Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

Well, that’s not an answer at all.

Every time we see another soldier, she changes direction, until I’m so turned around and worried about her clandestine efforts that I don’t know which one is making me more nauseated. Either the commander really wouldn’t give me permission to see the saddles and she’s breaking the rules, or...

Oh, great Divine. She’s going to murder me.

Every sharp turn and ducking maneuver she performs to avoid nearby soldiers makes me more certain it’s the latter option.

Thanks a lot, Hojat. I’d really started to like the intestine-stirring army mender, too.

My ribbons trill nervously beneath my coat, but just as I’m about to turn and try to make a break for it, the woman claps her hands. “Yes!”

I stop in my tracks, watching as she hurries over to one of the tents and crouches down beside a large wooden barrel sitting right at the front of it.

When she sees me still standing a few paces away, she gives me an impatient look. “What are you doing over there? Hurry up and come help me with this.”

I blink in bewilderment before lurching forward at her glare, stopping in front of the barrel. “What do you want me to do?”

She rolls her eyes. “What do you think? Grab the end of this.” Without warning, she shoves the barrel over, giving me only a split-second warning to catch it.

The weight of it crashes into my arms, and I let out a yelp of surprise. I nearly drop it when she grabs the bottom and heaves it up, forcing me to follow suit.

I straighten on my legs, the barrel lifted between the two of us on its side, liquid splashing around inside.

“Come on, Gildy Locks. Pick up those feet,” she tells me, and then we’re slogging through the narrow path again, but this time, carrying a heavy ass barrel.

“What is in this damn thing?” I ask through gritted teeth, trying not to fall.

“It’s mine,” she replies loftily.

“Okay...and why are we carrying it?”

“Because these left flank bastards stole it from the right flank. So I’m stealing it back.”

The liquid inside sloshes against my ear as we carry it, the rough wood catching into the fingers of my gloves. “And you’re the right flank?” I guess.

“Yep. Now pick up your side more. Don’t make me do all the work.”

I try to glare at her over the barrel, but I nearly trip, so I’m forced to watch my feet instead. My escort is forcing me into thiefdom. Probably not the best circumstance for me, considering I’m already their prisoner.

Bright side? At least she’s not murdering me. I’m just an accomplice to a crime.

The woman adjusts her grip. “So, was it painful?”

I frown, shooting her a confused look as I do my best not to pant. “Was what painful?”

She turns sideways, leading me between a pair of tents in a ridiculously tight squeeze. “Everyone in Orea has heard about you. But now that I see you’re real, not painted or just some bullshit rumor, I want to know if it hurt when King Midas gold-touched you and turned you into...this,” she says, brown eyes flicking over my body.

My mind stutters at her question, surprise nearly making me forget that I’m holding a hundred-pound barrel. She wants to know if being gold-touched hurt me?

No one has ever asked me that before.

r /> They’ve asked other things, sure. Crude things. Words that would never pass their lips if they actually saw me as a regular person deserving of common decency.

Yet because Midas has made me a symbol, they can say whatever they want to assuage their curiosity. They believe my notoriety gives them the right to ask whatever obnoxious question piques their interest.

But this is different. It’s not about what my gold body means to her. It’s what it meant for me.

I realize that she’s still waiting for an answer, that a long pause of silence has stretched between us, spreading like a shadow.