‘Crimson,’ said the fae, holding a bolt of cloth against Gray. 'Othoan crimson.'

The tailor nodded, pale and tight lipped as he eyed the fae, and mumbled ‘two yards othoan crimson’ as he scribbled it down in his notes. The tailor’s forehead was damp with nervous sweat.

From what Gray could gather - and he couldn’t gather much against the muffled thinking of his mind - the poachers were working at making him presentable.

He’d already been fitted with a pair of trousers and boots that had enough fur details to tip Gray off that he was being dressed as an Othoan. He’d been roughly washed by the fae which had resulted in a black eye (the fae), and a punch to the ribs (Gray), and a crack in the concrete floor (magic).

It had also resulted in Gray being fed a string of potions and tonics by the very annoyed fae, that kept him slow.

Time slipped in and out.

-

Killian was not dead.

The fae came and went from Killian’s cell. Sometimes Killian was utterly unresponsive and still. Sometimes he wasn’t. Sometimes he was lucid enough to watch Gray.

His dark hair would hang in his half lidded gaze, he’d slouched against the bars of his cell, his arms wrapped around himself, his uniform tattered and stained. He’d eye Gray as though confused.

He never responded to Gray's attempts to talk.

It was as though he didn't know how. Or couldn't. Perhaps his hearing was messed up.

The last time the fae had gone into Killian's cell he’d put up a weak fight, and the fae put shackles on him that must’ve been silver, or enchanted, or perhaps enchanted silver - Gray didn’t know exactly how it worked with wolf-shifters - but whatever it was, it made Killian moan and the metal softly hissed.

Gray kept his face turned away. He blocked his ears. But it didn’t stop his stomach from turning. The fae took his sweat, blood, hair, and tears.

This was some dark, messed up stuff.

No sorcerers required.

Gray was sick so often that the fae - who’s name, Gray had come to learn, was Lunn - resentfully left bleach and ammonia right outside the cell.

Indeed, he was sick so often, Lunn’s potions and tonics couldn’t keep up. Gray’s mind would return to him sometimes, sharp and motivated by cold fury.

Gray was on a knife’s edge, waiting for the poachers to start collecting from him.

Not that he ever saw anyone other than Lunn.

But, sometimes he’d hear people - humans, northerners, Silver Axes - their voices drifting through the vent near Gray’s cot.

‘If she catches you playing cards today, you’ll end up in there with them …’

‘... don't stare at the fae for too long, it doesn't like it …’

They’d gotten their hands on Killian’s stat papers and they’d go over the numbers obsessively, ‘strength stat of 1755 … Ruggor’s strength was near 500, you remember …’ and laugh and laugh over this one detail ‘ … one million ardent debt to the crown …’

It seemed they did not dare enter the room imprisoning the wolf-shifter and the sorcerer.

It was always Lunn.

-

Lunn made a mistake.

He left a Marri stone by Gray’s cot at all times.

Marri stones absorbed the moisture and heat from the air, as well as some toxins.

They could also be transformed into a gas, with the right application of bleach and ammonia, that could make the most stubborn-willed person fall deeply asleep within seconds.

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Lunn wiped at Gray’s face with a cold cloth. His long fingered hands never touched Gray’s bare skin if he could help it, and his expression of murderously wanting to be anywhere else never left him.

He caught Gray eyeing Killian in the far cell.

‘You have caused my lady much grief,’ Lunn said. ‘She will continue to make use of you and use of your friend, and she will not trouble herself to not make it drawn out.’

Gray moved his gaze away from Killian’s prone form. He reminded himself to act slow, to act like he was under the calming influence of Lunn’s potions.

‘He’s not my friend,’ said Gray.

There was an iron cuff on one of Lunn’s wrists. It peeked out from underneath his sleeve as he put away the cold cloth into his leather bag.

Fae and iron were even further from being friends than Gray and Killian, and Gray had guessed that this was part of the process of how Lunn had been bound.

Gray was starting to form a wild - crazy - plan, but no matter how Gray sliced it, Lunn would definitely be a problem, because he didn’t know if a sleeping gas that worked on people would work on fae.

That, and the sheer power of a fae.

Having a fae on your team was the surest way to be unbeatable.

Gray licked his lips, drew in a controlled breath, and went for it. ‘Iron doesn’t last forever.’

Gray made his words slurred. Slow.

He may as well as have said no words at all, for all that Lunn acknowledged him.

‘It will decay,’ said Gray.

Lunn was silent, mixing a powder into a paste.

Gray’s heart couldn’t hammer right now, but it was definitely trying to.

‘I am older than the human race,’ said Lunn. ‘You think there’s anything you could tell me that I don’t already know?’

‘Ailill powder will speed up the decay,’ said Gray, wondering if he’d end up strangled at the hand of a freshly-freed fae. Or even a bound one. ‘Most physicians have it in their kit-’

‘I know this is difficult for you, for all of your kind,’ said Lunn, ‘but it would be wise to guard your tongue around me as much as you should around my lady.’

Gray curled his fingers into the rough cotton bedding. ‘She’s coming here?’

‘She has already come here,’ said Lunn. ‘It was a blessing you were unconscious. But she will come again.’

-

The bounty hunters meant business.

They kept turning up in larger and larger numbers.

Some would walk confidently into the room. Some would lean their shoulders against the far wall as they laid their eyes on Gray. Most came in alone, but some came in groups of twos and threes.

Many of them bore dark insignias tattooed on their skin.

And most were Othoans.

Gray counted every single one that came by his cell. Marked every one of their faces. Kept his breath and heart controlled, despite the ice shooting through him.

Othoans shouldn’t be inside the kingdom of Lismere.

Unless something had changed politically while Gray had been out of it.

Some of the Othoans were stoic figures in mismatched combinations of finely tailored fur coats and battleworn leathers, and some were disguised, dressed every inch as Lismerians. Most had eyes hardened by years of violence. They would demand, with gestures from their hands - hands crisscrossed with scars - that Gray stand up, but not come close. Show he was alive.

They would pass pieces of parchment to Lunn with bids written on it.

The upside was that the Othoans didn’t seem to want to take Gray apart to use his sweat, hair, tears, and blood.

On the downside, Gray was pretty sure they were working for Wilde.

And Krupin.

Their names kept getting dragged up, which were the only words Gray understood from the Othoan’s mouths.

Another upside was they were treating Gray as though he was dangerous. The other downside was they’d seen Gray fall on his face several times, watched him beg whenever Lunn approached him with another vial, and knew Gray enjoyed flipping through the illustrations in The Seaman’s Guide to Creatures of the Deep - which Lunn had thrown to Gray in a fit of irritation to get him to stop talking.

So the jig was just about up. There was no way the Othoans were going to be feeling threatened by Gray for much longer.

Soon one would - what? - buy him? Break down the bars and take him so they could collect their bounty? Gray was surprised they hadn't already, that they were all acting in this cool, civil manner, doing business negotiations instead of, you know, bounty hunting.

And, if being brought to the Othoan government for stealing was not going to be fun, being brought to Wilde instead would be so much worse.

But, if Gray came face-to-face with Wilde, he’d do everything within his power to make him pay for killing his father, his uncles, his entire family.

For tearing apart Lismere so that they were still rebuilding it almost ten years later.

One of the Othoans - one with hair so long it almost touched the ground - walked up to the iron bars, her hips swaying. She was kind of beautiful.

She gestured for Gray to come close.

Closer.

Close enough to touch.

She took Gray’s arm in her hands, and inspected the X on Gray’s wrist.

Gray kept his gaze trained on her. Tried not to recoil from her touch. She said something short to the two Othoans behind her.

Gray had seen her before. In Krydon. Walking into the tavern stable with Alistair and her unusually small horse.

Gray was so damn stupid - how had he not known she was Othoan? How had Barin, fuck, even Alistair, not seen she was Othoan?

Her eyes - were brightly intense. Mage eyes.

Though, as Gray had learned, bright eyes could be a shared trait with sorcerers.

An Othoan mage or sorcerer running around Lismere was not good.