Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

Sitting in the tent, I stare and stare.

There’s a pendulum swinging in my mind, in my chest. Back and forth it goes, with every heartbeat, every thought.

Past and present. Right and wrong. Truths and lies. Knowing and not knowing. Doubts and trust.

It’s a constant tick in an unending tempo.

I’m not sure how much time passes that I sit here without moving. I just know that I’m still staring, that pendulum still going to and fro, when I hear voices outside.

My tent flap is lifted, like the invitation of an open door. I take a deep breath as I stand, pulling my hood over my head once again, checking my coat and gloves.

When I walk outside, the skin of my face tingles all over. I probably would’ve had to squint from the daylight if Osrik hadn’t been looming over me.

He nods to my guard dogs, making Pierce and the other man depart, until it’s just Osrik and me.

Just like the first night I met him, he’s a mass of intimidation, but even more so in full armor. I don’t envy the blacksmith that had to fit him for a chest plate.

Today, his usually unkempt shoulder-length brown hair is pulled back and tied at the nape of his neck. His beard though, that’s as wild as ever.

He looks down at me, a sword at either hip and a helmet under his arm. He’s wearing his signature scowl, and his brown eyes are hard. He’s the epitome of a Fourth army soldier, right down to the wood piercing in his lip and the gnarled branched hilts of his blades.

“What happened?” I ask, though I can barely talk with my heart in my throat. My ears strain to listen, but I hear no sounds of battle. Everything is still quiet. “Is it going to be war?”

“Don’t know yet,” he says. “King Ravinger requested a face-to-face meet. Midas sent an envoy.”

My heart leaps. “So a negotiation, then? They might not fight?” Hope clings to my limbs like it wants to make sure it doesn’t get dragged away.

“Possibly. But Midas made a request too.”

I pause. “What request?”

“An offering to be made by us in good faith.” He spits the term, like he doesn’t think it’s in good faith at all. “The bastard should be giving us something. We’re the ones with the upper hand.”

I already know what the request is.

“Midas wants me.”

Osrik nods. “He does. The envoy had a very specific message from Midas. He told us, and I quote: ‘Bring me my gold-touched favored, and I shall let your King Rot have an audience with me.’” Osrik’s face twists in displeasure. “What a slimy, arrogant prick,” he says.

I’m not surprised by Midas’s message, just like I’m not surprised by Osrik’s disdain.

“And your king actually agreed? He’s handing me over, just like that?”

“Yep. Just like that.”

Now that does surprise me, but I can’t even try to guess the way King Ravinger thinks or what he may be planning, though it makes me feel uneasy. It can’t be this simple, can it?

I let out a slow breath. “Well, it’s a good sign, right? That the kings are willing to negotiate terms? Anything is worth it to stop a war from breaking out.”

Osrik sighs at me, like I’ve just disappointed him. “I’ll never get how you fucking stand it.”

It. Midas. Being kept like a pet.

“I know,” I reply, and I also know that my voice sounds numb, because that numbness surrounds me.

Osrik grunts. “Ready?”

Yes. No.