Gleam (The Plated Prisoner 3)

Midas turns and walks off with his man, the saddles trailing after him in a sweep of perfume and swaying hips.

I can feel Osrik shoot me a look, but I shake my head imperceptibly, and then we stride out of the room, both of us knowing better than to speak until we get outside. Even when we pass through the main castle doors and are greeted by the stark night air with nothing but fog and frost, we wait.

Seething silently, the two of us pass through the front gates of the wall, where Ranhold’s soldiers spring to attention and op

en it for us in haste as soon as they see us coming. I don’t know who scares them more, Osrik or myself.

When we’re well enough away from the castle’s walls and heading for my army’s camp just over the crest of the snow-clad hill, Osrik finally lets out a curse. “That fucker,” he growls. “How the hell did he find Drollard?”

“Scouts, obviously. I should’ve anticipated that he’d send people when I traded for Deadwell,” I say, pissed at myself for not preparing for that. I was preoccupied, distracted. I’ve had tunnel vision with Auren and let some of my responsibilities slip through the cracks.

“We didn’t expect for him to put in the effort. Not for a land known for being empty.”

“I still should’ve planned for it just in case,” I reply, the frustration in my voice coming out in a cloud of cold.

The two of us walk in silence for a moment, the only sound coming from the trek of our boots as we cut through the snow. The glow of campfires hangs at the top of the hill where most of my soldiers are gathered. The rest are probably still in Ranhold City finding whatever entertainments they have enough coin for.

“What are you going to do?” Osrik asks.

“I need Midas out of there,” I reply with frustration. “Maybe I should send all of you. Make sure the situation is handled.”

Osrik cuts me a look as we get to the top of the hill, just as countless leather tents fill my view.

“Fuck that. We’re not leaving you here with that golden prick.”

I cast him a look. “Worried about me, Os?”

He stops walking, turning his huge bulk to block my path. “If you really want us to go, you know we will. We’re your Wrath, and we will carry out whatever action you want, you just say the word. But Lu is gonna be pissed if you have no one to watch your back.”

“You’re a bunch of mother hens,” I mutter with a shake of my head.

Osrik just smirks. “Yep.”

With a sigh, I scrub a hand down my face. This was the last thing I needed right now. My responsibilities are piling up, and now I have to deal with Midas sticking his nose where I can’t have him or anyone else sniffing around. I didn’t go through all of this trouble to finally lay claim to Deadwell, just for Midas to figure out why I want it.

“Make Midas back off by doing what he wants and send your army commander to Deadwell,” Osrik suggests with a wry twist of his lips. “I’m sick of the fucker anyway.”

I chuckle low, watching some of my soldiers walking around in the distance, dark shadows moving from tent to tent. “We need to get back to Fourth. Maybe we should all move out.”

Osrik’s bushy brows rise up. “Leave? Without...?”

My teeth grind at the thought.

It goes against every instinct, but if I don’t respect her wishes, I’m no better than Midas.

I sweep my gaze along the castle as if I can see straight through the walls within. “We’ll leave in two days. Fuck the ball and the priggish prince. I should let them all plot and scheme to their graves. Stay in Fourth and forget all about these fucking monarchs.”

Osrik hesitates, probably at the frustration sharpening my tone. “You sure about that?”

My nod feels heavy, the roots of my power pinching at my skin. I’m surging with restless energy. “I’ll get Midas’s spies out of Deadwell myself. They’ll have nothing to report if they’re rotting corpses.”

“If that’s what you want to do, then we’ll make it happen.”

Simple as that. And yet, leaving is anything but simple.

“But are you sure you want to leave so soon?” he presses.

My magic snaps at the thought, and I’m forced to fist my hands at my sides. Instead of answering him, I turn on my heel, heading away from camp, my boots clomping through the deep snow as I cut toward the copse of trees in the distance.