Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

“Why’s that thing even going out right now? There’s no damn messages.”

I freeze, eyes widening. It feels like my heart might beat right out of my chest.

“The thing hunts at night, you idiot.”

“Oh.”

With a puff of relief exhaling out of me, I let go of the handle and carefully round the corner of the carriage, putting it between me and them. My boots scrape over the snow, and I know that I’m damn lucky the horses are right behind me, covering up the sound as I slowly back up.

“Damn, those fucking horses smell.”

“You’re a whiny bastard. Why do I always get stuck on patrol with you?”

“Because I give you smokes,” the man says dryly.

“Oh. Right,” he chuckles.

I crouch down to peek beneath the carriage, seeing their black boots on the other side. Snow dampens my skirts as I silently crab walk backwards with the tangled fabric around my knees. I slink toward the front of the carriage, watching their steps reach the back.

But they stop, boots turning just as I round the front.

“Huh. Latch is open.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. Shit.

I look around in a panic for somewhere to hide, but the nearest spot is a tent ten feet away, and it’s right in their line of vision. Unless I want to risk going back toward the horses, but what if I startle them?

“You gonna stare at it all night? Close the fucking thing and let’s go closer to the fire. It’s cold enough to freeze my prick off out here.”

A snort. “Must not be much to it, then.”

“Fuck off.”

I hear one of them close the back latch with a click, and the hawks inside make a quiet screech, either in appreciation or irritation. Still crouched down to watch, I see the soldiers walking away, heading back to the warmth of one of the low-burning campfires.

I’m so relieved that I fall back on my ass in the snow, not even caring that more wet cold is soaking through my dress. I sit there for a moment with a hand over my racing heart, trying to calm down.

After a minute or two, I pick myself up off the ground and start walking as quickly as I can, adrenaline still riding me. It’s not until I make it all the way back to my empty, dark tent that it well and truly sinks in.

I did it.

I actually did it! I got a message to Midas. He’ll have a warning now, a chance to prepare. The advantage of Fourth’s element of surprise is gone.

A smile of victory pulls past frozen teeth, my lip cracking slightly from the chapped cold. My dress is wet, I’m freezing, and I was nearly caught, but I actually did it.

I’m not a traitor. I’m loyal to Midas, and I just proved it.

But my smile slowly drops, weighted down, like a hook pulling at my cheeks. All that victory, that pride, it sours in my gut before it even has the chance to settle.

In its place, an awful feeling rises up, like my impulsive act to prove Polly and the other saddles wrong was a mistake.

Regret. That’s regret there, festering in my stomach.

My breath shakes as I look down at myself, eyes settling on my wet hem. I should be proud of myself for standing my ground, that I didn’t waver in my convictions. That I didn’t let Rip trick me into thinking he’s my friend.

I should be gloating that Fourth’s army underestimated me, that their manipulations, their false camaraderie didn’t work. I should be thoroughly content that I just helped my king and solidified whose side I’m on, because that—staying loyal—it’s right.

...Right?