Zara's POV
The fire died to embers, and the shack was swallowed by a cold, deep dark that felt like the inside of a coffin. Zarra didn't sleep as she bundled in the ragged furs. Sleep required a sense of safety, a luxury that had been ripped from her the moment the porch board had groaned.
She watched him, wishing she knew his name so she could curse him to the gods. Her eyes never left him.
He hadn't tied her to the cot. The message was clear: Where would you go? Where could she possibly run into a world of noise, and she crafted silence? Her power was a plague, not a tool for escape. It only knew how to break things.
He sat propped against the door, a final, immovable barrier between her and perceived freedom. He wasn't asleep either. His eyes were open, reflecting the faint flow of the dying embers, watching her just as she watched him. It was a standoff; a silent, exhausting vigil.
As the night wore on, a different need began to eclipse her fear. A basic, humiliating one. Her gaze flickered from him to the shack's door, the back. She shifted uncomfortably on the cot.
His low voice cut through the dark, making her flinch. "What?"
She looked away, refusing to look at him. Shame heated her cheeks. How did you ask your captor to let you relieve yourself? She couldn't gesture, couldn't write. Her hands were still bound in her lap.
He sighed, the sound heavy with irritation. He pushed himself to his feet with a soft grunt. "If you need to...tend to yourself, now's the time. I'll stand outside. Don't try to run."
He stepped over to the broken table, flipping it on its side before sliding it over and jamming it against the back door, blocking her one chance of running while he turned his back.
He walked to the cot, his movements weary, and pulled a knife from his belt. She froze, her breath catching, but he sliced the cord binding her wrists together. The sudden freedom sent a painful, prickling rush of blood back into her hands. He didn't touch her. He just stepped back, opened the door, and stood with his back to her, a silhouette in the moonlit doorway.
It was a small act. A practical one, but it was the first thing he'd done that wasn't outright violent. Slowly, stiffly, she stood, her muscles protesting. She kept her eyes on his back as she moved to the far corner of the shack, as far from the door as possible. The humiliation was a burning brand, but the relief was immediate.
When she was done, she stood awkwardly, waiting. He seemed to sense it, turning back inside. He didn't retie her. Instead, he tossed her the waterskin and the packet of food.
"Eat," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm not carrying a fainting woman."
Her stomach clenched with hunger, warring with nausea. She hadn't eaten since yesterday. Cautiously, she uncorked the waterskin, giving the opening a small sniff. It smelled of plain water, so she lifted and hesitantly drank. The water was clean and cool, a minor mercy. She opened the parcel to reveal dried meat and hardtack. She picked at the food, her body demanding fuel her mind refused to want.
He resumed his post by the door, watching her. The silence stretched, becoming a tangible thing. His eyes kept drifting to her throat. She could only imagine it was to stare at the scars. She tugged the furs closer to her, hopefully blocking his view.
"Do they hurt?" he asked suddenly. The question was blunt, devoid of tenderness, but not cruel. It was the question of a man assessing the damage to his equipment.
Her hand found its way to the collar again, her fingers tracing the familiar, hated ridges of the metal. She glared at him, but her answer was clear in her eyes: What do you think?
He had the decency to look slightly abashed. He shifted his weight. "The King...mentioned the collar. That you're the reason sound doesn't travel here." He said it not as an accusation, but as a man stating a fact he'd been told, testing its weight.
The food turned to ash in her mouth. The memories that were never far from the surface surged forward with the force of a tidal wave. The happy chatter in a sunlit kitchen. Laughter that used to ring through the town, the silly songs the young kids half sang, and half shouted. All of it gone because of a ridiculous argument. The rising, hot pressure of her own anger, a feeling she'd never learned to control. The scream that wasn't just a scream; it was a physical force; a wave of devastating power she hadn't even known was building inside her.
Then, the silence. The terrible, empty silence. Her family's faces had been blank, except for the confused stares where love and recognition had been just a second before. Where the townspeople once looked at her with mirth and happiness, they looked at her with a sense of fear in their souls.
A soundless, shuddering gasp escaped her. She dropped the food, wrapping her arms around herself, rocking slightly. The pain wasn't just a memory; the collar responded to her emotional turmoil, heating slightly, a warning burn against her skin.
Kai was on his feet instantly, his posture tense. "Stop it," he said, his voice low and urgent. "Whatever you're doing, stop."
She saw the tension in his frame, the wary look in his eyes. He was watching her like one would watch a volcano about to erupt. He thinks I'm doing this on purpose, she realized, a fresh wave of despair washing over her. He thinks I'm using my power. He didn't understand; the collar was the power now, and it was using her.
She shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face without a sound. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to push the images away, along with the flood of emotions that threatened to choke her.
He took a cautious step forward, then another, his hands held up in a placating gesture she didn't believe for a second. "Hey. Hey. Just...breathe."
He was close now. Too close. Through the blur of her tears, she saw his expression shift. The rugged, calculating look on his face softened, replaced by something else—something that looked uncomfortably like understanding. His frustration seemed to melt away, leaving behind a stark helplessness that mirrored her own.
He just stood there, a warrior rendered useless without a blade to fight her kind of enemy. After a long moment, he moved. He bent down, picked up the waterskin she had dropped, and placed it gently next to her on the cot. The action was so simple, so utterly at odds with the violence of his abduction, that it stalled her silent sobs.
"I'm not going to ask about that again," he said, his voice quieter than she'd heard it yet. The words were still rough, but they landed not as a threat, but as a concession, a truce.
Then he did the most surprising thing of all. He turned his back to her. He returned to his post by the door, giving her a view of his broad shoulders and nothing else. It was a deliberate act. A grant of privacy. A silent acknowledgment of her breakdown.
Zara hugged her knees, the phantom echoes of her family's laughter ringing in the silent prison of her mind. The mercenary had stolen her from her home, but with that one small act of unexpected grace, he had handed her back a tiny, fractured piece of her humanity.
And that was far more dangerous than any blade.
ns216.73.216.13da2
and then Add to home screen.