Chapter 18 - Muddied Amity

  -The next day-

  Tova pulled carts along the worn stone paths of the tunnel. His shoulders steady and his breath controlled, though his awareness stretched far beyond the weight he dragged. His eyes moved constantly, subtle glances cast without turning his head, measuring guards, counting exits, mapping distances.

  The time he had seen the Steiger, Gren, hauled away, he had made a quiet decision.

  If they came for him, he would not go quietly.

  Gunwald could wait. The larger plan would have to be postponed. If exposed, he would break away, disappear into the deeper tunnels with Elrin, and construct something new from the shadows. Improvised survival was better than capture.

  Holding his tongue under interrogation was not the concern. Pain was familiar to him. Torture was not new. What unsettled him was something else.

  Gren had not returned.

  Which meant they had never intended to release him.

  That knowledge rippled outward through the mine, settling into the prisoners like rot. It was effective. Fear did the work no blade could. When men understood that silence would not save them, many chose betrayal instead. Survival narrowed morality quickly.

  And just as those thoughts circled through his mind, that dreadful sound came again.

  Marching footsteps echoed down the tunnel once more.

  Erhart and his guards.

  The workers froze the moment the footsteps grew clear, tools going still mid-swing, hands tightening around handles as silent prayers passed through clenched teeth. Each man hoped that the sound would pass him by. hoped the finger would point elsewhere.

  Tova watched the Commandant advance through the tunnel, passing crevices and carts one by one. His own fist tightened subtly at his side as his mind began calculating distances and angles.

  If I take the first three in a single strike, the rest will hesitate. In that hesitation I’ll—

  Erhart stopped.

  Not for him.

  But at the crevice Elrin had once occupied.

  Dravan stood there now, silent, indifferent. Beside him, the young cart boy who had switched position with Tova. Erhart’s thin mustache twitched as he lifted a finger and pointed.

  The guards moved immediately.

  They seized the boy, shackled his wrists before he could react, and dragged him forward.

  The child opened his mouth, but no protest came. Only a broken, wet rasp, and tears, lots of them, streamed unbidden down his cheeks. His eyes moved frantically across the gathered prisoners, searching, pleading as though they were saying: Help me. Please. I did nothing. Please.

  Yet, no one moved.

  No one spoke.

  They watched as he was hauled away, the sound of chains scraping the stone fading around the bend in the tunnel until he vanished from sight.

  Tova’s jaw tightened.

  Across the passage, Dravan was already looking at him.

  Directly.

  A serious, measured look.

  “Back to work!” a guard barked.

  And just like that, the mine resumed its rhythm, tools striking stone as though nothing had happened at all.

  ***

  Tova followed his usual routine with mechanical precision. He ate in the dining hall as quickly as possible, eyes lowered, movements efficient. He slipped a few slices of bread beneath his tunic without drawing attention before leaving.

  Once outside, he began his habitual rounds through the tunnels, walking in loose, unhurried loops, posture relaxed, gaze unfocused enough to appear aimless.

  Then he stopped.

  Tova had sensed it the moment he stepped out of the dining hall, that faint but persistent presence at the edge of his perception. Whoever it was made no real effort to hide, as if they wanted him to feel the quiet weight of being followed.

  “What do you want?” Tova asked quietly, without turning. It could only be one person.

  From the shadows, Dravan stepped forward. The easy smile he often wore was gone. What remained was something heavier, stripped of pretense.

  “You know what I want,” Dravan said.

  “I already refused,” Tova replied evenly. “Go on ahead and leave.”

  “Not without you.”

  Tova turned fully to face him.

  The intent was unmistakable. Dravan was not posturing this time. His jaw was set, shoulders squared, stance widened just enough to anchor him. He looked ready to lunge at any moment, like a predator who had decided patience had run its course.

  “You will have to take me dead, then,” declared Tova.

  Dravan drew in a long breath, frustration tightening his broad chest. “We are leaving tonight, Cavvato.”

  The name landed like a spark on oil.

  Anger surfaced plainly on Tova’s face this time, no longer hidden beneath calculation. He widened his stance slowly and lowered into a grounded squat.

  Dravan’s eyes sharpened at once. His nostrils flared faintly as he inhaled, sensing the shift, and he lowered his head a fraction, prepared to explode into motion.

  Tova moved first.

  He sprang upward several feet in a single motion, spear flashing into existence in his grasp, and carved a swift arc through the ceiling above them. Stone split with a sharp crack. Rubble and dust cascaded downward in a choking cloud, obscuring sight for the briefest sliver of time.

  It was enough.

  Tova vanished through the falling debris, feet striking the tunnel wall and pushing off with precision, using the stone itself to accelerate, propelling his body forward.

  He glanced back.

  Nothing…he’s not chasing?

  Tova collided with something immovable.

  The impact knocked him backward, air bursting from his lungs as he hit the ground hard, but he rolled with it, planting his hands and snapping back to his feet in one smooth recovery.

  Dravan stood there.

  How—

  There was no time to finish the thought.

  Dravan blurred toward him.

  One moment he was several strides away, the next his hand was already reaching for Tova’s shoulder, speed so great it distorted the air between them.

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  But Tova had anticipated it.

  He was already shifting.

  The spear reformed in his hand, and he drove its blunt end into the stone floor, using the recoil to launch himself backward just as Dravan’s fingers sliced through empty space. He landed light, twisted mid-step, and exploded in the opposite direction, boots striking the walls as he ran, searching for distance, searching for advantage.

  He did not look back this time. Instead, he listened, straining to catch even the faintest scrape of pursuit.

  But there was nothing.

  No footsteps. No breath. No displaced air.

  Either Dravan gave up on the pursuit or he was as silent as a shadow.

  Ahead, Tova spotted a cluster of five guards standing at a junction in the tunnel.

  Perfect! Dravan would not risk revealing himself in front of them. Not here—not openly.

  Tova adjusted his path toward them—

  And froze.

  His body locked as a firm hand clamped around his arm and another sealed over his mouth, cutting off both breath and sound. Dravan had caught him.

  In the same instant, Tova reacted. He pivoted on one leg and whipped the other upward with brutal force, aiming for Dravan’s head. The larger man released him to block the strike, forearm intercepting the kick.

  That fraction of space was all Tova needed.

  He shoved off Dravan’s solid frame and hurled himself forward toward the guards, voice tearing from his throat.

  “Help!”

  He crashed deliberately into the wall near them with enough force to shake dust loose from the ceiling, drawing every eye.

  The guards snapped toward him, hands already moving to their weapons. Then they turned toward the tunnel behind him.

  Dravan stood there, exposed. His eyes were wide, fury unmistakable in the tight line of his brows.

  Steel hissed as swords left scabbards.

  “Send for the Commandant!” the lead guard barked.

  One guard immediately broke away, sprinting down the tunnel to summon reinforcements.

  Dravan’s gaze flicked rapidly between the armed men, Tova, and the branching tunnels beyond. Calculation flashed behind his eyes as he weighed every possible outcome.

  Several heartbeats passed. Then he exhaled slowly, and raised his hands.

  The guards approached with caution, blades trained on him as they stepped in and clamped shackles around his wrists.

  Erhart arrived shortly after, flanked by ten guards. His gaze swept across the scene in a single pass. The disturbed rubble. The faint cracks in the wall. Tova slumped convincingly against the stone. And finally, Dravan, shackled but standing upright.

  Suspicion flickered in Erhart’s eyes. “Bring him,” he said flatly, motioning for the guards to move Dravan forward.

  Then he turned to another guard, gesturing lazily toward Tova. “Take him to his tent.”

  Without another word, Erhart pivoted and strode away.

  ***

  The room was cramped and suffocating, its walls pressing inward as though the space itself resented what it contained. At the center stood a thick wooden beam fixed upright, a horizontal bar lashed across its top like a crude cruciform. And from it, chains dangled. Two more secured near the base, their iron links rusted with old use.

  The air was thick with the stench of old blood, layered so deeply it seemed baked into the stone. The floor beneath was a map of suffering, stained and crusted over with dried brown and black patches that no one had bothered to clean. On a nearby table lay an assortment of tools, arranged with unsettling order: hooks, rods, knives, instruments meant not to kill quickly, but to torture.

  Dravan stood in the middle of it all, expression unreadable.

  The guards removed the shackles from his wrists only to fasten him directly to the beam, securing his arms high and his legs apart, the heavy torso restraint snapping shut around him with a metallic finality.

  Erhart stepped forward until he stood almost nose to nose with Dravan, studying him with open irritation. “We were coming for you tomorrow,” he muttered, “but you saved us the trouble and hurried the process.”

  Dravan did not react. There was no flare of anger, no flicker of fear. He simply met Erhart’s stare with calm indifference, as though the room, the chains, and the men surrounding him were of no consequence.

  Erhart’s jaw tightened…he did not like that.

  “Hand me the pear,” he ordered briskly.

  A guard moved to the table and returned with a pear-shaped metal device, a small turning key fixed at its top.

  “Open your mouth,” Erhart commanded.

  Dravan obeyed without hesitation.

  Erhart inserted the device between his teeth and began turning the key. The metal pear split slowly into three expanding sections, each prying outward as the mechanism widened. Dravan’s jaw was forced open further and further, the strain building as iron pressed against flesh. Erhart continued turning until it would not expand any more, leaving Dravan’s mouth stretched brutally wide, locked in place.

  “Now,” Erhart said, a thin smile creeping across his face as he leaned in close, studying Dravan’s strained features. “Your little mucker, Elrin. When did you last see him?”

  Dravan could not speak with the device wedged inside his mouth, but he gave the faintest shrug, shoulders rising a fraction against the restraints.

  A vein pulsed visibly at Erhart’s temple.

  “I see,” he murmured.

  He seized the key again and began turning it slowly, deliberately, each twist widening the metal prongs further. Dravan’s jaw stretched to a grotesque angle, skin tightening, tendons standing out along his neck as the mechanism forced him beyond what any mouth was meant to endure.

  “Once your jaw breaks,” Erhart said softly, almost conversationally, “you will never use the lower half of your mouth properly again. Are you certain you do not wish to cooperate?”

  Dravan remained motionless. No cry escaped him. No tremor of complaint. His eyes stayed steady, distant.

  Erhart gripped the key tighter and prepared to turn it again—

  A knock sounded at the door.

  He froze, irritation flashing across his face. “Find out who it is,” he snapped to one of the guards. “If it is not important, inform them that the next time someone interrupts me, they will be spending the night in the pillory.”

  The guard opened the door.

  Immediately, he slammed his heel against the floor and snapped into a salute.

  Erhart turned sharply and did the same.

  Sir Aldwin entered.

  “I was told interrogations were to be conducted once per day,” Aldwin said evenly, his voice filling the cramped chamber without effort.

  “He violated the physical altercation rule,” Erhart replied quickly. “I believed I could administer punishment while proceeding with the questioning.”

  “No,” Aldwin said, the single word carrying command. “Leave us. I will administer the punishment myself. Tomorrow, you may conduct your interrogation.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  Erhart did not argue. He stepped back at once, and the guards followed, filing out of the room and leaving the door to close behind them with a heavy finality.

  The metal device was still wedged between Dravan’s teeth.

  Without warning, his jaw flexed.

  A sharp, violent crunch echoed through the room as the metal split under pressure. The mechanism snapped in half, fragments clattering to the floor as Dravan spat the twisted remains onto the stained stone.

  Aldwin did not flinch.

  He stepped closer instead, lowering his voice so it would not carry beyond the walls. “You know what will happen if anyone discovers you are Bloodkind. There are no second chances for us, Dravan.”

  Dravan rolled his jaw once, testing it, then looked back at him with something between contempt and boredom. “You seem to have gotten a second chance…let me guess,” he said dryly. “You would prefer I join the Legion. Swear myself to the Red Throne. Become one of your shining knights and serve your masters in proper uniform.”

  “You would be allowed a life worthy of the strength you carry; they would see your value, you’d rise through the ranks, and someday they might place you high enough to make real change in the world.”

  “Is that why you became their dog?” Dravan shot back, the contempt in his voice sharp enough to cut.

  “You’re as naive as always,” Aldwin replied, the restraint in him fraying at the edges. “Fighting them is pointless. They crushed our people in a matter of days, took a kingdom we believed would stand for centuries. We are not strong enough, we never were. Only one of us was, and he is gone now—”

  The words died as spit struck his face.

  Aldwin went still.

  “They train their dogs well,” Dravan muttered.

  Aldwin wiped the spit off his face. “I will not ask again what it is you are doing here,” he replied, the restraint in his tone deliberate. “But if you intend to escape this place, understand this clearly. I will lay down my life to stop it from happening.”

  A faint smile tugged at Dravan’s mouth.

  “I suggest you reconsider your course,” Aldwin said.

  “Your soul is already blackened beyond redemption, Aldwin,” Dravan snapped, something feral flashing behind his eyes. “How dare you speak to me of reconsideration?”

  As he spoke, his nails lengthened subtly, sharpening into dark, curved points.

  “Fine,” Aldwin said at last, voice cooling. “Remember that I did try to save you.”

  “You should have saved your family,” Dravan replied.

  That struck.

  A vein pulsed at Aldwin’s temple, tension rippling through his posture. “I will leave this room,” he said tightly, “because if you speak another word, I will cut you down where you stand.”

  He turned sharply and opened the door.

  “Return him to his tent,” Aldwin ordered the guards outside. “Interrogations may proceed tomorrow.”

  Without another glance back, he stepped into the corridor, leaving the air in the chamber thick with things left unsaid.

  ***

  After they escorted him back to his tent, Tova waited in stillness, letting the hours stretch until the camp settled into its night rhythm, until the guards’ footsteps grew sparse and the low murmur of prisoners faded into sleep. Only then did he slip out, moving like a shadow through the tunnels, making his way through the quiet toward Elrin.

  He stepped inside their hideout.

  Elrin was asleep.

  But the room had changed.

  The slab of stone Tova had carved from the wall no longer rested where he had left it. It had been dragged several feet back, tilted at a new angle, its position unmistakably altered. Straw was disturbed around it.

  A slow smirk curved across Tova’s face despite himself.

  I knew you would try, he thought. But even so… Impressive.

  “Does he know what you are?”

  The voice came from behind him.

  His smirk vanished.

  Tova turned.

  Dravan stood at the entrance.