Ainreth was very pleased with Petre’s work, so much so that when questioned, he had no problem giving Petre permission to go through the soldiers’ files later so they could check on the new ones, see where they’d come from.

But they would have to do that later. They didn’t bring files like this with them to missions, not only because it was unnecessary, but also because the parchment could get ruined, so Petre would have to go through it when they got back to Kyr-Toryl. Hopefully, that wouldn’t take too long, though, as they should be staying here for only one more week.

They walking through the woods now, looking to find more mushrooms for the cook. They could have simply called to the root-like strands in the ground to grow more, but Petre wanted to find a specific type of mushroom that they wouldn’t mind eating for today’s dinner—the meatcap. And sure, it didn’t taste exactly like meat, but it was as close as they were going get out here. They had made a deal with the cook that if they managed to get some, the cook would bake them.

The only issue was the weather. Summer and autumn were both good seasons for mushrooms, but not up here. The temperatures were very low at night, and even during the day, if there was overcast, it was cold. Petre could still grow mushrooms in this weather, of course, but it made it harder to find them because Petre had to walk around, perfectly in tune with the strands in the ground beneath his feet, looking for the ones they recognized as belonging to a meatcap. They’d trained this for years, otherwise, they wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference between the types of mushrooms at all.

The good thing was, though, that once they managed to locate the correct strands, they would be able to grow as many meatcaps as they wanted from them. They had brought a large basket with them, hopefully, that would be enough for the whole regiment to get a cap each. Petre wanted to be petty and not get any for certain soldiers, but unfortunately, it would be out of their hands who receives one or not, given that they would be equally distributed later. At least Hantyr didn’t like mushrooms, that was something that made Petre feel a bit better.

They didn’t even realize how deep into the wood they’d gone following the mushroom strands until they noticed that there was complete silence, aside from a little birdsong in the distance. Petre looked over their shoulder, faced with trees as far as they could see. They considered turning back and searching the woods closer to the outpost, but then Petre shrugged. They’d been going in one direction, and they knew to head south to reach the outpost again. There was no chance of getting lost.

Petre was so preoccupied with their search that they didn’t notice anything was amiss until they heard a twig snap behind them. As they turned their head to look, their eyes widened at the fist coming their way. Just in time, Petre managed to duck, avoiding the punch, but they didn’t manage to dodge the second one coming their way, hitting them in the stomach, their basket flying out of their hand.

Gasping for breath, Petre doubled over, only then managing to catch a proper glimpse of his attackers. Much to their shock, it was the two rude soldiers who he’d been suspicious of. What the sunder did they think they were doing?

The man made a move to grab their arms, but Petre recovered from the punch quickly enough to react just in time, elbowing him in the face hard, making him stumble back with a cry.

Unfortunately, Petre didn’t get enough time to turn his attention to the woman before the hilt of a sword collided with the back of their head. The next second Petre was on the forest floor, gasping in pain and blinking, their head spinning, their limbs unresponsive for the moment.

They tried to fight back when their wrists were grabbed and tied together in front of them, metal clamps pulled on their fingers, but they were still too dizzy to properly react. They tried to bite the man’s fingers when he forced a rag in their mouth, but not even that worked. Petre finally regained clarity as they were being forced to stand up.

Pain was still stabbing through their head as the woman grabbed Petre by the hair, yanking their head up. Petre tried to curse at them, but the damned rag tied around their head turned whatever insults they could come up with into incomprehensible mumbling. Biting into the gag hard, Petre tried to fight against the clamps binding his fingers together, forcing them to be straight and unmoving, but no matter how much they tried, the metal refused to give even slightly.

“He broke my nose!” the man yelled in Orinovan. Petre’s eyes widened further. Why would they even know how to…. Petre felt a new kind of dread pool in their stomach, but when they tried to pull at the rope binding their wrists together, the woman just yanked at their hair harder, making them wince.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she berated the man, also in Orinovan, before focusing on Petre, and speaking Akkarian instead, a satisfied smirk on her face. “You’ll be going with us now, lieutenant. Queen Svytlani has some questions about your lightweaver.”

Oh, so they were spies. Petre hated that their immediate fear was confirmed like that. How could they have infiltrated the ranks of the royal army like that and escaped notice? How much did they know already? Petre didn’t think the two had been in their regiment long, but they could have already learned secrets that could help Orinovo win this war. And they were clearly planning on getting more out of them because Petre had so foolishly tried to intimidate them with their new rank.

Well, perhaps that was a blessing in disguise. It had put Petre in this situation, but at least they didn’t know many secrets that could threaten Lys-Akkaria. Petre highly doubted the Orinovan queen was interested in Ainreth’s writing.

Petre tried not to flinch when they felt a sword press against their back.

“Now let’s get going.”

Petre stumbled as they were yanked forward by the rope, the woman holding a length of it which was leading out from their bound wrists. Petre wondered who they truly were. If those names they had given Petre were real, belonging to someone these two had impersonated, or if they were a complete fabrication.

But Petre didn’t doubt that the two spies hadn’t given them their real names, so there was no point in calling them by the ones they had told them. Especially given how Lys-Akkarian they had sounded.

Petre wanted to drag their feet, make it as inconvenient for the two Orinovans to drag them anywhere, but the constant threat of the sword convinced them overwise. Petre doubted they would kill them, but they would definitely not win any fight against these two, not while tied up like this.

And so they begrudgingly started walking wherever the two spies were leading them, the sword’s edge still pressed against their tunic. Between that and the finger clamps, the Orinovans were clearly not taking any chances.

But somehow Petre doubted this had been their original plan. Surely, if they had planned on kidnapping Ainreth’s lieutenant, they would have taken Petre’s predecessor. The switch from her to Petre had been incredibly fast, yes, but why would these Orinovans wait around long enough for it to happen to begin with? Why wouldn’t they simply find out who the second-in-command was and capture her immediately?

No, if they had come here wanting to do that, Petre doubted it would have taken them over a week. Perhaps they had been planning on killing or taking Ainreth, only to realize that the lightweaver was far too powerful during the day, and too guarded during the night. It would certainly explain why they had talked about Ainreth as this formidable, undefeatable being.

Petre tried to keep track of which way they were going, noting that much to their chagrin they seemed to be heading west, which meant the two Orinovans were bringing them to the border. Petre had been hopeful that perhaps they could listen in on what the two spies might talk about in Orinovan, assuming Petre wouldn’t be able to understand them, but they were staying disappointingly silent as they forced Petre to keep walking.

The sun had gone down and the air had grown chilly enough to be uncomfortable even with the marching when they finally stopped. Petre frowned as they were dragged into a narrow cave in the side of a mountain wall, only for their eyebrows to fly up when they reached a wide, oval part of it, a few bedrolls and crates along the rough, stone walls.

Petre grunted when they were harshly yanked forward, the woman grabbing their shoulders and forcing them down to kneel next to one of the crates. They glared up at her, but they knew better than to try to fight, the man almost immediately putting his sword under Petre’s chin. Petre glared harder when the man pushed the sword up, making them raise their head even higher.

“We have some questions for you, Lys-Akkarian,” the woman said, her accent thick now that she wasn’t putting on a front, pulling the rag out of Petre’s mouth while they were forced to stay still or cut themselves on the sword’s edge. “Since we have to stop for the night, anyway.”

“I won’t tell you anything, kerva,” Petre told her, enjoying her surprised blink at them using an Orinovan insult. Then they added in Orinovan: “Do your worst.”

The two spies looked at each other before the woman spoke again, this time in Orinovan, scowling down at Petre. “You can speak our language?”

“What gave you that impression?” they answered, also in Orinovan.

The man snorted. His nose was bruised from the way Petre had hit him. While it didn’t look broken as the man had claimed, it was still a little satisfying to see. “The little thing has claws.”

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“You would know,” the woman shot back, gesturing to her nose as she stared her accomplice down. Then she looked down at Petre again. “What is Lys-Akkaria planning? You’ve been moving troops to outposts at the border.”

Petre almost wanted to laugh at the assumption that Lys-Akkaria was the first to do so. They actually weren’t sure who had started this, but at least their regiment had come here purely because Orinovo had been mobilizing troops. Petre could accuse these spies of the exact same thing.

But they would not tell them even that. Petre wouldn’t give them anything, no matter how seemingly useless the information was. “I will tell you nothing.”

“You’re lucky we need you in a good enough condition to walk,” the woman said, annoyance lacing her words. “If I could interrogate you properly, you would tell us everything.”

Petre just kept staring back at her, even as their heart beat harder and harder. They had never been tortured, and they weren’t particularly looking forward to it. But the woman was correct—they couldn’t do much to Petre if they wanted them to march with them over the border. The border, which was still a few days away on foot, through the forests. Surely someone must have noticed Petre’s absence by now. If no one else, Enlin would. They wanted to say that Ainreth would have noticed as well, but Ainreth didn’t seem very aware of the people around him most of the time.

Petre couldn’t help but gasp when suddenly pain flared up at the side of their neck, only to realize the man had intentionally nicked them. Petre felt beads of warm blood start to trail down their skin from the small cut.

When the sword retreated a moment later, Petre was given only a split second to realize why before the woman’s fist hit their cheek hard. Petre cried out, falling to the side from the sheer force of it. They were given no time to recover, though, as next a hard boot kicked into their ribs, another pained cry tearing itself from their lips. The woman kicked them in the stomach next, even as Petre curled up to try to protect themselves again the assault.

There were tears of pain in their eyes by the time the woman was finally done, having kicked several more times. Petre didn’t move, simply pressing their knees to their stomach even more, even though moving hurt horribly right now. They tried to pull back when hands grabbed their bound wrists, pulling them away from their chest and down toward their feet. Petre didn’t understand what the two Orinovans were doing until they felt rope being tied around their ankles.

Petre tried to tug against it, but they were too weak and in too much pain to put up much of a fight as the two spies finished tying their wrists and ankles together, forcing them to stay curled up in a tight ball on their side, barely able to move an inch, their arms pressed against their knees uncomfortably. There was a length of rope between their hands and feet, but it wasn’t long enough to allow for any actual movement.

“You won’t be running away from us like that, will you?” the man mocked them, pushing the rag between Petre’s lips, and when they refused to open their mouth, the man clenched his fist around Petre’s arm hard until they were gasping in pain, which the man then used to finish gagging them.

The woman yanked at their hair again, angling Petre’s head up to face her. “I suggest you do your best to get some rest, Lys-Akkarian. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

+++++++++

It had been two days now, and Petre had nearly lost all hope of being rescued. Their body was littered with bruises from the way the two spies had tortured them so far, trying to get them to talk, but Petre had held their tongue. They could deal with the pain. The problem was that they were rapidly nearing the border, and once they crossed over, Petre highly doubted anyone would go look for them, then. It would be too dangerous, too risky only to save a relatively unimportant soldier.

Yes, Petre was a sproutkeeper and quite good at brewing healing tonics, but they were still replaceable.

Petre stumbled along as they were dragged closer and closer to the border. They might not know exactly where the border was in these woods, but they were confident it wouldn’t take much longer. The two Orinovans had said as much, taunting Petre with it.

Well, if they wanted information about Ainreth, at least Petre knew almost nothing useful. They kept repeating that to themself, trying to comfort themself with the fact, but it wasn’t very effective. Between the beatings and all the walking, Petre was exhausted. The Orinovans insisted on tying them up so there was no chance of escaping each night, but the cramps in their muscles made it near impossible to sleep.

“Keep up,” the woman snapped at Petre, yanking on the rope. Petre stumbled forward, just barely managing not to fall to the ground. They weren’t even intentionally going slow. Their legs were just too tired, their eyes half-lidded even when Petre tried to keep them open all the way, their head hanging forward.

They didn’t manage to walk faster though, resulting in the woman pulling them forward once more. And this time, Petre lost their balance, their foot getting caught on a root. They hit the ground with a muffled grunt and a whimper as their sore ribs collided with the hard, cold dirt, biting into the spit-soaked rag in their mouth.

Petre barely had enough time to recover a little before the woman was kicking them in the stomach again, forcing a cry out of them as they curled up. Their abdomen was littered with bruises already. They had seen it this morning when the man had been surveying the damage they’d done.

“Get up!” she snapped at them, and by all the rivers in Lys-Akkaria, Petre tried. But they barely managed to drag themself up onto their knees before the woman grabbed their hair, tugging them up by it. Petre hissed, gritting their teeth as they struggled to stand up to relieve some of the pain, but her hand was fisted in their hair too hard for it not to hurt either way.

“Look, maybe I can just carry him the rest of the way,” the man offered. “The sooner we get to Orinovo, the better. Besides, how much can he weigh?”

The woman seemed to think it over for a bit before nodding, letting go of Petre’s hair and pushing them back, making them stumble and fall into the man’s arms. The man then easily picked them up and threw them over his shoulder, making Petre gasp for breath as their ribs were hit once. The man put one arm over Petre’s legs, grabbing them, before hooking his other hand between Petre’s arms, a steely grip on his right forearm, making them lay over both of the Orinovan’s shoulders, immobilized.

Petre strained against the man’s hold, but it was useless. Maybe if they weren’t exhausted and in pain, they could have put up a fight, but like this, it was hopeless.

“Great, let’s keep going, then.”

Petre fought against the way their eyes kept closing as best they could, only able to observe as they were carried along, now truly not being able to do anything about their capture at all. They could have run before, theoretically. Now all Petre could do was try their best not to pass out.

The man carried them as if they weighed nothing, occasionally adjusting his hold on Petre, but not even that was enough to keep them awake, their head lolling to the side, their eyelids heavier and heavier.

Petre was about to give in and let their body do what it wanted, no matter how disoriented it would make them later, when they heard something. Was that…the beating of hoofs? Were they hallucinating? Why would anyone bring a horse to these thick woods?

But as the sound drew nearer, the two Orinovans came to a halt, looking at each other.

“What is—”

“We need to run!” the woman yelled, alarm in her voice. Petre tried to drag their eyes open, managing it after a moment, but only a crack. It was still enough to see the black horse gaining on them.

That was Sunray! Which meant—

“How dare you take my little guy away from me?!” came Ainreth’s furious voice, his large horse galloping ahead and then coming to a halt with a snort, cutting off the spies’ escape route. Petre’s heart soared as they noticed that Enlin was there with Ainreth, too.

They’d found them.

Before the Orinovans could properly react, Ainreth was jumping off his horse and summoning an intense ray of light at the woman from his raised, glowing hand. The effect was immediate. The woman started screaming as the harsh light burned her skin, falling to her knees, her arms thrown in front of her face in a vain attempt at protecting herself against Ainreth’s power. But Petre knew very well that it wouldn’t work. They’d seen Ainreth fight before. He could burn his enemies to ash if he wanted to. In fact, he seemed to be prolonging it this time, making the woman scream, and cry, and beg for mercy.

Mercy which the Daybreaker wasn’t giving her.

Seeing this, the man holding Petre quickly threw them off, making them cry out as they fell. They wanted to warn Ainreth that the other Orinovan was escaping, but they couldn’t, not with the gag in their mouth.

“Petre!” yelled Enlin, rushing to them and helping them sit up. She quickly untied the gag and started undoing the ropes tied around their sore wrists. They’d had their hands tied for three days now, and their skin was cut up from all the rope burn. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Oh, I’m so glad we found you!”

Enlin kept going like this, even as she started pulling the finger clamps off. Petre let her, feeling too tired to even feel annoyed. Her voice was so soothing, in fact. She hugged them, and Petre pressed their head into her shoulder, melting into the embrace. After the three days of cruelty they had lived through, they almost wanted to cry at the gentle touch.

“We went looking all over. I’m so sorry it took so long.”

Enlin actually sounded guilty, which was ridiculous. The important thing was that they had found Petre at all.

“Thank you,” they croaked, forcing their eyes open again. They wanted to sleep so badly, especially now that they were safe, but they needed to know what had happened with the other spy.

Petre pulled their head away, blinking at the charred corpse of the woman. They wrinkled their nose at the smell of burnt flesh. That certainly explained why the screams had died down, but where had Ainreth gone? He had just been here, and now—

Petre’s question was answered almost immediately when they noticed Ainreth by a nearby tree, dragging with him the Orinovan. The Orinovan, who was now blindly grasping around the air. Had…Ainreth blinded him?

Actually, compared to what he’d done to the woman, this seemed very generous.

“Enlin, watch our new friend here,” Ainreth ordered, pushing the man forward so that he fell to his knees with a scared cry. Enlin rushed to do as she was told, pulling her sword out of the sheath hanging from her belt and putting it under the man’s chin.

Petre wanted to keep track of what was going on with the Orinovan, but their view was obscured by Ainreth, who without warning knelt down in front of them and pulled them into a tight hug. It made Petre’s ribs scream, but they were very touched nonetheless that Ainreth seemed to care so much.

“Oh, I was so worried I wouldn’t find you,” Ainreth said, his voice a little unsteady as he refused to let go, if anything holding Petre closer to his chest, stroking a hand over their hair. “So worried!”

Petre was about to try to gently nudge him away, their ribs too painful to keep this going, but then Ainreth did it himself, putting his hands on Petre’s shoulders and looking them over.

“Did those blighted traitors hurt you?” he cried, his voice offended as he poked at Petre’s bruised cheek. “I should have burned her slower.”

“They…weren’t traitors,” Petre corrected, taking a deep breath. Talking was difficult right now. “Spies.”

“Even worse!”

Petre truly wanted to stay awake, but they were losing the fight, their eyes more and more difficult to keep open until they slid shut completely, and their eyelids refused to lift again.

“Petre! Are you dying?” Ainreth practically screamed, making Petre wince. But not even that woke them up.

“Just…tired.”

Ainreth pulled them closer, cradling them. “It’s okay, you go sleep, little guy. We’ll get you back to the outpost. All right? Just sleep.”

And Petre did, unable to do otherwise, especially not when they were being actively encouraged. Petre felt themself being lifted as they nodded off, the darkness of unconsciousness finally taking them.