Gray threw all his weight backwards and Killian grunted. They fell onto the ground and Gray punched him as hard as he could. Pain jolted in his fist.

‘You’re pissing me off,’ said Killian.

His hands closed around Gray’s throat again. In an instant, he got Gray underneath him. Gray stared up at him, his face out of focus as Gray’s eyes watered.

Killian paused. ‘What have you done to your arm? There’s blood everywhere. Gods.’

He pulled Gray up by the front of his sweater.

‘I’ve been very lenient with you, kid. You don’t want to see me get angry.’ Killian rounded on the gathering crowd. ‘This isn’t a show,’ he snarled. ‘Get back to work.’

The crowd scattered.

He dragged Gray up two flights of stairs, and slammed through a door.

Gray’s vision blackened. Then came back, startlingly bright.

They were in a large suite, with huge windows that looked out onto the rooftops of Krydon, and then out to the ruins on the mountain. A fire crackled gently from inside an ornate fireplace, and giant artwork inside gold frames was up on the wood-panelled walls.

There was a woman, deeply asleep, on the large bed.

Gray could immediately identify her as a mage, from the complex twists and braids and ornamentation in her long silvery hair, and by her complicated and layered robes.

She breathed, deep and serene, and completely unaware of the very, very angry officer glowering in the doorway.

Gray felt himself go limp. His vision blackened again, for a second, seeing stars.

Killian shoved Gray to the floor inside the door, bit out a sharp, ‘don’t get blood on the rugs,’ and his footsteps stormed away, muted by thick carpet.

Then, he was back, every hard line on his face furious. He ripped the already torn sleeve of Gray’s sweater even more, and he roughly cleaned and then bandaged Gray’s arm.

He yanked off Gray’s boots, not bothering to undo the laces, and Gray couldn’t help gasping, his ankle pure agony.

Killian froze.

It took an age for Gray to register that Killian was staring at something that had fallen out of Gray’s pocket.

It was all for nothing, thought Gray miserably. He's seen the shard of pottery.

Killian snatched it up, and held it in Gray’s face. ‘What’s this?’

It wasn't the shard of pottery Gray had stolen. It was Gray’s notebook, with his not-written farewell letter to Alistair.

Gray thought he might cave into himself.

Killian shot him a look of pure loathing and then flipped through it. He halted, on the last page.

‘I - I had it on me,’ mumbled Gray. ‘When I was mugged.’

‘You write this, kid?’

Gray shook his head, knitting his eyebrows.

Killian ran his thumb over the pages, and then hissed, pulling his hand back as though stung.

‘One for a fear,’ Killian read out, his voice tight, his voice fuming, ‘two for a tear, three for a jeer, four for a seer. Five for the moon, six for the sun, seven for a truth you cannot outrun. Eight for a kiss, nine for bliss, ten for a raven you must not miss. Hm? What’s that?’

Gray stared, feeling like he might pass out, his mouth working soundlessly.

‘Well, kid?’ Killian snapped.

‘It’s from – a local tale – the tale of the ten ravens. I didn’t – I didn’t write it.’

Killian kept completely still.

‘It’s from Branbright.’ Killian crushed the notebook in his hand. ‘You been lying to me, Gray? Branbright been passing you messages?’

‘No.’

Killian bared his teeth in a snarl, for the smallest moment. ‘Ten ravens. Ten marked.’

‘Huh?’ said Gray.

Killian looked like he was doing some very quick thinking. His face was pale.

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‘Fine.’ Killian strode over to his trunk and grabbed out a vial.

Gray struggled as Killian forced some kind of potion down Gray’s throat. His magic came to his skin, hot and bright, but nothing like it had been before.

Gray coughed and spluttered.

But he was too weak from blood loss to fight back.

And, eyeing the ugly look on Killian’s face, he didn’t dare to, even if he could.

Killian latched his fingers through Gray’s dark hair and pulled him up.

Gray refused to cry out, but it was a close thing.

‘You need to eat,’ said Killian. A vein pulsed in his temple. ‘A blood-replenishing potion on an empty stomach means a mess on my floor.’

Gray couldn’t speak. He flinched as Killian shouted for a Hall worker and for a soldier.

He dragged Gray over to a wash stand outside the bathroom door, and he crumpled to the floor as Killian suddenly let go. Killian dipped the washcloth into the scented water, and then threw it at him. Gray recoiled as it hit him in the face and then began cleaning himself with grim determination.

Gray flickered a glance at the mage.

Surely, she couldn’t continue to sleep through the noise.

But, she hadn’t moved.

‘You touch her,’ said Killian, following Gray's gaze, ‘and I will kill you.’

He set up his bedroll on the opposite side of the room, near the fireplace.

A worker arrived at the same time as one of Killian’s men. Pickering.

‘Oats,’ barked Killian at the worker. He was whispering rushed instructions to the worker. Then again, slower. The worker darted a sharp glance at Gray, before nodding to Killian.

To Pickering, ‘watch him, while I shower.’ He crouched in front of Gray. ‘You want to act like a prisoner? You’re going to be treated like a prisoner. Your meals will be prisoner fare. You’re going to be watched like a hawk. No baths.’

He stalked off into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Pickering glanced at Gray, his watchful blue eyes wide. He blew out a long breath, raising his eyebrows.

‘Holy Clochaint,’ Pickering said. ‘What did you do?’

Gray pressed his lips together, shaking.

‘The last time I saw him like this,’ said Pickering quietly, turning his watchful gaze onto the bathroom door, ‘he single-handedly obliterated thirty-some tomb raiders over a golden locket.' He shuddered. 'I still dream about it.’

Pickering helped Gray over to the small dining table set up under one of the large windows.

‘Don’t,’ whispered Pickering in a rush, as the sound of the shower stopped, ‘don’t talk back, don’t look at him, just - keep your head down, and we both might get out of here in one piece.’

A worker knocked on the door with the food, and Pickering slid a bowl of oats soaked in cold water in front of Gray.

When Killian came out of his bathroom in a fresh uniform, Gray kept his gaze down, staring dully at his bowl of oats.

‘Dismissed,’ muttered Killian to Pickering. ‘No - wait.’

Pickering hovered.

‘I need,’ said Killian, ‘you to stand guard outside the door. You hear anything in here, you come in, and check. Yes?’

‘Yes, Major.’

Pickering left as quickly as possible without it technically being classed as running.

Killian stared out the window, at the view of the forest and mountain, and the old, sprawling graveyard on the fields above, his shoulders stiff.

‘Why aren’t you eating?’ Killian snapped.

Gray hastily took up his spoon.

Killian stood over him while he clumsily fed himself a few bites of plain oats.

Only, the more he ate the oats, the more he tasted … something.

Something that reminded him of alchemy class.

Makie root.

Makie root was the base for many edible jinxes.

This asshole had put some kind of jinx in Gray’s oats.

‘Clochaint, kid, you’re dripping oats everywhere.’

‘Sorry,’ muttered Gray, panic warring with exhaustion within him. He put the spoon down.

‘You finish that bowl,’ said Killian.

‘I’m done,’ said Gray, trying to sound non-confrontational. ‘Thank you.’

‘Eat the whole bowl, kid.’

Gray heaved himself to his feet. ‘No-’

His next words were muffled by Killian clapping his hand over Gray’s entire face, and pushing him back down into the chair.

‘Eat. I’m this close, Gray.’

‘What did you put in here?’ said Gray, staring down at the bowl of oats sitting innocently on the table, and trying desperately to keep control of himself. He wanted to hurl the bowl at Killian, he wanted to run, to fight, but he was shaking -

‘It’s just oats,’ said Killian.

‘What jinx?’

‘Oh.’ Killian was stockstill. ‘We are sensitive, hm?’

‘Screw you-’

‘Eat,’ said Killian. ‘It’s not going to hurt you, it’s standard army practice for valuable prisoners who prove themselves to be a - ah - flight risk.’

His hand was on the back of Gray’s head. His other was on the spoon.

You don’t want him to feed you, the rookie had said.

Shaking, Gray took up the spoon. ‘You’re going to pay for this,’ he said.

‘Sure I am, kid,’ said Killian. ‘You’re fucking adorable.’

Gray forced himself to eat the oats. He tried to think of what jinxes would be likely for the army to give prisoners, but his mind was getting slow. His thoughts were thick.

His shoulders curled. His eyes were heavy.

‘You done eating?’ said Killian tightly.

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

Gray hesitated. He had no energy left to be defiant. He couldn’t - think. ‘Thank you for the food, sir.’

‘We’ll get there, slowly but surely, won’t we, Gray?’

Gray’s lips parted. He swallowed a silent word.

‘Soldiers outside,’ Killian said, his face in Gray’s. ‘Soldiers inside. Pickering’s right there.’

Gray nodded.

Killian dragged Gary over to the bedroll by the fire and helped him settle. Pressed a hand against his chest, forcing him to lie down.

Killian pointed a finger in his face. ‘Don’t move. I’ll be back. I’ve got to go ask Longwark a lot of questions.’