Glint (The Plated Prisoner 2)

I clear my throat. “No. No, it didn’t hurt.”

She hums in thought, the hilt of her sword lightly tapping against the wood every time she takes a step. “Do you hate it? To be stared at all the time?”

Another thing I’ve never been asked. But this time, I don’t have to pause before answering.

“Yes.” The word comes out like a rush—involuntary, immediate.

Whenever Midas brought me around others—whether it was a throne room full of revelers, or an intimate breakfast meant to impress—it was always the same result. People stare. They talk. They judge.

That’s why befriending Sail was such a breath of fresh air. He didn’t ask me questions about being gold. He didn’t gawk or treat me like a novelty.

He just...saw me as a person, treated me like a friend. Such a simple thing, but for me, it was everything.

But Sail is gone, and I’m here. With a woman I know nothing about, other than the fact that Hojat seemed a little scared of her and she likes to steal barrels in her free time.

Noting the shape of muscles visible beneath the black sleeves of her leathers and the confident way she touches her hilt, to me, she looks like a warrior.

I study her curiously, but my hands are strained, my arms burning and shaky. “I can’t hold this thing much longer,” I warn.

A click of her tongue. “Need to build up that arm strength, Gildy,” she says before she nods toward a circle of tents. “Right up here.”

She leads me to one of them, and we carefully set the barrel down. As soon as it’s on the ground, her face splits with a smug smile, while mine pulls into a grimace as I shake out my sore hands and arms.

She ducks inside the tent and comes out with a pile of furs, throwing them over the barrel haphazardly. “There.”

I look down at the sloppy covering with an arched brow. “It’s not exactly hidden.”

Her leather jerkin moves with the shrug of her shoulders. “Eh, good enough. Here.” She reaches into the tent again, pulling out an iron goblet. Kneeling in the snow, she slips her hand beneath the furs at the bottom of the barrel, and with a twist of her arm, I hear liquid pour out.

Standing up, she takes a hearty drink, draining half the cup before she hands it to me.

I stare at the red liquid, eyes wide. “Is that…”

“Wine. Made from the vineyards in Fourth Kingdom.”

I’ve snatched the cup from her hand before she even finished explaining, downing it all in a few gluttonous gulps. It’s sweet yet spiced, thick, rich, yet refreshing. Maybe this is the withdrawals talking, but I think it might be the best wine I’ve ever tasted.

An appreciative groan leaves my lips as I swipe my sleeve against my lips. “Great Divine, that’s delicious.”

She smirks. “I know.”

I try not to pout when she takes the cup back and chucks it into her tent. I missed wine so, so much.

“Alright, I’ll take you to your saddles now. But this wine barrel thing? Never happened,” she tells me sternly, pointing at my face. “I’m not joking.”

“I never joke about wine,” I reply.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Maybe it’s because my tongue is now coated in alcohol, but I feel much calmer now with this strange woman. “So...you’re a soldier.”

“What gave me away?” she says dryly.

“Has King Ravinger always allowed women to serve in his army?”

Her head snaps over as she pins me with a glare, eyes flashing in the dark, lip curled back. “Allowed? Like he’s doing us women a favor?”

“No, I just—”