Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

I waste hours lying on my pallet, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.

The coals burn down darker and darker until the black husks go from fuming red to sobered ash, the last of the warmth gripped in the fist of the cold night air.

With the dimming burn, my thoughts coalesce.Nôvel/Dr(a)ma.Org - Content owner.

Ever since Commander Rip took me from the Red Raids, I’ve been waiting for him to do something horrible, for his soldiers to tear me apart.

Except he hasn’t, and they don’t.

Instead, I’ve been treated with dignity. Friendly, even. I’ve been allowed freedoms that not even Midas would give me.

But loyalty, that single word and moral, that conviction I hold onto so tightly, that’s what’s at stake. I’m terrified what will happen if I falter.

I know I can’t fully trust Rip. I know this, but…

But.

Maybe, I can’t fully trust Midas either.

The moment that traitorous thought slips out, I realize I’ve spoken it aloud. It’s a whispered confession, a sorrowful revelation for only the waning warmth of the coals to hear.

I sit up in my pallet and pull on my dress, the thing loose and overly worn now, dirty no matter how many times I try to wash it by hand. I slip on my torn coat and pull on my boots, deciding to walk around since sleep is eluding me.

I haven’t seen Rip since our argument last night.

I shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter. Except I feel like he’s avoiding me, punishing me, and it’s twisting me up inside.

Ducking out of the tent, I’m greeted by the crunch of my boots on fresh snow. We’re camped beside a small frozen lake tonight, and it glistens beneath a crescent moon.

Without really meaning to, I find myself walking to the east side of camp, where the saddles are.

I stop outside of the tent, noting the same two guards who let me visit when Lu was with me. They look up from their game—cards this time.

The one nearest me with brown hair raises his brows in surprise. “My lady,” he greets. “Haven’t seen you for a few days.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, not giving an explanation. “Is it alright if I visit them?”

“It’s late,” the other one says. “But you can stay for a few minutes. I heard some of them whispering in there, so I know they’re awake.”

I nod and move toward the tent flaps, but before I can lift them, someone pushes out and blocks my path.

I flinch back at her sudden appearance. “Polly.”

Her blonde hair is in two thick braids, though it’s tangled and greasy, and she looks thinner than usual. No golden flecks of makeup to adorn her face, no fancy dress, no coy smile. She looks weary, yet there’s a hardness in her eyes.

“Gild,” she says back, crossing her arms. “What are you doing here?”

I shift on my feet at the tone of her voice. “Umm, I just wanted to visit. See how you guys are doing.”

“We’re fine,” she snaps.

My eyes flick to the tent she’s blocking and back to her face. “Is there something wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Everyone heard your voice out here, but they sent me out. You can’t come in.”

My brow falls into a frown. “Why not?”

Her blue eyes hold no warmth as she looks at me. “No one wants to see you.”

I flinch at her embittered tone.

I feel the soldiers on my right shift on their stools, like they’re embarrassed for me, which only makes my cheeks burn in shame.

“You need to stop coming here,” Polly says haughtily. “We don’t like you, and we don’t want you poking your nose in our business just for you to report back to your new Fourth army friends.”

“What?”

Polly rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. Like we don’t know? You get to walk around freely, Auren. We know you’ve turned into the commander’s little whore.”

My mouth drops open in shock, and for a moment, my brain stumbles, unable to process. “That’s… I am not his whore.”

The bored look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me at all. “The soldiers here talk, you know. You stay in his tent every night. We aren’t stupid, and we won’t let you use us to betray our king. Don’t come back again, traitor.”

She shoves me in the chest.

It’s not a hard push, but it shocks me so much that I stumble back, mouth gaping wide. She never would have touched me before. She wouldn’t have dared.

The guards are on their feet in an instant, stepping forward to intervene. “Enough of that,” the man barks at her. “Get back inside.”

Polly’s eyes flash in vindication, like their reaction just solidified my treason. With a hateful smirk, she turns and pushes back into the tent, leaving me to stare at the place she just was.

I can’t even look at the guards as I turn away, my shame and embarrassment battering me. It makes my shoulders slump and my head tilt down, a flower wilted, given up on the reach.

“Don’t worry about them, my lady,” one says.

Quickly nodding, I walk away before I do something stupid, like cry in front of them.

Bitter shame carries the weight of my footsteps as I go.

I hug the shadows while I walk, ears tuned to the quiet of the sleeping camp of soldiers, who apparently believe I’m Rip’s whore.

Don’t come back again, traitor.

Tears threaten to rise, but I shove them down; let them be swallowed in a well of anger instead. Polly’s venomous words are my fears spoken aloud—of my loyalty slipping, of my mind being tainted.

I’m not a traitor.

I’m not.

Determination sweeps over me, fuels me. Like coals suddenly burning to life again.

The glowing white of the moon is now a fingernail behind a cloud, though two stars hover at her side like fireflies caught in the wax of her crescent.

I have just enough light to see, but not too much to take away the shadows. Perfect for searching without being seen. With sure steps and fierce eyes, with Polly’s accusation burning my ears, I follow pure instinct, like I know exactly where to go. Or maybe it’s the firefly goddesses directing my way.

Just as I pass a large group of huddled horses, heads bent, eyes dozing, I hear it.

A soft screech.

I jerk to a stop, head tilting, ear cocked. The noise comes again, quieter this time, but that’s all I need to home in on its direction.

My feet turn, steps and pulse quickening. Despite how consumingly cold it is, a flush spreads over my body.

Just past the horses, nearly obscured by a cart full of hay bales, I see it.

Covered in sleek black wood, sides unadorned, I hear rustling within the small black carriage and nearly break out into a run. Instead, I force myself to walk the rest of the distance toward it.

I reach the transport, though instead of doors on the sides, it has a smaller opening at the back. I look around, but the only movements are the occasional huff or shift of the horses, their quiet breaths puffing from lowered noses.

Lifting a hand, my shaky fingers grasp the handle, and the door opens easily, without so much as a creak. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust and see what’s inside, but as soon as they do, triumph tosses me up into the air, making my stomach dip.

Staring back at me with reflective yellow eyes, with talons gripping their perches, is what I’ve been searching for.

The army’s messenger hawks.