Gild (The Plated Prisoner 1)

As we walk across the deck, the gazes of the Red Raids follow us, their masks like sneers. But Fourth’s soldiers don’t pay them any mind, don’t even seem to care as they escort Rissa and me toward the ramp, a light dusting of snow covering the gangplank.

I let my eyes scan the faceless red masks of the pirates one last time, my gaze catching on the pole where they’d strung up Sail. I have the biggest urge to spit at their feet, but I hold it in.

I face forward as the commander begins to walk down the ramp, his boots making prints over the wood as he descends. Rissa and I follow quietly behind him, the other two soldiers at our backs.

But exhaustion is rebelling through my body, threatening to take over. My weary, stumbled steps don’t go well together with the steep incline of the gangplank, especially when it’s slippery.

I try to focus each step, going slow and careful, but even so, my legs are shaking, my energy sapped. So I’m not even surprised when my boot hits a patch of ice and I go tripping forward, unable to catch myself.

I nearly knock into Rissa, but I manage to jerk my body to the left before I run into her. Of course, that only makes me toss myself right over the side of the ramp, and I go flying off.

Luckily, I’m near the bottom, at least. Bright side.

On my short fall toward the ground, my arms and loose ribbons thrust in front of me in an attempt to catch myself, and I brace myself for the impact.

I land hard, my hands and knees bursting with pain as I hit the thick snow. Wet cold immediately soaks into my skirt and gloves. My ribbons nearly collapse beneath my weight, the hardened contours pulsing with a sharp ache, but at least I didn’t land flat on my face.

For a moment, my dizziness and exhaustion is so great that I worry I’m not going to be able to pick myself back up, that I’m just going to collapse in the snow. But I can’t let that happen. I’m entirely too exposed and vulnerable here, beneath the veil of a clouded morning.

I startle when the crack of a whip shatters the air, followed by the thunderous sound of countless fire claws growling.

Behind me, the ships of the snow pirates begin to slowly drag away, wooden hulls scraping against waves of ice, my prostrate body so close to them that the ground trembles beneath me.

But beyond the ships that are inching away, gaining momentum by their fiery beasts, I see a sea of white landscape that’s clogged with hundreds, maybe even thousands, of Fourth Kingdom’s soldiers.

Like craggy rocks littered throughout the once pristine landscape, they’re everywhere. With these numbers, it becomes blatantly obvious why the pirates didn’t dare fight the commander. With this might at his back, they would be slaughtered.

My stomach churns inside me as my eyes scan the sight of them, but I’m unable to even comprehend their numbers. This isn’t just a reconnaissance mission. This isn’t the commander traveling to Midas with a small group of soldiers to deliver a royal message.

No, this is the might of King Ravinger’s army, come to wage war.

I escaped the Red Raids only to be caught by the enemy marching toward my king. I fell into the commander’s hand like a shiny bargaining chip.

My dread churns so thick in my stomach that I worry I’m going to be sick. When a pair of black boots appears in my line of vision where I’m still braced awkwardly on the ground, all I can do is blink, my body frozen there in the snow.

This is bad. Very, very bad.

The commander’s voice grates down my back as sharp as his spikes. “Well, this is very...interesting.”

My throat bobs with a dry swallow, and then my eyes lift up where the commander stands looming over me. Behind him, the army begins to move, though I don’t watch them. I’m too focused on him. Because his helmet is off, tucked under his arm, and I can see his face for the very first time.

He has no horns. No glowing, murderous eyes. Not even a terrifying scar is ripped down his cheek.

No, all of those things were just nightmarish gossip, the imagining of something demonic. Orea is probably in too much denial to face the truth, too separated from our land’s long-ago history, too afraid to think that we have full-blooded fae in our midst. They use King Rot’s power as the excuse, they believe falsehoods, spread misinformation, or discard it all as rumors.

But Commander Rip isn’t a demon, and he hasn’t been twisted by Ravinger’s magic. He’s a presence all his own, and I can’t help but stare at him, taking in every detail.

His irises are black. As black as midnight shrouding the world, starless, moonless, no differentiating between iris and pupil. Thick, arched black eyebrows are set above those desolate eyes, making his expression fierce and grim.

Above the hairline of each eyebrow is a line of tiny, very short spikes. The same black as the spikes on his back and arms, though these ones don’t curve, look slightly more blunted at the tips, and are only about a centimeter tall.

His nose is strong and straight, his teeth are bright white, showing a hint of slightly sharp and elongated canines. Along his temples and curving down his cheekbones, he has a subtle dusting of gray, nearly iridescent scales, like the scales of the lizards that live in the Ash Dunes.

He has thick black hair, a rough black beard over pale skin, and a strong square jaw—a jaw that leads up to subtly pointed ears. And all of this on a body standing six and a half feet tall, thick with muscles and an aura ripe with menace.

He’s terrifying. He’s ethereal. He’s so very, very fae.

The rest of Orea might have forgotten what true fae look and feel like, might like to pretend that all we have left of the fae is what little magic that still passes down in bloodlines, but the commander’s presence disproves that.