They dragged her from the haystack, rough hands on her arms. Blood, still tacky and warm, clung to her fingers. A small, defiant smirk played on her lips; she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. Not yet.
Mud sucked at her bare feet as they hauled her upright. The hay, damp and prickly, clung to her soaked tunic like a second, miserable skin. Rain had turned the world into a slick, grey mess, mirroring the ache deep in her bones from being curled too long in the cold dark.
A heavy boot pressed hard against her ribs, a little too enthusiastically. Someone enjoyed that, the petty bastard. She cataloged his face, another name to add to her mental ledger of grievances. This one she wouldn't forget.
"A clever girl," one soldier sneered, his grip brutal as he seized her chin. His thumb dug into the soft flesh beneath her jaw, tilting her head back. His breath, a rancid cocktail of dried meat and wet leather, assaulted her senses.
"His Highness likes clever," he added, his eyes raking over her. Arin blinked up at him, rain stinging her eyes. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth—hers, probably, though she still tasted something heavier, something alien.
She wouldn't flinch. She wouldn't beg. The blood gathered, thick and metallic, on her tongue. Then, with a quiet defiance, she spat it.
The crimson splattered onto his boot, a dark, satisfying blossom against the worn leather. A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
"Then His Highness has shit taste," she drawled, the words a challenge. A quiet, dangerous snarl passed between the guards. They'd been hunting her for hours, she realized.
They were soaked, chilled to the bone, and clearly embarrassed. She saw it in the defeated slump of their shoulders, the irritable scuff of their boots on the muddy ground. Beneath their anger, though, something else flickered.
Respect, maybe. Or perhaps just sheer, dumbfounded disbelief. She'd certainly given them a run for their coin.
Earlier that morning, they'd been lounging near the stables, their laughter thick with morning ale. Coin had clinked, dice had rolled. Arin, sharp-eyed, had spotted the loaded die tucked carelessly beneath a soldier's boot.
She'd joined the game with a blinding, sunny smile, her own weighted dice already tucked securely up her sleeve. She knew how to tilt the odds, how to make luck bend to her will.
They had laughed, boisterous and unaware. They'd jeered good-naturedly, poured her drinks from their own tankards. They called her lucky, never smart. Fools.
She'd walked away from that stable, her pouch heavy with silver. Three precious ration slips were tucked into her boot, and a generous half-wheel of cheese was slung in a net bag. Then Kael, the biggest fool, noticed the subtle glint of her weighted die.
"She's cheating!" he'd roared, his face purpling with rage. He'd flipped the makeshift table with a clumsy snarl, sending coins and ale-soaked cards scattering into the mud. He lunged, his thick fingers closing around her wrist.
She twisted, a viper escaping a snare, but not before her eyes snagged on the glint of his dagger. It hung too loose in its sheath, an amateur's mistake. Her mother always said, "A loose blade is an invitation."
Arin didn't hesitate. Instinct, sharp and cold, took over.
The blade plunged into his thigh, deep enough to grate against bone. His scream, a raw, piercing sound, had rung across the livestock pens like a cracked bell, echoing her defiance.
Then she ran. Under the carts, scrambling over fences, burying herself deep within the haystacks. The rain had started almost immediately, a cold, insistent shower. Gods, she'd prayed it would wash her scent away, confuse the dogs.
But these bastards were stubborn. Or perhaps exceptionally well-paid. Maybe both. And now, here she was. Caught like a cornered rabbit, blood on her hands, rain blurring her vision, and not even a rusty nail to her name.
They bound her wrists with cold, unforgiving iron. The shackles bit into her skin, chafing already raw flesh. Her shoulders ached, her lip was split, but the smirk, that tiny, defiant curve, hadn't left her mouth.
She'd been hurt before. She'd survived worse. Much, much worse.
One of the younger guards nudged her with the toe of his boot. It was careless, she noted, not overtly cruel. He looked barely older than her, perhaps even younger. He had kind eyes, though he tried to hide them behind a practiced sneer.
"Why cheat, girl?" he asked, his voice softer than the others. "You'd've earned a coin or two playing fair."
Arin tilted her head, rain plastering strands of dark hair to her cheek. "Honest work's for girls who don't have to choose between a crust of bread and frostbite." She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze. "And the gods don't bless bastards. We bless ourselves."
The boy let out a short, surprised laugh, a sound he clearly hadn't intended. It was a genuine, startled huff of amusement. One of the older guards, Scar-face, turned, his gaze sharp and scowling.
"Quiet," the older one snapped, his voice like gravel grinding over stone. A deep, jagged scar ran from his temple to his chin, carving a permanent lightning bolt across his weathered face. "No talking. You heard the captain. Not a word about where we're taking her."
That got her attention. Her stomach clenched, a cold, tight knot forming deep within her.
"Where are you taking me?" she demanded, the question sharp. Not scared, not yet. But something cold and unsettling was beginning to creep in. "Which 'Highness' exactly? The King? Prince Roen? Or is it the silver-haired one with the dragon fetish?"
No answer. Only swift, guarded looks exchanged between the soldiers. She frowned, her mind already racing through possibilities.
"Come on," she prodded, her voice edged with impatience. "Someone stabs a royal soldier, they usually get a rope. Not a ride in a fancy cart." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Why would any royal want me?"
Scar-face just tightened the straps around her shackles, a wordless answer. But the younger one—the one who'd asked about cheating—hesitated, his gaze flickering.
"They say you're quick. Clever with your hands," he offered quietly, nodding towards her calloused fingers, her dirt-lined nails. She clenched them into fists, nails digging into her palms.
"Maybe they want someone to polish their boots," she muttered, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Or maybe I'm just a good excuse to set fire to another village."
No one answered that. A chilling silence descended, broken only by the incessant drumming of the rain.
The rain beat down harder now, a relentless deluge. It slicked their armor, ran in cold rivulets into her eyes, soaking her clothes through to her chilled skin. She shivered violently, but she wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her curl in on herself.
The cart jolted forward with a sudden lurch, and she stumbled, catching herself on the rough wooden side. The wheels groaned beneath her, protesting the deep mud ruts. They were moving again, the sky above a bruised gray-purple, heavy with storm clouds that promised more misery.
She leaned her head against the wooden bars of the cart, squinting through the narrow slats. The road twisted, rising sharply up a ridge.
Then she saw it.
A village. Or what was left of one. Still smoking. Still burning. Charred beams, stark and skeletal, stretched into the bruised sky like blackened fingers reaching for gods who simply didn't care. A grim line of soldiers marched through what used to be houses, their spears prodding through rubble, flipping broken furniture. They were faceless, just dark shadows in rain-slicked armor.
Flickering orange flames danced behind them, a cruel contrast against the wet, black ruins. It was too clean. Too final.
Dragon fire.
Arin had heard the whispered stories. Decades ago, royal dragons had razed lands near hers, warnings etched in ash and blood. She'd never seen such devastation with her own eyes. Until now.
She swallowed hard, her throat burning. The smoke, thick and acrid, stung her lungs, but not as much as the crushing knowledge that whoever had lived there was gone. Erased.
A warning. A message. This is what defiance smells like.
She curled her fingers tighter around the cold bars, her knuckles white. Her voice came out low, a raspy whisper more to herself than anyone else. "Was that one too clever?"
No one responded. Just the rhythmic sound of rain on metal, and the creak of the grinding wheels.
But the scarred soldier shifted slightly. His gaze was fixed on the burning ruins, an unreadable expression on his face. His hand moved slowly to rest on the hilt of his sword—not to draw it, just a familiar habit. Or maybe… guilt?
"No," he said after a long moment, his voice quiet, devoid of mockery. His eyes were still on the devastation, a flicker of something she couldn't quite name. "Just loud."
Arin closed her eyes, the image of the burning village seared behind her lids. She didn't know where they were taking her. But she knew this much:
She wasn't going there quiet. And the silence of the charred village spoke volumes. What if the silence was the true weapon? What if her defiance, her cleverness, was exactly what they wanted... and precisely what would damn her?