cold metal collar, peppered with metal studs, around her neck.

Every little rivet pressed against her throat with each thump of her pulse and again—but even more so—every time she swallowed.

Stray strands of fur from whatever beast had worn the collar before were still stuck between the rivets, irritating her skin further. A ripple of goosebumps broke out over her body. Her chest heaved with exertion. She felt her cheeks flush with humiliation.

Then, she was, again, alone with him.

He tapped his clipboard with his pen.

“Now, let’s have no more threats about biting.

I know you speak the common language, so let’s have a real conversation.”

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, those eerie green eyes pinning her against the bed.

“What do the marks on your face mean?”

The chains rattled as she seethed.

If only she could set him ablaze with her eyes.

Humiliating Rumi to assert his control over her, forcing her to lie like a chained dog.

He clearly liked to be the one in charge.

The one in the room with the most power.

He did not know what true power was. Soon, she could use her Ti’la. Then she would show him. This whole damn ship would regret the day they stole her.

Rumi spoke again in her native tongue, refusing to tell him anything as she brought obscenities upon his name.

Melodic as her language was, she sang a song of rage, a curse of doom.

She kicked twice at the cuffs on her ankles and launched into a new tirade of how the beasts of the land would excrete his body when he died and how even the gods would turn away from him for his treacherous acts.

Then she moved on to insulting his character and his looks.

If he could understand, then by all the gods, she would carve him with her words until her blade could taste his flesh once more.

She made no move to cooperate and continued to sling insults in his direction through clenched teeth.

The collar’s metal band cut into her skin.

Rumi steeled herself.

She would not budge.

She would not give in.

She did not know what he wanted from her, but he would not have it.

He took a deep breath and let out an exasperated sigh.

His jade eyes hard as stone when they locked with hers.

“You do not want to get on my bad side, Arryvian.

Now, let’s try this again.”

His words were callous and composed, unrattled by her exhortations.

He settled into his chair.

“What do those marks on your face mean?”

A muscle twitched in her cheek as she clenched her jaw, trapping the answer behind her teeth.

She stared at the slats on the bed above her.

He did not deserve to know of things sacred to her people—sacred to her.

Her heart hammered in her throat, betraying her fear despite her bravado.

She had to give him something.

Angry men were dangerous men. And this man, this control and discipline, it rattled her. There would be no warning, no hint of how or when, but he would strike.

Her eyes flicked to the clipboard in his lap, and she attempted to read what was written on it.

“I do not share these personal traditions,”

she told him.

“Nor do I trust a male who chains a woman to a bed.”

His eyes widened first and then turned dark with obvious impatience.

He scribbled furiously on the page, speaking the words as he wrote them.

“The prisoner is stubborn and defiant, highly arrogant–”

he paused.

“As expected,”

he went on, “from someone who believes they are entitled,”

He tapped his chin with the pen, and showed her the page, “Did I capture that correctly, or did I miss somethin’, savage?”

Her teeth snapped shut and she peeled her lips back in a snarl as she held his gaze.

“Fuck you, Colonel Reid.”

She twisted her head away from his to punctuate her words.

The clipboard hit the desktop with a crack.

“Sorry.

I’m not interested,”

he quipped before adding, “Go ahead, hiss at me again.”

She imagined him crossing his arms over his chest like a child.

Her ears went ablaze, her fists clenched and unclenched in their restraints, she fantasized about whirling around and clawing his eyes out with her fingers.

“What do you want?”

She demanded, turning.

While she spoke, she carefully unspooled the magical rivulets of energy flowing in her veins, hoping she finally had the strength to wield it well.

The colonel flipped to a new page on his clipboard, picked it up, and stalked around the small room as he asked his questions.

“I want to know about your people.

Arryvians.

How do you live? Why do your forests thrive when, outside of your enclaves, the environment is rabid and untamable?

“Where does blue oritium come from? Why have you been selling oritium to smugglers? Who is the leader of the Arryvian Resistance?”

She watched him as he turned toward her, sniffing as if a strange scent were tickling his nose.

“Is it you?”

She refused to let his goading steal her focus.

It was all bollocks anyway.

She did not have the faintest clue what he was talking about.

“What are you doing?”

She ignored him and delved inward, gripping the golden strands of energy.

The muscles of her face tensed and she felt her brows come together as she focused her Ti’la.

There it was.

Suddenly the bed creaked, the posts snapped and changed shape, twisting toward her and thinning where her wrists and ankles were chained.

She cried out when the bed toppled over him, the thinned rods splintering and shattering.

That…almost worked.

Rumi scrambled off the bed with what little freedom the chains offered, no longer secured to anything but her body.

She pressed herself against the wall and sidled toward the doorway—her eyes glued to the green-eyed devil—ready to dash away.

His jaw dropped as he appeared to marvel at the damage she had caused.

Quickly recovering from the shock, he lowered into a crouch and held the clipboard out in front of him like a shield.

“Pine sap! That’s what I was smelling.”

The colonel warily stepped toward her and she scuffled closer to the door, the chains scraping on the floor.

He deftly blocked her path.

“So, you are a witch.

Are there others like you?”

He took another careful step toward her, his eyes wide, seeing her in a new light—a dangerous light, Rumi thought.

She saw it in his wariness, the way he prowled, circling her without moving closer.

She had become a threat.

“Ti’la, that is what you call it, right? The desk is oak, can you shape it too? Or is your witch magic only good for ruining beds?”

He mocked her.

She retorted, ice on her tongue: “That word is not for your filthy human mouth!”

And what did he mean by Arryvian Resistance? He knew nothing of her people, knew nothing of her.

“Let me go,”

she hissed.

She tried for her magic but was too weak to wield it again.

Every toss of the ship further drained her body.

She stood on weak legs and her Ti’la was but a dim light.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice almost sounded sincere.

Almost.

“I can’t do that.

Outside that door are piercers.

They’ll shoot you on sight.

You are safer here.”

He stepped closer still, closing her into a tight corner.

Her head turned toward the door, imagining the alien weapons pointed at her, and gulped hard.

Her gaze flitted between the door and her captor.

Assessing.

Calculating.

Then he shifted and she bristled.

Rumi swore in her mind, cursing her foolishness—how would she get around him? She had to buy herself time.

“Did you kill them?”

She asked, stepping cautiously to the right.

“Kill who?”

He asked, countering her movement.

His eyes never left hers.

“Your escorts in the forest?”

He edged closer to her.

“Is that who you mean?”

She lunged back to her left as he darted to his right and the instep of his boot scuffed one of her bare feet.

Her head suddenly heavy, she nodded, ignoring the slight wobble in her knees.

She had used the magic too soon.

Frustration coursed through her veins as she considered the futility of her actions.

It had bought her nothing and given him more information about herself.

Damn him to Kaelthor’s Depths!

“Spider venom,”

His voice jolted her back to the topic at hand.

Eyes trained on her, continuing their dance, he went on.

“A natural sedative that wears off in time.

Your…fellows should be fine.

A headache, perhaps.”

His shoulder twitched in what might have been a shrug and he went on.

“As far as I know, nobody was hurt.

Our medic made sure there was no serious injury.”

He lifted the bowl of what she guessed was fish chowder, the savory fragrance flirting with her senses as it sloshed against the edge, before offering it to her.

“Will you promise not to throw it at me? Or on the floor?”

Her stomach growled in response.

“I will not make you promises,”

she snapped, but her eyes fell to the food before darting to meet his face.

Rage curled its sharp talons throughout her body, stringing her tight as a bow.

“Why did you take me? What did I do? Take me back!”

He chuckled dryly, “Twenty-seven civilians died from the poison covering the contents of the last shipment of blue oritium.”

He placed the bowl on the foot of the bed.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how many hands it came in contact with.

Surely you would have calculated the loading crew, then those folks who get the oritium to where it needed to be…Maybe you didn’t consider the fathers who went home to their wives and children after work and spread the toxin to them.

So many deaths on your shoulders.

Don’t bother denying it.

The crate was stamped by your hand, seal unbroken,”

with a subtle tip of his head, he continued, “Not only that, but the toxin is only found within the trees of Arryvia. ”

He straightened, folding his arms across his chest, “You are being taken to Durask where you will be tried for your involvement in their murders.”

He paused, watching. Waiting.

Did he expect her to admit to these lies? Poison and murder…there was no way she—or her people—would do such things.

Besides, she always double-checked the materials that went on the trade ships.

She was careful.

And Jonathon was there to be sure the paperwork and safety measures were perfect.

This kidnapper believed her to be a murderer.

The blood drained from her face and she swallowed hard, sweat prickling on her neck.

Rumi shook her head as she backed into the wall.

She looked around the room at nothing in particular, before locking eyes with her captor, a man she now realized thought her the monster.

Unbidden, an image rose to her mind.

Wide, unseeing eyes, and blood…so much blood. Murderer. The word echoed in her mind and the voice sounded so similar to another, shouting the same accusation at her.

“I did not do these things you have accused me of.”

It sounded false, even to her own ears.

The seconds ticked by and he did not speak.

For a moment, Rumi wondered if she had convinced him of her innocence.

“You should eat,”

he said as he gestured to the bowl on the bed.

“It’s been three days.”

Surprise made her eyes widen and she sagged against the wall.

Three days? What did her family think became of her? Did Sezsha tell aba what had happened? For a moment, the fight melted from her bones.

She was far from home by now.

“Please eat.”

Why did his voice soften? “Maybe I’ll bring fruit next time—if you cooperate.”

Was he suddenly being nice?

She studied his face, measuring the shift in demeanor.

Ah, a new tactic.

His inflammatory comments had been unsuccessful, so he now turned to niceties and bribery.

Proof that he did not believe her.

Well, that would not work either.

He did not care about her health.

He did not care that he ripped her away from her home, from her family and duties.

And on her day of mourning, too.

By the gods, she hoped Behiba would not accept his soul.

Three days.

They would be in the middle of the ocean now and far enough into the leviathan territories that turning around would be dangerous, even life-threatening.

She would have to make it to Yetoben before stowing away and sailing back.

And she definitely would not last a whole trip without food.

“Am I…”

she sought the word, “…permitted to see proof of the crimes you have accused me?”

She asked, her voice sounding smaller than she would have liked.

The colonel’s eyes narrowed into a glare, observing her coldly.

“The oritium is held as evidence for your trial.

Or do you mean the bodies of the people you killed? They were laid to rest.”

His voice was flat, the syllables dripping like rain off a polished stone.

The chains clattered as she slid to the floor and stretched out her leg, hooking the bowl with her foot and sliding it toward her.

“Your evidence is no good.

I am not responsible for those events.

Your trial will say I am innocent and send me home by nightfall.”

She flashed him her winning smile and took a bite of the chowder.

It tasted how she expected it might; salty and full of grease.

Humans could not cook.

He snorted, his eyes flicking up to hers as he continued writing on his clipboard, casually stepping toward the door and leaning his shoulder against the wood, effectively blocking any escape.

She caught sight of a glint inside his jacket.

“You can drop the act.

There’s no one here but me, and I don’t buy it.”

She pierced him with a glare.

There was no sense in trying to convince him.

He was like those fools aba had told her about.

When their minds are made up, they become as blind as moles.

“What are you writing now?”

She asked sarcastically.

“More insults about my kind? Or is it more lies about me?”

She stuffed a mouthful of fish into her mouth and chewed, watching him warily.

“Do you read the common tongue?”

He asked.

“Or would you trust me enough to read it to you?”

How insulting, to assume she was illiterate.

Ridiculous.

She was not obliged to answer any of his questions.

She would get to Yetoben and speak to the Governor, who would see it was all a mistake, and she would be on the first ship back home.

The colonel was merely a middleman, and she did not need to deal with him.

She lifted her chin and stood proudly, offering her wrists, the metal gleaming darkly in the dim light.

“Unchain me, Colonel.”

Unfazed, he answered his own question.

“That’s right, why would you trust me?”

He settled into his chair, tapping the pen on his clipboard.

“Between the two of us, I’m the only one who hasn’t lied.

I’ve tried to be reasonable.”

“You believe poisoning me and chaining me like a wild beast is reasonable?”

she snapped, losing her imperious air, and jabbing an accusatory finger at him.

“Or you claim that because you believe me to be a murderer you are somehow free of guilt?”

She tipped her head, her curtain of dark curls falling around her shoulders, and trained her eyes on the man—the hypocrite.

“You attacked my friends, poisoned me, stole me away from my home, and then chained me to this prison, claiming I am a criminal.

I have been truthful! I am innocent of these crimes.

I have no reason to trust you.

“Whether the pelifo is hunted by an eagle or an owl, the result is the same; both are predators.

But the pelifo easily outruns those who would hunt her.”

She shook the chains again and raised her brow.

“The raptor is a predator.

It hunts to survive.”

His eyes followed her gesture before returning to her face.

“Following your metaphor, the hunter does not take orders from his quarry.”

“You admit you are the hunter.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

“I do not believe, for an instant, that your survival is reliant upon having me in your possession.

Do not expect my cooperation, Colonel.

I will fight to be free of you with my every breath until I am once again home.”

With that, she turned her back to him and fell silent.

Stillness fell over the room, broken only by the sound of his pen scratching across the page.