The first thing Tom did when he woke up in the infirmary was to try and kill Sara.

That was his mistake. He didn’t make it three steps from his bed before Sara cracked a stick over his head.

“Goddess be damned,” he groaned, clutching the sides of his skull. “Who trained you in sword fighting?”

“A bastard of a man,” Sara answered, tossing the broken stick aside. “Real cream of the crop stuff. Now. Let’s talk, Your Highness, about how we can get out of here.”

Tom clung to the side of the bed and raised himself up. “I have nothing to say to my brother’s murderer.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Sara said. “We don’t have time to be discussing morality and all that bullshit right now. I need your help getting out, and judging by that display of high IQ yesterday, I feel pretty confident in saying you need me too.”

“You want me to get you out?” Tom chortled darkly. “So you can kill more people?” He didn’t wait for her reply before coming at her again, grabbing one of the broken halves of her stick off the floor.

Sara drew in a deep breath and held it for three seconds, then caught the stick against her palm with a fleshly smack.

It hurt but she didn’t show it. When Tom pulled back she held on. Focusing her mind, she pictured oxygen particles around her fingers dancing, and saw in real-time the stick being consumed by a burst of fire.

Tom dropped the burning stick and scrambled back, knocking into the bed.

Sara watched the flames curling around her hand. She felt the movement but not the heat. It was like the fire was a part of her, like her hair.

Once the stick was reduced completely to ashes, she clenched her fist, snuffing the fire.

> Chaos Gained

She ignored the voice. Stepping up to Tom, she extended a hand, the same one that burned. “I’m not the kind of person to go looking for trouble,” she told him. “I’m just a girl who wants to go home. So by god, you’re either going to help me, or you’re going to be the bonfire which lights my way.”

Tom swallowed a nervous breath. His skin was shiny with sweat and reaching up, he pushed his crusty bangs over his forehead, leaving a trail of soot across his face. “I want to get out of this place too," he said. "Fine. We can work together.” He took Sara’s hand and stood. “What do you want me to do?”

“I need one of those remotes the guards have,” Sara said. “I might be able to figure out how to get these collars off.”

Tom’s hand went to his own collar. “Right. We’ll just stroll up to one of them and ask nicely.”

“I’ll cause a distraction,” Sara said.

“And after?”

“We kill everyone.”

Tom gave Sara a look that was equal parts exasperation and fear. “If we’re going to escape, we need to do it the right way.”

“So there’s a right way then.” Sara folded her arms and leaned against the wall. “Please. Enlighten me, Your Highness.”

“Don’t say that,” Tom hissed, rushing over to the door and peaking out. “No one knows who I am. If they did, I’d be taken away and ransomed, and your plan to escape with me will be dead before it even learned to walk.”

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Tom opened the door wider. A breeze slipped through, smelling of food. Sara’s stomach growled.

“We should eat first,” said Tom. “You look like you’ve missed a few meals.”

Together, they made their way back down the hill. The sun was hanging low over the mountains, casting great swatches of shadows across the crater. Sara guessed it was only afternoon, but the temperature had already dropped significantly.

Tom talked as they made their way to the food tent, where prisoners were lined up to be served. “The Reds took me hostage after you left. I managed to break free and was on my way back across the border when I was ambushed.”

“So you just got here,” Sara said. She joined the line behind Tom.

“This morning, in fact,” the prince replied in a hushed voice. “But thanks to my agreeable personality, I’ve managed to make friends already.”

Sara snickered. “Was it these friends who gave you the bright idea to make a run for it in broad daylight?”

Tom turned around. “Are you always this difficult? Or is it more like a profession?”

The laughter turned sour inside Sara’s stomach. ‘Difficult’ was a label she expected someone to put on Yuzuru. He was always the snarky one of the family, the black sheep with no academic or extra-curricular accomplishments. ‘Difficult’ was not Sara.

Someone pushed her from behind.

“Line’s movin’.”

Sara didn’t say anything more until she got to the food tent. The prisoner was a stoic man with hair that looked like barbwire. He shoved a half loaf of crumbly bread in Sara’s hands.

“That’s it?” Sara asked.

The man shrugged.

Sara started to go but an apple suddenly appeared on top of her bread. She looked at the man in surprise.

“For what you did to that guard,” he said with the faintest of smiles.

Tom was waiting for her at the end of the line. He held up his half loaf, broke it again, and handed a piece to Sara.

“Save yours,” he said. “It’s the only thing we have that can be bargained with.”

Sara looked at the quarter of bread. “Thanks,” she said.

Tom ate his bread and led Sara around the tents, towards the fields. There were many prisoners sitting among the weeds, so Sara and Tom were well camouflaged from any guards.

Sara finished her bite of bread. It was just enough to take the edge off her hunger. She wanted to save her apple but decided life was too short.

Tom glanced over as she started munching. If he was envious, he didn’t show a hint of it.

“Here.” Sara held out the rest of the apple. “I didn’t have a knife. Hope you don’t mind.”

Without saying anything, Tom accepted the half-eaten apple. He ate it all, even the core.

As they walked further into the farmland, the number of loitering prisoners lessened, but the quality of character also decreased. Those in these parts of the fields looked tougher, their skins more leathery and their eyes leery. Some started to make catcalls when Sara passed.

Sara kept close to Tom and held her head down. Tom apologized, assured her they were getting close to the Brothers, and puffed out his chest.

He wasn’t going to be much use in a fight, Sara knew. So as the path grew narrower and apple trees closed in on either side, she kept her hand stiffly at her side, where she had strapped the other half of her walking stick under her prisoner rags.

“I think they’re here,” Tom whispered just as the path ended. Sara’s fingers itched to draw her homemade dagger. They were surrounded on all sides by thick trees, packed densely enough she couldn’t see the rest of the camp.

“Mister Tinkerer?” Tom called out. “We have come to see you.”

Sara grabbed his arm. “What are you doing, just announcing yourself like that?”

“Don’t worry,” Tom assured her. “From my information, this fellow is our best bet to getting these collars off. That’s the first step of our plan, isn’t it?”

“And you think he’ll do that for a piece of bread?”

“Of course not,” Tom said. “Naturally, once I prove to him I am Prince Tom Stryde of Cold Castle, he will have no choice but to help me.” He pounded on a nearby tree trunk. “Mister Tinkerer?”

Sara took a step back from him. She felt a branch snap under her heel.

Leaves rustled, echoing someone’s laughter. From behind the nearby trees, a group of men slipped out. Each of them sported a scarred ‘T’ on their bare chests. Many of them were bald.

Tom stopped mid-shout, his fist still hovering over his tree. He inched back into Sara.

The men kept coming. There were about twenty in total, forming a circle around the duo.

One of the men stepped up. He held an apple in one hand and a hatchet in the other. “What do you want?” he asked, biting into the apple and spraying its juice all over Tom’s face.

Tom, in his princely fashion, did not wipe the juice away. “I wish to request council with the one called Tinkerer.”

The man took another bite. “I am. Who are you?”

Tom held up his head. “I am Prince Tom Stryde of Cold Castle, sir. And I am in need of your assistance to return to my father.”

The circle laughed, but stopped when the man shook his head.

“You’re a long way from Cold Castle, boy.” He finished his apple, tossed the core away then punched Tom right across the face, dropping him like a marionette with its strings cut.