Page 10 of Light Locked #1

To Purge Our Blood

C LEA COLLAPSED AGAINST the straps that bound her limbs and mouth.

The crate shook with the steps of its carriers, and dim light filtered in through the cracks between the boards.

They’d tied her wrists, palms, ankles, and feet.

Her knuckles were bruised from banging against the edges of the crate, but the boards were reinforced with iron strips and pegs.

Ansra could heal, create barriers, expel cien, and reinforce weapons, but it was against its very nature to tear things apart.

She stared at the ceiling of the crate, sweat stinging her eyes as slices of light filtered in and illuminated the dust bobbing thoughtlessly above her.

For a brief moment, she resented the limits of her power.

If her ansra couldn’t help free her, maybe it meant for her to die this way.

She’d taken so many risks and struggled so hard in the last several years to end up here.

Despite being a supposed emissary of life, life seemed to be working awfully hard to kill her.

What had she gotten for all her effort? The prisoner’s kennel.

The crate was infamous for its role in taking those sentenced to death to the grand wall that surrounded the city.

Clea had seen it only a couple times before, but she remembered it as the king had meant for it to be remembered.

Thick strips of dark red paint hung from its splintered boards and, on each side were the words “To Purge Our Blood. ”

It was to purge the living blood of the human race.

That was what mothers told their children when they asked about the crate.

Some human beings had to be outcast to ensure the health of the city, like a limb amputated to cease infection.

She’d be cast over the wall into the forests outside and would share the fate of rapists and murderers.

Her body would be eaten by the forest beasts, never to be seen again.

Her body would be eaten.

Clea slammed her back into the boards behind her, bracing herself as she delivered a shout and kick to the boards at her feet.

With every blow, flashes of the king’s corpse and her own demise resurfaced intrusively in her mind. Flashes of her mother’s death followed. Clea remembered escaping for her life, bright lights breaking through the reaping shade horde she’d left behind, like lightning through storm clouds.

It had been three years, and here she was, still running for her life.

“I’m not!” she shouted through the cloth in her mouth as she kicked the boards again.

“Dying!” She drove both feet forward and locked her legs.

“Like this!” Her hips hovered, shoulders and heels pressed hard against either side of the crate.

A sore breath wrestled in her chest until she collapsed with the exhale, curling up against the floor as she buried her head in her elbow.

King Odell was dead, the other Veilin poisoned, the royal guard infected. The Deadlock Medallion would lead to the city’s collapse. Her mother had predicted as much .

At least she hadn’t seen any golden doors yet.

Her own attempt at a joke made her want to groan aloud.

The crate jerked to a halt and lowered to the ground, the soldiers exchanging comments between the rattling of chains across the surface of the boards.

They spoke as if chatting about any old thing, their minds completely numb to what they were doing now while they discussed their day, their families, their jobs.

“One of the chain hooks broke off. I thought you checked it this morning? The one on this side is missing,” one of the soldiers said abruptly.

“Everything was fine this morning. I’ll check the storage shed,” the other one said, followed by fading footfalls. He soon shouted something from what she assumed was the storage shed, and the second soldier released an impatient scoff before marching off.

In their absence, she slammed against the crate door overhead.

Once, twice, three times—the door wouldn’t budge.

On a fourth attempt, the door burst open as someone unlocked it from the other side.

Light flooded in, and an armored soldier leaned over her.

She flinched away before the soldier crawled into the crate with her and slammed the top shut. Her eyes widened.

She felt a wave of cien wash over her as the man shifted into a comfortable position on the other side. He shoved a large bag into a corner and reached for her face. She pressed her head into the corner of the crate, squirming away from him as she drove her feet toward his chest .

He deflected her bound feet with one of his hands, whipping her sideways before grabbing her shirt and dragging her toward him. Clea squirmed until he ripped off the cloth that covered her mouth.

“Quietly,” he whispered.

She looked past the grates in the helmet to see two silver eyes, flickering like glimmering coins in the shadow.

“Ryson?” she blurted out, recognizing his voice.

He slammed his hand over her mouth, knocking her head back against the crate wall as his gaze shot back toward the top of the crate.

She glared daggers as he listened for the soldiers, but if he noticed, he paid her no mind.

He withdrew his hand and removed a knife from a scabbard on his calf.

One by one, he sliced her bonds and freed her hands.

“Are you naturally so violent?” Her furious whisper chased his hand off her mouth. She fully prepared to bite it.

“Yes,” he said.

“Don’t handle me like I’m an animal.” She rubbed her wrists to return circulation.

“Did you want me to ask for permission to save your life?” he shot back as if he were irritated by the very act of saving her, and she stared, unsure of how to reply to the insolence she found so unfamiliar.

Ryson reached for the large leather bag he had brought and tossed it to her. She found bundles of clothes inside .

She fished a chain out from the clothes and found the Deadlock Medallion hanging on it. This was the source of the dark energy that had followed him. Clea stared at it in shock.

“How did you—”

“Shh.” His focus remained on her feet as he cut them loose.

“But how did you—”

“Shh!”

The second time it sounded more like a feline hiss.

She nudged his shoulder and without looking, he seemed to nudge her back on reflex, but with twice the force.

She caught herself against the crate with a loud thud, and she and Ryson both stared at each other in surprise as they listened for signs they’d been heard.

Ryson returned his attention back to her bonds as the soldiers approached casually.

She held her breath as they fixed the new hook onto the side, wondering if they’d notice the unlocked hatch.

Ryson finished his work and returned his dagger to its scabbard. He leaned back against the crate, resting his elbows on his knees.

Clea inched forward and whispered, “They are going to throw us over the wall!”

Ryson watched her through the grates in the helmet, but offered no reaction.

The soldiers mounted the crate, and one shouted, “Lift! ”

The kennel groaned as the chains tightened around it. As the crate lifted from the ground, it rocked unsteadily. Clea shot Ryson a worried look, but he did nothing, staring up at the ceiling. The crate steadied, and she fastened the medallion around her neck, hiding it under her shirt.

“How did you find it?” she mouthed, gesturing to the medallion. That question and more demanded answers. She reached for his helmet, fishing her fingers through the grates and tugging the helmet downward to force him to look at her.

Clearly surprised at the gesture, he smacked her hand away, but didn’t respond.

Rubbing her reddening hand, she pushed, “How will we escape?”

Ryson leaned forward, and in a barely audible, but clearly irritated tone replied, “We are. Now be quiet.”

Clea continued to rub her hand as she watched him, the back of her head still throbbing from his early attempt to silence her. The brute clearly had no sense of gentleness or restraint.

She gripped the leather bag in her lap, feeling its contents as she noticed a weapon strapped across his back.

It was stored in a leather casing attached to a strap that wrapped over his chest. The weapon was a type of scythe.

She wasn’t sure if it was his, or if he’d stolen it like the armor, but knew she wouldn’t get an answer if she asked.

“What is your plan?” Clea urged again anxiously after another minute .

“Wait,” one of the soldiers said, and she heard them both shift their weight. “The locks.”

A moment of silence passed between the first comment and a series of whispers. She stared at Ryson with wide, questioning eyes, and he continued to look on impassively. The boards groaned above them as the soldiers repositioned themselves.

Clea jolted as Ryson shot up and hurled the door open.

The men yelled in surprise, knocked off the top of the door.

The chains holding the crate rattled, and it swayed to one side as one man caught himself on the edge.

He struggled to pull himself up as the crate swung.

Ryson delivered a quick, focused punch, and Clea flattened her arms against the crate walls as the man fell, the crate swinging with the change in weight.

Ryson reached for the crate door and closed it over them with a clattering bang. As he resumed his former position, Clea couldn’t help but watch him with her mouth open.

“Is something wrong?” he asked in a snide tone. “How strong did you expect me to be?” He didn’t wait for her to answer. “As strong as a human?”

Clea opened her mouth to protest but stopped when the crate came to a halt.

Ryson gestured for her to stay down. “They’ve just stopped the pulley for a moment to investigate. They won’t risk you escaping back into the city. They can only bring you closer to them. ”

“You can’t read their minds,” Clea challenged.

Ryson laughed a short, mocking, laugh.

Pompous jerk , she thought.

The crate jerked again, and they moved upward. Ryson lifted his hand and placed it on the handle of his weapon. It wasn’t long before they stopped a second time with solid stone beneath them.

Ryson burst from the crate, using a hand to hoist himself over the side as he drew his weapon in a simultaneous motion. The sounds of clashing blades filled the air as the six soldiers atop that portion of the wall stumbled back into a defensive line.

Clea spotted another soldier running for the warning bell to bring in reinforcements, and she quickly hoisted herself over the side of the crate.

She joined Ryson in the midst of a growing crowd of soldiers.

Despite the wall’s great width, the bustling clamor and congregating bodies were suffocating.

Ryson warded off the opposition with threatening swings of his weapon.

His scythe swept over Clea’s head as she ducked, blessing the ground and creating a weak, flickering barrier of brilliant white lines between them and their opponents.

With one sweep of his scythe, Ryson hoisted the pile of gathered chains on the wall and tossed them over the barrier at the wall’s edge. They grew taut against the pulley.

The warning bell clanged in the distance. The area would soon be flooded with new opposition, and Clea’s blessing was beginning to fade as soldiers hacked at the wall of light with their weapons. She was already lightheaded and wouldn’t be able to cast another one .

Ryson hopped onto the barrier near the wall’s edge, coiling the chain around his weapon as he placed one steel-toed shoe on the curve of the scythe blade.

He offered her a hand, the sky and forest framing the great expanse behind him.

The soldiers withheld their attacks as the blessing faded. They watched in sheer disbelief, like they thought Clea and Ryson were preparing to kill themselves.

“If you want to return home, it’s a game of trust,” Ryson quoted Alina’s description of their deal.

Clea eyed his hand, and then the soldiers and the city beyond, still dizzy from the exertion of her blessing. She could see all of Virday from here, with huddled tents, markets, the castle, and the vast, dry farm fields beyond.

While the magnitude of what they were about to do still needed time to sink in, she latched on to his hand. “I know that.”

He pulled her into him as they stepped off the wall, Clea wrapping her arms around his waist as a falling sensation overtook her.