For three days, the wagons had rolled relentlessly through the forest, stopping only briefly to feed and water the captives. Morning blurred into afternoon, and evening into night, marked only by the change of light filtering through the dense canopy above. The prisoners’ world shrank to the confines of the iron-barred wagons, the ropes cutting into their wrists and ankles serving as a constant reminder of their helplessness.
Their routine was pitiless. At sunrise, the mercenaries would drag them out one by one to drink from wooden ladles and gnaw on stale bread. Sometimes, if a prisoner stumbled or hesitated too long, a whip would crack across their backs or shoulders, sending them sprawling to the ground. Then they were shoved back into the wagons like cattle, the cage door slammed shut behind them. The wagons would creak back into motion, leaving a trail of ruts in the dirt and despair in their wake.
The mercenaries showed no kindness. They barked orders, shoved the captives when they faltered, and seemed to take pleasure in their suffering. When not keeping the wagons moving, they joked and drank, their laughter grating against the sullen silence of the prisoners.
Inside the cages, the air was thick and stifling, filled with the scent of unwashed bodies and damp wood. Daani sat with her back against the bars, her wrists raw and aching where the ropes dug into her dark scales. She stared at the floorboards, tracking the grooves worn by countless feet before hers.
Around her, the other prisoners sat slumped or leaned against the bars, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and resignation. Beside her, Haath shifted, his broad frame pressing slightly against her arm as he tried to find a more comfortable position. Across from them, Bailon hunched forward, his head bowed, his knees drawn close to his chest. His sapphire-blue scales, usually vibrant, seemed dulled by grime and fear.
Daani turned her head, her lavender eyes scanning the forest through the bars. The trees were ancient and gnarled, their branches interlocking overhead to form a ceiling of leaves. Sunlight struggled to pierce the canopy, and the world outside the cage seemed like another reality, one they could never touch.
“They’re not going to stop, are they?” Haath muttered, breaking the silence. His voice was low but filled with simmering anger. “Three days of this. No rest. No answers. I’d give anything to wrap my hands around one of their necks.”
“You’d be dead before you got your hands untied,” Bailon replied quietly. His voice trembled, though he tried to hide it. “You’ve seen what they do to the ones who resist.” He shifted uncomfortably, his gray eyes darting to the mercenaries walking beside the wagon.
Haath turned to glare at him, his green eyes blazing. “Better dead than sitting here doing nothing.”
“Enough,” Daani said, her voice firm. She straightened, the ropes on her wrists pulling tighter as she moved. “Fighting with each other won’t change anything.”
Haath grumbled under his breath, but he turned away, his fists clenching in his lap. Bailon dropped his gaze back to the floor, his shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear into himself.
“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Bailon asked after a long silence.
“Somewhere far from home,” Daani said, her tone clipped. “Beyond that… it doesn’t matter until we figure out how to get out of this.”
“They’re going to sell us,” Bailon said, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced up, his expression a mixture of fear and shame. “To humans, probably. Or worse. We’re… valuable to them. That’s why we’re still alive.”
Daani didn’t answer right away. She didn’t want to admit that Bailon might be right. Her chest tightened at the thought of being sold like a piece of livestock, dragged even farther from Borollai and whatever hope remained.
Haath snorted. “Let them try to sell me. I’ll rip them apart the first chance I get.”
“You’ll do no such thing if you’re dead,” Daani said sharply. Her lavender eyes locked onto his, her expression unyielding. “Save your strength. If there’s a chance to fight, we’ll take it. But not until then.”
Haath grumbled again but didn’t argue.
Daani’s gaze shifted across the wagon. The other prisoners remained silent, their fear palpable even in their stillness. The Mehrat huddled near the back, their white fur stained with dirt. An older male leaned against the bars, his frail body trembling with every jolt of the wagon. Beside him, a younger female sat upright, her sharp gaze fixed on the mercenaries outside. Her tail flicked behind her in defiance, though her clenched fists betrayed her fear.
Among the Drakel, an older warrior with faded green scales sat cross-legged, his eyes closed as if meditating. Near him, a younger male with bloodied bandages around his arm leaned heavily against the bars, his breathing labored.
The wagon jolted, pulling a hiss of pain from the injured Drakel. Daani’s hands balled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She wanted to comfort him, to reassure them all, but the words felt hollow in her throat. What comfort could she offer when she didn’t know if they would survive the week?
Her mind flicked to Rowen. Had she escaped? Or was she in another wagon, enduring the same torment? Daani closed her eyes briefly, swallowing the lump in her throat. She couldn’t afford to lose hope—not for herself, not for Haath and Bailon, and not for the others who looked to her for strength, whether they realized it or not.
The wagon groaned as it hit another rut, the wheels grinding against the uneven dirt. Outside, the mercenaries laughed, their voices sharp and cruel, a stark contrast to the suffocating silence inside the cage.
Daani set her jaw. “We will survive this,” she told herself. “And when the time comes, we’ll fight.”
The wagon finally stopped just as the sun dipped below the treetops, painting the clearing in hues of amber and deep shadow. The captives squinted as mercenaries banged on the wagon's sides, the sharp metallic clangs jolting them upright. Chains rattled, and the air was heavy with the scent of wood smoke and the faint, sour tang of unwashed bodies.
"Out. You've got five minutes to relieve yourselves," barked one of the mercenaries, a burly man with a jagged scar across his nose. He gestured to his companions. "Unbind their ankles. Watch them close."
The mercenaries cut the ropes at their feet but left their wrists bound, leading them out one by one. Daani landed on her feet, her knees buckling slightly from the day's jolts and strain. Haath followed, his muscles visibly tensing as his handler gave him a rough shove. Bailon hesitated on the wagon's edge before the mercenary yanked him down with a grunt of impatience.
The captives were herded toward the edge of the clearing, where a bucket of water and a pile of stale bread waited. Their handlers kept a firm grip on the ropes binding their wrists as they knelt to drink from the ladle passed around, the cool water burning Daani's parched throat. Nearby, Bailon sat cross-legged, nibbling nervously on a piece of bread, his gaze flicking toward the mercenaries laughing around the campfire.
Haath leaned close, speaking low enough for only Daani to hear. "When are we going to take them?" His green eyes burned with suppressed rage.
Daani swallowed her instinct to snap back, settling instead for a firm shake of her head. "Not now. We wouldn't get five steps before they'd cut us down. Wait."
Haath growled under his breath but didn't argue further. Daani's eyes flicked to Bailon, who avoided their gaze, focusing intently on his bread as though it held the answers to all his fears.
After they'd finished eating, the mercenaries roughly marched them back to the wagon. But before they could secure their ankles again, the sound of jeering laughter broke Daani's focus. Near the fire, a group of mercenaries had gathered, their voices rising in raucous revelry as they traded cruel jokes about their captives.
“Drakel girls… built different, aren’t they?” one of the men said, his grin broad and vulgar.
“Too much scale for my taste,” replied another, a wiry man with patchy facial hair, his voice dripping with mockery. “Still, bet they’re warm enough ‘tween the legs.”
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The third mercenary snickered. “And those furballs?” He gestured toward the Mehrat captives, his words laced with disgust. “Can’t imagine anyone’s desperate enough for that. Filthy little rats.”
The group laughed, their coarse humor filling the clearing.
Daani felt Haath tense beside her, his hands flexing against his restraints. “Don’t,” she whispered sharply, but her own breathing quickened as their attention turned toward the captives.
The wiry man nudged the one with the chipped tooth, nodding toward the wagons. “Come on. Let’s sample one of the lizards.”
The men rose, their steps unsteady from drink. Daani's heart thudded as they approached. She forced herself to remain still, her mind racing for an escape that didn't exist.
When they reached for her, Daani kicked out hard, her unbound feet giving her enough leverage to strike one in the chest. He staggered back with a grunt. The others grabbed her arms, but she twisted violently in their grip, using her bound hands as a single weapon to strike upward at the nearest face.
Haath roared, throwing himself at the men despite his bound wrists. He barreled into one of them, knocking him to the ground with the sheer force of his weight. "Get your filthy hands off her!"
The wiry man retaliated with a backhand that split Daani's lip. Blood filled her mouth, but she stayed upright, her glare searing into him.
Bailon pressed himself against the wagon's bars, his gray eyes wide with terror. "Stop it!" he hissed, his voice trembling. "You'll make it worse!" But he didn't move to help.
The scuffle was brief. Two more mercenaries joined the fray, and Haath's bound wrists made it impossible to defend himself as they slammed him to the ground with a series of brutal kicks. One grabbed Daani by her hair, dragging her toward the edge of the clearing.
"Enough.” The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
The woman striding toward them was tall and lean, with dark brown cropped hair and piercing green eyes, and she moved with practiced precision. She wore light, practical armor reinforced with steel, designed for mobility. Every movement reflected confidence and efficiency, from her sharp gaze to her measured stride.
The mercenaries froze, their laughter dying in their throats. "Put her back," the woman ordered, her tone clipped and unyielding.
The man holding Daani hesitated. "We were just—"
"You were just about to get yourselves killed," the woman interrupted, her voice like ice. She stepped closer, her fists clenched. "You disobey orders, touch the captives, and undermine our discipline. Is that the kind of mercenary you want to be? A rabid dog?"
When none of them answered, the woman moved. Her fist connected with the wiry man's jaw, sending him staggering back into the wagon. Blood dripped from his split lip, his eyes wide with shock.
"Latrine duty. All of you. Until I say otherwise." the woman’s gaze swept over them, daring them to argue.
The men muttered curses but didn't resist as they slunk back to the other side of the campfire.
The commanding woman turned to the remaining mercenaries. "Get them secured. Properly this time." She watched as they bound the captives' ankles again and locked them in the wagon, her expression hard and unreadable.
Daani sat with her back to the bars, her breathing steady and her expression calm. Despite her throbbing lip and aching ribs, she felt a flicker of grudging respect for the human woman, though she doubted the woman would care if she voiced it.
Haath groaned beside her, his face bruised but his spirit unbroken. Bailon sat quietly in the corner, avoiding their eyes, his shame palpable.
As the mercenaries resumed their revelry, Daani tested her bonds, finding them secure once again. She would not let them break her. Not tonight, not ever.
* * * * *
Domnall sat alone in his tent, the faint flicker of a lantern casting long shadows across the canvas walls. The cluttered table before him was strewn with maps, supply records, and a half-empty flask of cheap liquor. The papers blurred before his eyes, figures and routes bleeding together as the weight of command pressed down on his shoulders. Outside, the distant murmur of the mercenaries' camp filtered through the thin walls—laughter that cut too sharp, curses that rang too loud, and the occasional bark of an order that sounded more like a threat.
His fingers traced the rim of the flask, but he didn't lift it. The drink had lost its edge days ago, its burn no longer enough to dull the voice in his head that whispered of honor lost and principles abandoned. He exhaled slowly, the rasp of his calloused hand against stubbled jaw unnaturally loud in the tent's oppressive quiet.
The flap of the tent shifted, sending the lantern's flame dancing. Cara stepped inside, and though her movements were fluid and controlled, Domnall saw the rigid set of her shoulders, the barely concealed tension around her eyes. After years of fighting beside her, he could read her silence as clearly as a shout.
"We've got a problem," she said, her arms folding across her chest, fingers digging slightly into the leather of her bracers.
Domnall leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He gestured for her to continue, though his stomach had already knotted in anticipation.
"Three of the men tried to pull a Drakel girl out of the cage," Cara said bluntly. "A black-scaled one." Her voice was carefully neutral, but her eyes burned with a cold fury he recognized.
Domnall's jaw clenched, muscles working beneath his skin as the familiar taste of shame rose in his throat. He didn't respond immediately, letting the weight of her words settle over him like a shroud.
"I stopped it," Cara added, and now he heard it—the tremor of rage beneath her controlled tone. "Hit one of them. Assigned them to latrine duty until further notice." Her knuckles, he noticed, were scraped raw.
"Good," Domnall said finally, his voice low and gruff. He glanced down at the table, fingers idly tracing the edge of a map, following the borders of places he'd once sworn to protect. "Anything else?"
"They're getting worse," Cara said, stepping closer. The lantern light caught the planes of her face as she placed her hands on the table, leaning forward. "It's not just the drinking. They're losing discipline, Domnall. Acting more like bandits than soldiers." The wood creaked beneath her fingers.
Domnall let out a bitter laugh, the sound like breaking glass. "We're not soldiers anymore, Cara. Haven't been for a long time." The words tasted like ash.
Cara's green eyes narrowed, her gaze as steady as a blade at his throat. "Then what are we? Because if we don't get them under control, we're no better than the beasts we're supposed to be protecting people from."
Domnall's hand clenched into a fist, knuckles whitening. He looked up at Cara, his voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. "And who's going to stop them? Me?"
"Yes," Cara said simply, the word ringing with conviction he didn't deserve.
The bluntness of her answer struck him like a physical blow. His shoulders sagged, and he let out a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years. "I don't know if I can. They follow orders because they want to, not because they respect me. And if Gaius... if this job wasn't paying so well..." He trailed off, the unfinished thought hanging between them like poison.
Cara straightened, something in her expression softening—not with pity, never that, but with understanding that cut deeper than any blade. "They still respect you. Some of them, at least. But you need to remind them why they joined you in the first place. Before this."
"Before what?" Domnall asked, bitterness seeping into every word. He gestured around the tent, his hand sweeping over the maps and records. "Before we started raiding villages and selling people like livestock? Before we became everything I once fought against?"
Cara didn't flinch at his outburst. She let him vent, standing quietly until his words faded into the heaviness of night air.
"I don't like what we've become," Domnall admitted finally, his voice rough with truth. "What I've become."
Cara moved around the table, her steps silent on the packed earth. She rested a hand on his shoulder, the warmth of her touch seeping through his shirt. "Then change it," she said softly.
Domnall looked up at her, his gray eyes heavy with exhaustion and the kind of shame that burrows deep into bones. "It's not that simple."
"It never is," Cara replied, her voice low but firm. Her thumb moved slightly against his shoulder, an unconscious gesture of comfort. "But you're still in charge, Dom. If you don't set the standard, no one else will."
The silence stretched between them, filled with years of shared battles, quiet nights, and unspoken words. Then Domnall exhaled and leaned back, pressing slightly into her touch. His gaze grew distant, seeing memories instead of tent walls.
"You've always been the steady one," he murmured, reaching up to cover her hand with his own.
"And you've always been the one worth following," Cara replied, her voice softening to something intimate and raw.
The lantern flickered, shadows dancing across their faces as Cara's fingers tightened slightly on his shoulder. She stepped back, her hands moving to the buckles of her leather armor with practiced efficiency. The pieces fell away one by one, each landing softly on the ground beside the cot. Domnall watched her, his throat tight, as she stripped down to her shirt and breeches.
He stood slowly, the chair scraping against dirt. His sword belt joined her armor, the familiar weight falling away as he set it aside. Cara moved closer, her calloused fingers finding the laces of his shirt. Their eyes met in the dim light, years of unspoken words passing between them.
His hands found her waist, pulling her closer. She leaned into him, her breath warm against his neck. The lantern cast their shadows as one against the tent wall as they moved together toward the cot.
Later, they lay tangled in the blankets, their breathing still slightly uneven. Sweat cooled on their skin in the night air. Cara's head rested on his chest, her hair spilling across his shoulder. His fingers traced idle patterns on her bare arm, following the familiar map of old scars.
The night pressed in around them, broken only by the soft sound of their breathing falling into sync. Domnall buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of leather and woodsmoke that always clung to her. Her thumb stroked slowly across his knuckles, a gentle reminder that even in this darkness, he wasn't alone.
Yet as his eyes closed, the faces of their captives flickered behind his eyelids—and with them, the ghost of the man he'd once been, watching him with eyes that would never forgive.