Page 3 of Bound in Flames (The Savage Hearts #1)
Chapter 3
Cleo
T he prison wagon jolted violently, its wheels crunching over the uneven dirt road, forcing me to shift awkwardly to avoid being thrown against the cold iron bars. I sat in silence. My back was pressed against the unyielding bars, and my wrists were still bound above my head. The enchanted metal sapped my strength with every mile, a cold pressure that seemed to seep into my bones. The familiar hum of my magic, something I’d always thought of as a quiet part of myself, was barely a flicker, smothered by the cuffs’ iron grip. The oppressive weight of the journey to the capital was draining me. I knew each jolt of the wagon carried me closer to my death.
I hadn’t spoken to the guards since they had thrown me into the wagon, their jeers and occasional strikes silencing any protests I might have made. Their disdain for me was clear—a shaman, not worth the effort of civility. Each mocking comment was a sharp reminder of the fate awaiting me at Knights Hold.
As the hours dragged on, the countryside morphed from rolling fields to dense forests that seemed to swallow the fading light of late afternoon. The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their gnarled branches reaching overhead to blot out the sky. Shadows pooled in the underbrush, flickering with the wagon's movements as if alive. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
The wagon creaked with each bump and turn, the sound blending with the distant caws of crows overhead. Patches of gnarled roots twisted through the dirt road, clawing at the wagon's wheels as if the forest itself sought to trap us in its grasp. Each jolt sent vibrations rattling through the iron bars, and I couldn't shake the feeling that the trees were watching, their shadows shifting in ways that defied logic. The scent of moss and decaying leaves was so thick it left a bitter taste on my tongue. Somewhere deeper in the forest, an unseen creature let out a low, mournful cry that sent a shiver down my spine. The air was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked earth, and my stiff fingers curled into fists against the chill. Each shift of the cuffs sent a faint vibration through my wrists, the enchantment gnawing at the edges of my mind. It wasn’t just physical; it was as if the absence of magic unraveled something fundamental inside me, leaving a hollow ache I couldn’t escape.
Up ahead, another patrol wagon came into view at a fork in the road. The oxen pulling it stomped and snorted nervously, their breath misting in the cool air. Guards loitered around the stationary cart. Their laughter and coarse voices carried on the wind. My curiosity stirred despite the exhaustion pressing heavily on me. The clang of armor and the scrape of boots against dirt reached me before their faces did, a jarring rhythm to their casual conversation. As the wagon jolted forward, my breath stuttered in my chest when I caught sight of their prisoner.
The orc was unmistakable. His massive frame towered over the humans even as he was forced to his knees. His dark green skin bore streaks of dried blood and fresh wounds, creating a grim pattern against the thick muscles. His black hair, damp with sweat and grime, clung to his face, only emphasizing the intensity in his sharp golden eyes. Chains bit into his wrists as well, binding him so tightly that every movement was a slow, deliberate struggle. The guards hauled him to his feet, dragging him forward as we approached. Despite his injuries, his eyes burned with defiance, their golden hue piercing as they scanned the scene with unsettling clarity.
I’d heard of orcs before. Their strength and ferocity were legendary, as well as their barbaric way of life, but I’d never seen one in person. The sight of him, bruised but unbroken, was both terrifying and strangely captivating.
“Get him chained up.” The lead guard from our small convoy motioned to the rear of our cart. “No free ride for the beast.”
The orc’s laugh rang out, rich and sardonic, cutting through the air like a blade. “A free ride? I wouldn’t dream of it.” His deep voice was tinged with mockery.
The guard struck him hard in the face with the butt of a spear. He stumbled but didn’t fall, his tusks flashing menacingly as he grinned despite the blood trickling from his mouth. It was predatory, and my skin erupted in goosebumps as an icy primal fear flashed through me in response. “Careful, you might actually hurt me,” the orc responded. His smirk was unwavering as they stepped forward to strike him again, but thought better of it. The guard glowered at him, muttering something under his breath before retreating.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing as they hauled him into position, securing the seven-foot giant to the rear of the wagon. The cuffs around his wrists looked as though they had been forged to contain something far more dangerous, their metal groaning faintly under his shifting movements. Each clink of the chains seemed louder in the unnatural stillness of the forest, a rhythmic reminder of the strength restrained within. His wrists were bound in front of him, and though his arms were marked with bruises and cuts, they still flexed with a power that demanded attention. His chest, bare save for an old, battered leather pauldron streaked with blood and grime, rose and fell with a steady rhythm. Even in chains, he held himself with an undeniable presence, his eyes sweeping the wagon with a sharp, deliberate precision that made my breath catch.
As the wagon lurched forward, the orc began to walk easily behind us, his sharp eyes locking onto mine. He studied me, his expression unreadable, before a slow smirk tugged at his lips.
“Well, well.” He kept his voice low enough for a private conversation. “Imagine my surprise to be face to face with a shaman on such a beautiful day.”
I stiffened, my eyes narrowing. “How do you know what I am?”
“Oh, we orcs have our ways,” he replied, his smirk widening. “Confirmed by the cuffs. Only shamans and conjurers get such special treatment.”
My gaze dropped, heat crawling up my neck. The weight of his golden eyes bore down on me, making the chains on my wrists feel heavier. Shame twisted in my stomach, and I shifted, trying to shake the feeling. Even as I looked away, a strange pull lingered, his attention unsettling. I could feel my pulse quicken, but I forced my shoulders straighter, ignoring the mix of fascination and unease clawing at me. I kept my eyes fixed on the ground. “What do you want, orc?”
“A little conversation,” he said, walking almost casually behind the cart as if he was out on an afternoon stroll, and not in chains. “The road’s long, and you’re the most interesting thing I’ve seen in weeks. Tell me, what's your name and what did you do to earn that cozy seat up in the cart?”
“Why? Hoping for tips to ride in luxury to our execution?” I shot back, shifting against the bars, my lips twisting in a wry smile. "Or are you planning to sweet-talk your way out of your chains, too?" My voice was sharper than usual, a small act of defiance against the guards who might still hear our conversation when they wandered too close.
“Depends,” he said with a smirk. “Can you teach me how to charm my way out of chains as well as you’re charming me? Or is it a talent exclusive of shamans?”
I shot him a wary glance but said nothing. The guards were too far ahead to overhear, but his casual demeanor unsettled me. His injuries should have left him weak, yet he exuded absolute confidence.
“Cleo. What should I call you? Prisoner 438? Or maybe Mr. Overconfident?”
His grin stretched wider, teeth flashing in a way that was both playful and predatory, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. He shifted, the movement slow, deliberate, as if to remind everyone how little the cuffs restrained him. His voice, low and smooth, with a teasing edge. “You can call me whatever you like, so long as you say it sweetly.”
“You’re blocking my view of the road, orc.”
His quiet chuckle caught me off guard, a surprising response to what I had intended as sharp defense rather than an invitation to banter. Despite my best efforts to maintain a barrier between us, he seemed to revel in the game of unsettling me, as though every word I hurled his way only added fuel to his amusement. If only I knew orcs were as charming as they were large.
“My name is Dex. You’ve got the better seat. I’ve got the better view.”
“Oh?” I asked, arching a brow. “What’s so interesting behind this cart?”
“I’m talking about you, obviously.” His eyes danced with mischief.
My face burned as a blush bloomed across my cheeks, spreading heat down my neck. I shifted uncomfortably against the bench, willing myself not to fidget, but the feel of his golden eyes lingering on me made it impossible to stay still. His gaze was unnerving, like he was peeling back layers of my carefully constructed walls. I forced my attention elsewhere, determined not to give him the satisfaction of catching me off guard again. I failed miserably.
“What are you doing here?”
Dex’s grin turned wry. “Let’s just say I’ve been asking too many questions. The Crown is very sensitive about certain topics.”
I ignored the way he spat the word Crown , his tone dripping with scorn. The contempt in his voice made his feelings toward the human Royal family of Ostelan unmistakable, and I found myself agreeing with his opinion of them. “Like what?”
“Like shamans,” he said, his gaze sharpening. “Your kind is rare, and in my culture, you’re revered. Without shamans, our magic weakens. Our people suffer.”
I let out a sharp breath. “You were looking for me?”
“Not you specifically, but fate has a funny way of making introductions.”
I couldn’t help but sneak another glance at all of him. Despite the fresh wounds and bruises, Dex carried himself with an unsettling ease, as though the chains binding him were merely decoration. I lingered too long on the contours of his chest, where muscle shifted beneath bruised skin, each subtle movement exuding a raw, unshaken power. Warmth crept up my neck and spilled onto my cheeks before I could look away. His golden eyes caught mine, and his smirk deepened. Smug, insufferable, and entirely too knowing. Damn it, Cleo.
Dex chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the air. “You keep glancing at me. Should I take it as a compliment?” His words were quiet enough that the guards milling around wouldn’t hear, but the knowing edge in his tone made me shift uncomfortably, hyper-aware of their periodic presence.
“You’re in chains, bruised and bleeding,” I said dryly. “Trust me, it’s not admiration.”
He laughed, the sound deep and unbothered, rolling through the tension like it had no business being there. “You must be used to people underestimating you and your sharp tongue, little shaman.” His eyes glinted with amusement as if he found my defiance entertaining.
“For someone in cuffs, you’re annoyingly cocky,” I grumbled, crossing my arms in a weak attempt to steady myself. The heat rising to my cheeks only fueled my irritation. I needed to set him as off balance as he was making me feel.
“Confidence isn’t something they can lock up.” His tone was smooth, like this entire conversation was just a game to him.
“Careful,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes. “Or your ego’s going to snap those chains before you do.”
“Would that impress you?” His voice dropped into a low, teasing drawl, each word laced with deliberate provocation. His lazy smile was infuriating. He shifted his weight, muscles rippling against the heavy cuffs. “Though, I’d wager I’d make quite the spectacle.”
“Try it and we’ll see.” My tone carried the faintest edge of amusement, even as I fought to keep a straight face.
“Ah, there it is,” he said with exaggerated delight, his golden eyes gleaming. “I knew there was a personality hiding under all that doom and gloom. Keep going, little shaman. I’m starting to enjoy this trip.”
“Not all of us find our current situation quite so entertaining.” My lips twitched, betraying the tiniest hint of a smile. He noticed, of course, and preened as if I’d paid him the highest compliment.
“Don’t think too hard about it,” he said smugly, his tone dropping just enough to make the words linger. “Moments like these are rare, you know.”
What was I even doing? Trading barbs with an orc—of all races—while chained and carted toward my own execution? The absurdity of the situation struck me hard, and I wondered if the cuffs were cutting off more than my magic. Perhaps the blood flow to my brain. Then there was the way Dex looked at me, his sharp gaze, like he was trying to piece together some puzzle. It made me acutely aware of the torn, dirt-streaked state of my dress, the grime clinging to my arms, and the wild tangles of my hair. The strands stuck to my scalp, tacky and matted with dried blood from the wound I’d earned in the cells. I was a mess, no doubt about it. A flush crept up my neck, heat prickling at my skin, and I clenched my jaw, irritated at myself for caring. He seemed utterly unbothered, but it only made me feel more exposed.
As if sensing my inner turmoil, Dex leaned in, the creak of leather and scrape of metal accompanying the shift of his weight. His expression hovering between amusement and sharp, probing curiosity. It unsettled me, the way his gaze seemed to strip away my defenses, as though he saw far more than I wanted him to. The air between us grew taut, charged with unspoken questions and an unnameable tension. I should have looked away, but instead, I found myself leaning forward, drawn into his orbit despite the warning bells screaming in my mind.
“The humans kill what they can't control, and your kind tips the scales too far for their comfort. That’s why they put you in chains. But trust me, there’s power in their fear. If you learn to wield it, you’ll never be chained by them again.”
The weight of his words pressed against the fragile remnants of my resolve. Despite his casual tone, there was an intensity in his voice that hinted at something deeper. “Why tell me this? What do you want from me?” I snapped, my voice pitching higher as frustration seeped into my tone.
I watched as his grin softened, a flicker of something genuine breaking through his bravado. “To survive, and to make sure you do too.”
The wagon jolted again, its wooden frame groaning in protest, the sound echoing through the dense trees. The cuffs around my wrists shifted, their cold weight a cruel reminder of my captivity. My thoughts, however, remained fixed on the orc chained behind us. The stillness of the forest seemed to amplify every clink of his chains, every movement of his powerful frame. He was an enigma. Wounded, bound, yet wholly undeterred by the circumstances that would break most others. I didn’t trust him, but his words stirred something within me, a spark of curiosity and the faintest glimmer of hope. The way he spoke, with such ease and confidence, was entirely at odds with the bruises on his skin and the chains that bound him. He seemed unaffected by our shared predicament, as though the wagon and the guards meant nothing. That attitude was infectious.
I found myself wondering what it would be like to believe in my own strength the way he seemed to believe in his. His words lingered in my mind, prodding at something buried deep within me. A quiet, unformed question about whether my magic could truly be more than a curse. For all his smugness and sharp humor, Dex spoke with a conviction that was hard to ignore.
Since my arrest, I felt as though I wasn’t alone. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I felt the faint stirrings of something close to peace.