the
Future Queen's
Captive
​Below is the unedited version of Chapter One and the edited version of Chapter Two. This is the first book in the Hope & Home duology set in M.A. Lakewood's World of Duhra. It follows the Fear & Focus duology, but reading the first two books is not required to enjoy this one.
Chapter One
George and Isahn visit Sorhaven.
“Do you think something will finally happen tonight?” Burke asked for the third time in as many minutes.
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George readjusted her cloak against the evening chill, wondering how Gramenia was so frigid when home was so warm. They’d only traveled west, not south. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
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“If—”
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“I swear to the gods, if you ask me one more question—”
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“That was going to be an if/then statement.”
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Pinching the bridge of her nose, George dodged an old woman with a handcart, trying to outpace her friend.
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Sorhaven was in the middle of a shift change as day came to a close. Farmworkers headed home, shopkeepers closed up, and pubs opened for dinner service, calling in customers with bold signage and busty barmaids. Despite being secure amidst the throng of pedestrians, George had thrown up the mildest of disguises as they neared town, her nose slightly elongated, her hair a little less curly. It was nothing that would tax her well of power, but enough that someone giving her a passing look wouldn’t recognize her. She didn’t expect anyone here to know what the Princess of Domos looked like—aside from her father’s spies—but those two could pop up at any time.
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“I’m just making sure we’re doing this right.” Burke’s boots smacked the pavers as he matched her pace.
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George’s irritation softened. “It’s taking a while, but we are.” Their tracking journey had everyone on an edge that grew ever sharper the longer they were away from the palace. But Gianis and Marinos had stayed put for three days, which was odd and a good sign. “They’re waiting for someone or something, and we need to know what.”
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“To figure out what your father’s planning.”
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“Obviously.” Her patience for her friend only extended so far. That was essentially a question, and one he knew the answer to.
Rounding a corner near the inn where Hildy stood watch, George tugged Burke’s arm, slowing his speed. “It’s not like we’re ready yet, anyway. Moving too early is how we do it wrong.”
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Burke chuckled, elbowing her in the side. “You’re the queen of acting too early—the Princess of Impulsivity.”
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She bit back a laugh and pulled him toward the shadowed alley across from the inn. There, set back from the street lights, Hildy’s curls poked up from behind a barrel, and Dunstan stood visible from the waist up. A wide smile lit his face as he laughed in silence, shielded by Hil’s sound magic, or George would surely hear him booming.
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“Why is he here? I thought he was getting food,” Burke grumbled.
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Oh, here we go. George could practically hear the jealousy dripping from his words. This time last year, Hildy was sleeping with Burke. Now she’d turned her attention to Dunstan. She’d swing back eventually. She always did.
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“He’s here because I wanted company,” Hildy replied, popping the sound barrier she’d erected around their conversation.
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“I thought we were doing watches alone?”
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“For fuck’s sake.” Hildy’s tricep tightened as she pressed a thumb into her temple and turned to George. “There hasn’t been any action. I’m going to get food for the cottage. See you back there.”
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“I can—” Dunstan started.
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“No. I’ve got it. See you soon.”
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As Hil disappeared into the crowd, George turned to find the men ignoring each other and Burke smirking at the dirt.
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Wonderful. Whatever was happening between those three this week, she didn’t have the energy to sort it out. The lack of space in the cottage they’d co-opted was only driving tensions higher. The family who’d lived there was all too happy to hand over their home in exchange for the copious amount of gold she offered. George only meant it to be a rental and said they were welcome to return in a week’s time, but the family declined, already set on relocating to the coast.
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Now she owned a home in Gramenia. Fun. Maybe she could leave her bickering friends behind.
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Dunstan cleared his throat. “Gianis and Marinos are still in their inn. I’m going for a pint.” He swung his long arm out and gestured at a disheveled looking establishment across the street and a few buildings down.
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“I’ll come with you,” Burke announced jovially, apparently over his sour mood. “Georgie, you want one?”
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“Please.”
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Alone, George claimed Hildy’s old spot against the wall and rolled her neck, wishing Gianos and Marinos would do something and make her journey worth the stress. Her father sent them away for a reason. He didn’t waste those spies on meaningless errands.
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Theories and a hope that Hildy would find some good crusty bread rolled around George’s mind while guests popped in and out of the inn across the way. Eventually, a guest she cared about stepped outside: Gianis, his red tunic catching lamplight. Marinos followed, dressed in blue, and they met up on the road, facing her way, their heads bent together in quiet conversation. Tensing, George pressed herself against the wall and added to her mirage, lengthening her nose, and lightening her hair to a walnut brown.
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Her fathers spies turned north and she prepared to follow at a distance—until Gianis lifted his chin at the crummy pub her friends had gone into.
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“Deiwa nekami,” George swore softly.
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Shoving out a burst of touch magic—sharp and urgent—she hoped she could reach Dunstan’s left knee in their agreed-upon signal for “danger incoming.” A ripple flowed back through her magic when she made contact with—something. Hopefully Dunstan. Then an invisible sucker punch landed itself on her upper arm, and George smirked. It was close enough to a tap on her inner elbow—their sign for “all good.” She’d gotten her point across.
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It was too bad she wasn’t inside with her friends, so she could disguise them all while they grabbed a table to listen in. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be.
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Pausing before the alley entrance and blocking her view of the pub, a nervous looking older man, pale, with ruddy cheeks and a bulging belly tugged his purple jacket and looked around with twitchy motions. Crossing the road, he wandered toward the same pub.
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Like she was watching a bad theatrical performance in slow motion, another man slid to a stop before the alleyway, blocking her view. George inhaled slowly, warning herself not to say anything as the new arrival turned and light caught his face.
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Tall and broad shouldered, with astoundingly fair skin and shaggy brown hair, everything about him looked out of place in Gramenia. And everything about him was handsome. She flushed, eyes roaming over his strong thighs clad in tight tan pants before returning to his profile and his strong jaw, its outline just visible through his scruffy beard—a lighter color than the hair on his head.
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He turned away, and she blatantly watched his ass as he continued up the street. At the shoddy pub, he stopped, pulled up his hood, and slipped through the entrance, too.
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The pleasant warmth in George’s stomach cooled. He’s with them—too suspicious not to be.
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Before she could hope that Dunstan and Burke were smart enough to stay inside and listen in, her friends emerged from an alley across the way, beelining toward her with pints in hand.
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“We got out!” Burke grinned, clearly proud of the quick exit. He handed George a mug of brown ale. “Side door. But we saw Gianis and Marinos come in, and some fat guy joined them.”
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“Did they see you?” Not taking her eyes off the pub, she watched the hooded man slide into a seat near the window, the other seats at his table invisible from her angle.
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“No,” Dunstan answered, joining her behind the barrel.
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“I wish you stayed in there,” George muttered before taking a sip of her drink. “I still think we have an opportunity.”
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“What am I missing?” Burke asked.
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“Two men followed Gianis and Marinos inside. Out of place. The chubby older guy went first, alone. Then a second man, taller, bearded, probably our age followed. He could be a guard or part of the meeting.”
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“Maybe he’s just a patron,” Dunstan suggested. “It was busy.”
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George glared. “They were out of place. I promise.”
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Dunstan dropped his chin in deference.
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“What do we do?”
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“As much as I want to mirage us and walk right into the pub, we wait,” George decided, meeting Dunstan’s eye even though Burke asked the question. “Then we talk to one of them and find out what they know.”
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They didn’t have to wait long.
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Gianis and Marinos emerged first and went straight to their inn.
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“Boring,” Burke grumbled, earning a snort from Dunstan.
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George would’ve gone with “too risky,” but “boring” worked too.
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Their pints were half gone by the time the tubby man stepped out, swaying slightly as he made his way up the street.
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“Drunk already?”
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“Or he wants to seem it. Follow him,” George countered, sending Burke on his way. “Circle back and let us know where he goes.”
The bearded man stayed behind. Hood still up, barely visible through the grimy glass, he nursed a drink.
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“He might not be with them,” Dunstin offered, watching the same scene unfold.
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“I don’t know. The way he scanned the street before going in, the way he pulled up his hood. We didn’t have ears on the conversation, but I bet he did.”
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Dunstan offered an unconvinced grunt as he twisted his locs atop his head and tied them into a bun. “Can never trust a man with a beard.”
Biting back a laugh, George knew she almost had him convinced.
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Burke returned, joining them in the shadows and making an exaggerated gagging sound. “He was actually drunk. He’s staying at that fine inn up the road.”
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“The last man it is,” Dunstan replied.
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“Wait, what’s going on?” Burke asked as the bearded man stood from his seat.
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“Here we go,” George murmured.
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Running a palm over his beard, the man emerged from the pub and paused to get his bearings. He headed off in the same direction as the first.
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Definitely connected.
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“We should follow him,” Burke offered.
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“We should take him,” George blurted.
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“Mira—” Dunstan started, pulling out her alias.
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“Think about it.” Her mind was already racing through possibilities. “That man?” She pointed toward the stranger’s retreating form. “He heard whatever they talked about inside. Maybe he’s a guard, maybe a co-conspirator, who knows. But he has something we don’t—information. Let’s go get it.” George set her empty tankard on the barrel and started toward the street, Dunstan by her side.
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“Shouldn’t we plan first? Hildy’s going to kill us.”
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“We can plan while we move,” Dunstan replied.
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George couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the spirit.”
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***
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Isahn scratched his neck, lamenting his beard and hoping a shave-day was on the horizon. He couldn’t get out of this disguise soon enough. The pub door closed at his back and he nearly plowed into a barmaid as she passed with a pitcher and three mugs.
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Stinking of stale beer and woodsmoke, the tavern was dimly lit but not dark, and Isahn preferred to remain unseen. He was grateful for his cloak, his facial hair, and his walnut-dyed tresses as he placed Peros in the back corner, his purple jacket hard to miss, even in the low lighting.
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Refusing to wear anything not ostentatious, Sir Peros Sarma, knight, stood out like a sore thumb amidst the fur- and wool-clad residents of Sorhaven. To be fair, the men his uncle sat with looked out of place, too. Bold hues must’ve been in this season, with the curly, black-haired man wearing a tunic of reds and oranges, and his straight-haired friend dressed in blues and silver.
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They’re not from around here.
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Slinking closer, Isahn paused near an empty table and let a few patrons partially block the men from view. The whole purpose of his journey was to avoid death. Being spotted wouldn’t be much help. It wasn’t even a quest he particularly wanted to be on. He loved a fun adventure, but journeying to a neighboring country to spy on his uncle didn’t qualify. He’d much prefer to be back home, or better yet, on holiday, with a beautiful woman by his side. Someone looking for a lark, not to break the law.
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Like her.
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A gorgeous barmaid approached, her tunic cut low and belted just below her voluptuous breasts. Isahn grinned and winked as he took the proffered mug, let her fill it up, and handed off a coin.
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Returning his flirtations with a wink of her own, she slipped away into the crowd. If it was meant to be, he’d catch up with her during the night. Sliding into a seat, he returned his attention to Peros and the pompous looking men.
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What was Peros grasping for now? Isahn had a multitude of reasons to distrust his uncle who’d always wanted what wasn’t for him.
His mother’s younger brother was knighted, a consolation for not inheriting the earldom. But being a “Sir” never satisfied Peros. He’d also earned an ungodly amount of money in the role, which never sat right with Isahn, his sister, Solaelia, or with his parents when they’d been alive. Point one against his uncle.
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Point two: Mum and Dad’s deaths from bad oysters never really made sense to his sister, and Isahn had to agree. Mum never ate oysters out of season.
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Point three: When Isahn was handed the earldom a few years prior, Peros didn’t offer to help his nephew take the reins, even though he was quite familiar with Staridge. It was like he wanted Isahn to fail. A new earl, Isahn had to rely on Solaelia for support, and his best friend, Lord Kas Kahoth, a double-titled duke and earl.
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The closest Peros ever got to helping was inviting himself to dinner and begging to look at the estate’s records. Isahn said no—every time. Point four.
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Hoping to shed some light on his primary concern: Was Peros trying to oust him? Isahn urged a narrow channel of water magic from his fingertip to the floor. He crept the glistening stream beneath tables, sending it skittering over sticky unwashed planks to weave up the leg of his uncle’s stool, and press against the underside of the table top to amplify their conversation.
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Happy with the placement, Isahn lifted his watercoursing hand to his ear and listened in.
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“You’re not in his good graces,” the man in the tunic growled.
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“We tried to kill them. I found them at least. I am trying,” Sir Peros whined, his voice on the verge of pleading.
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Isahn gulped. Were they talking about him and his sister? Why would these boldly dressed men care about Midlake in Selwas?
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Solaelia was positive Peros was seeking an assassin to take them out and secure his own claim to the earldom of Midlake. She’d drawn Isahn into the cause, though he hadn’t been completely convinced assassination was on the table . . . until now. Their uncle had always wanted the damn title, though Isahn had expected Peros to lighten up on the grasping two years back after his son was hanged for unrelated treason against the Crown of Selwas.
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He hadn’t. If Isahn’s hypothetical son tried to overthrow the king, he’d probably go into hiding out of embarrassment, not try to steal a title no one wanted him to have.
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Alas, Peros’s chubby fingers loved clutching too much.
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“Trying is not succeeding.” Blue took a sip of his liquor and grimaced, glowering at his glass. “How the fuck is this so bad? We’re so close to Domos.”
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Red shrugged.
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“I agree it’s quite—”
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“Shut up,” Red barked.
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Peros shut his mouth so quickly Isahn could hear his uncle’s lips smack together.
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“You wish to make this right?” Blue inquired.
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“Yes, yes, very much.”
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Ew. Uncle Peros was such a sniveling piece of shit that, even though Isahn had no idea what was going on, he thought he might be on the side of the men in colorful tunics.
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“He will see you.”
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Who?
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“When?”
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“Two weeks.”
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“Where?”
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“Come to Nowosmont. Get there early, if you can manage.”
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Peros nodded, and while Isahn couldn’t see his uncle’s face, he could see the man’s shoulders drop as his tension drained away.
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Why? What the fates is going on? Isahn’s thoughts tumbled as he watched Red and Blue leave the bar. After downing his own drink, Peros helped himself to the two glasses of liquor that the strangers abandoned.
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Isahn took a deep pull of his dark beer. It was sweeter than he was used to in the south. He liked it.
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When his uncle stood and passed by, making his way to the door, Isahn sank further into his cloak and peered out of the hazy window. A shadowy flash of movement caught his eye, but he lost the figure. That wasn’t uncommon here in Gramenia—discombobulating, but not uncommon. With lightmages and darkmages comprising most of the population in this country, the principalities, skulking about in shadow or zipping past in a flash of light seemed to be the norm. It was one of a few light and dark magic abilities he’d been able to deduce from watching.
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As he nursed his drink, the barmaid delivered tureens of stew to a table, and he wondered again just how he’d wound up in such a ridiculous situation.
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Fucking Peros.
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Whatever Isahn’s uncle was up to, it wasn’t good, and Isahn intended to uncover his end goal. It had to be done. Or at least, he was pretty sure it had to be done.
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Swirling his ale, he watched it funnel down to the base of his mug. It hadn’t sounded like Peros was trying to hire an assassin in his conversation with the tunicked strangers. If anything, it sounded like his uncle was the one who was doing the assassinating.
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With a heavy sigh and frustrated shake of his head, Isahn downed the rest of his drink and stood from the table. His path to the door was clear and unfortunately free of pretty barmaids. Outside, he reoriented his hood for maximum protection and followed the path his uncle likely took back toward the Djemirian, a fine inn on the finer side of town.
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Isahn had decided to stay there too despite the risk. After a week on the road, he craved a well-made mattress. It was, in fact, calling to him at that moment.
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As he wandered the brick streets, he wondered at Peros’s next destination. Nowosmont? It wasn’t in Gramenia—not unless there was a second city with the same name. No. Nowosmont was the bloody capital of the Kingdom of Domos.
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Gritting his teeth, Isahn determined he’d get a good night’s rest, pen a note to Solaelia, and continue to track the shady bastard. It was likely to be a few more months; hopefully Lia wouldn’t mind his continued absence from their family seat.
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He rolled his eyes.
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Of course she wouldn’t mind. While Solaelia wasn’t the “kill your family to take the earldom” type, she was a natural leader, even if she didn’t see it herself. She was doing fine, he was certain of it. She’d been delighted to take over and manage things as an acting-countess in his absence. He doubted she’d mind the responsibility for a few more months. As long as he was home to travel to the Symposium of Prodigious Minds in the late summer, all would be well.
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Rounding a corner, Isahn nearly tripped on a brick as he came face to face with a sobbing young girl who couldn’t have been older than ten. Worries about Peros and the earldom dashed away, replaced with a sinking sensation in his gut. This child was far too young to be out so late at night. He squatted before the girl whose brown hair was matted to her head. She wore little more than rags.
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“What is it? What’s wrong?”
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She didn’t speak, only let out deep, gut-wrenching sobs as she pointed down the alleyway to her right. Isahn peered into the impenetrable gloom where anyone might be lurking. But the child gasped for air between cries, pleading with him through wide eyes. She clearly needed help.
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“I’m going to take your hand, all right?”
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She nodded.
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Isahn grasped her and stood back to his full height. In his left hand he crafted a knife of water, a nearly invisible glass-like creation he’d mastered years before. By calling on the iciest cold and most scorching heat he could imbue into his magic, he formed something solid and smooth but warm to the touch. “Show me what’s wrong?”
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She pulled him along, leading them into the alleyway.
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A figure emerged from the shadows; small, likely another child. This one was crumpled on the dirt-packed street. A dark puddle pooled around their head. Oh, gods. He felt for the girl who had gotten him, and her poor friend.
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Isahn hurried toward the second child, a girl. Her features were cloaked in darkness making it impossible to tell if she was awake. She made no sound. The distinct tang of hot, fresh blood cut through the chill air. Not wanting to scare her, should she be alive, he released the magic that held his ice knife in place and leaned down to check if she was breathing.
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A small hand came over Isahn’s mouth from behind, something cold and metallic pressed into the thin fabric of his tunic.
Gruffly, a voice demanded, “Don’t fucking move or we’ll kill you.”
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Isahn froze as the palm covering his mouth shifted from childlike to adult-sized. The person holding on to him hadn’t moved at all. They’d become enormous.
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The broken child on the ground also changed. One second a possibly-dead blonde waif lay before him. The next, a man with bronze skin and dark curly hair pushed up off of the dirt and swung his adult sized head in Isahn’s direction.
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The impact of the man’s skull reverberated through Isahn, disorienting him. Colors blurred, and the world spun. Caught in a whirlwind of confusion, he tilted forward. Darkness crept in from the edges, consuming his consciousness in a sudden descent. In that fleeting moment before oblivion, his senses surrendered to the mayhem.
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He was standing on a beach, the beautiful ocean stretching out before him and sand, warm and gritty beneath his toes. It was odd, because he was fairly certain he was wearing boots.
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Then he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Chapter Two
Isahn and George visit the basement.
Head throbbing in pain, Isahn awoke confused. He reached up and nearly screamed as sharp points bit into his wrists, restraining him. Wriggling his feet, he found the same issue and bit back a hiss. Bound—by barbed shackles. He couldn’t move anything but his arse, and he could only move that a little.
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Isahn only had a year and a half of military training. He’d gone in after finishing his credits at the Institute and was discharged after being called up to take his family’s seat as earl. Still, he’d learned a fair amount in his short stint: things like ice knives, using his magic to listen in from afar, and how to handle regaining consciousness in an unfamiliar setting.
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He didn’t think he’d ever need that last one, but there he was.
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Remain calm, control emotions, formulate a plan.
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One: If possible, don’t let the captor know you’re conscious. Eyes closed and breathing steadied, he hoped it would still sound like he was knocked out.
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Two: Assess your physical state. Aside from his headache and the stabbing manacles trapping him to his chair, he felt all right—not dead, at least.
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Remain calm, control your emotions, and formulate a plan.
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Three: Assess your mental state. Isahn felt fine—enraged at being held captive—but fine. He could work with rage.
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This whole thing had to be Peros’s doing. That weasel would be going down as soon as Isahn got free. But he wasn’t free—a major problem. Cold hands of panic clawed at his heart as reality closed in.
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I’m going to die here. Fuck.
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As fear coursed through Isahn, tightening his muscles, he fought to keep his breathing soft and steady.
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Fuck, fuck, fuck. He was going to be murdered in fucking Gramenia. Solaelia would never know what became of him. Sure, she’d suspect Peros was behind it and likely be right... but—
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Fuck! Isahn clenched his fists and flinched when points bit into his wrist.
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Come on. Remain calm. Control emotions. Formulate a plan.
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He breathed slow and deep.
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Four: Assess your surroundings. A sharp sound, like steel on rock, echoed around him, like he was sitting at the mouth of a mine. He could also make out distant, muffled voices, a few of them—at least four different people—bickering.
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Remain calm, control emotions, formulate a plan.
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Inhaling slowly, he frowned. In spite of the metal biting into his flesh, there was no smell of blood. If anything, the air was earthy and fragrant, like he was in some sort of greenhouse. He sniffed again just as a putrid odor wafted through. A greenhouse with rot.
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Creaking his swollen eyes open, Isahn blinked, taking in the strange surroundings. He wasn’t where he expected to be at all. Sitting in a chair, he was shackled; he could feel that. He could hear a mine and the workers. He could smell the strange mustiness of an abandoned garden around him. But he could see that he was standing in the crook of an enormous tree, surrounded by quaking leaves and vibrating branches. A powerful wind whipped around him but didn’t brush his skin. He should’ve been able to feel the breeze.
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Nothing matched. Was he dying?
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On a whim, Isahn sent out a fine thread of water vapor from the tip of his little finger. If others were in the room, they wouldn’t be able to see the mist, but he could use it to feel.
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He pushed the vapor toward the tree trunk beside his head. It went straight through the bark with no resistance whatsoever. Mirage. It was a bloody mirage, he should have known.
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Clenching his fist, he grimaced as metal bit back. Isahn urged his water vapor to trail down over his wrists to explore the shackles.
What felt for all the world like cold manacles with horribly serrated linings were not that at all. He was shackled, but his magic told him his flesh was unharmed. The inner rings of the bands around his wrists and ankles were smooth and harmless. The knowledge his pain was a phantom dulled his reaction significantly. Odd.
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Reality was clearly different from what his senses claimed, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around precisely what was real and what was false. He’d experimented with some of the more colorful varieties of mushrooms back when he was a student. Who hadn’t?
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This wasn’t the same at all.
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Fucking Domossan mindmages.
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Isahn bit his tongue in frustration, the taste of blood sharp and immediate, grounding him in reality, however painful. Around him, the room’s scent changed to a briny, balmy air replete with a hint of seaweed. A scent mage.
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He sat with that for several minutes, fighting through the knowledge the sea smell was false. Then the tree around him shifted, and he found himself sitting at a fine dining table in a chamber fit for a king. Sight mage.
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Mind just coming to terms with his incongruous setting, his shackles became snakes; cold and slithering, they wrapped tightly around his limbs. Touch mage.
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Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
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Why did life throw the dumbest shit his way? Savoring—in some sick way—the blood in his mouth, he reminded himself he could handle this. Something would shift or change and carry him along to his next destination. Life was funny like that. All he needed to do was wait it out, avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself, and get out. Easier said than done, since he had no idea where he was or who was holding him.
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There were mindmages who could manipulate each sense—five types in total. He’d picked that up, and what other information was available, from the Institute, the military, and his brilliant friend, Kas. But Domos kept its secrets well. Rumor had it that a full group of five could melt a man’s brain, but he wasn’t sure he believed the veracity of those tales. While the need for caution wasn’t lost on him, a desire for answers drove him forward.
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With his eyes closed to block out the confusing and changing scenery, he produced a thin stream of water and pushed it slowly toward the voices in the distance. His magic hit a solid surface, the ceiling, and he willed the liquid from his finger to his ear. It was far less discreet than holding his hand up, but then again, he’d already thrust a cord of water through the room around him. If anyone were currently looking, they’d see his magic.
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“This is fucking insane, Mira,” a frustrated woman ranted, muffled through the water.
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A second woman with a raspy voice replied with something inaudible.
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The pickaxes still hammered away but were dulled. They weren’t real; the mining was an audible mirage. If it were really happening, his magic would’ve echoed the noise down its warbled line. Feeling smug, Isahn leaned into his magic.
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“It’s the smartest thing we’ve done in weeks,” a smooth male voice intoned.
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“It was reckless,” the gruff woman retorted. “Why’d you do this? What are we supposed to do with him?”
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A second man, his voice grittier, offered, “Because George said—”
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“George isn’t here,” the raspy-voiced woman chided.
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“Sorry, because of the king— Ow! Sorry, sorry. We need to do something, we’re running out of time.”
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“We aren’t running out of time,” the first man chimed in. “It’s been this way for ages.”
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“We need to get back to Nowosmont,” the first woman intoned.
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“Yes, and George needs this done.” Mira’s firm statement ended the conversation. “Get some sleep, then question him.”
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Stomping footsteps announced the retreat of the people above. Isahn withdrew his magic and pretended to be asleep, in case they came to visit.
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Remain calm, control emotions, formulate a plan.
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With his head tipped to his chest and his eyes closed, Isahn fought to steady his breathing. It sounded like his jailers worked for the King of Domos. What the fuck had he gotten himself wrapped up in?
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***
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Time passed strangely when he couldn’t trust his senses. Isahn thought he’d been there a full night already, maybe longer. If they came to speak with him, he couldn’t recall. Someone who smelled exquisite, like roses and incense, stood in front of him for a few minutes before drifting away, and he wasn’t certain if they’d actually been there or if the scent mage was fucking with him.
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Once, when he opened his eyes, strange horrors flooded his vision: winged serpents crawled from treetops and great beasts scraped themselves together from earth to stalk toward him. From somewhere in the woods, a man asked over and over who he was and who he worked for. Isahn didn’t reply except to ask for water.
​
The whole situation was maddening. He’d talk to the guards eventually but wanted to glean more information from them first. Though Isahn was fairly certain he was alone in a basement, he wasn’t precise on how many people were involved in watching him at any given time.
Whenever he could use his mist to confirm he was alone, Isahn pushed a cord of water up to the ceiling, eavesdropping for details. The gritty-voiced man who asked a lot of questions was called Odos. The one with the smooth voice was Tocco, and the stern woman, Melody. Then there was raspy Mira and someone named George. Odos kept mentioning George, then getting scolded by the group, which was funny to listen in on, but assured Isahn he must be a fearsome man.
​
That day—or night, or hour—he checked in after an orchestra, perpetually off-key, started tuning up in his ears.
​
“I don’t think he has any magic,” Odos said, his voice warbling through Isahn’s water.
​
“He could be hiding it from us,” Melody suggested.
​
“He must have magic. The odds that he doesn’t are slim to none. But, we don’t know if he’s Gramenian or Selwassan.”
​
“Or Domossan,” Odos offered.
​
“Does he look Domossan to you?” Mira asked.
​
“No.”
​
Mira with the raspy voice continued in hurried words. “I think he has magic, but it’s weak. Otherwise he would have tried to use it to escape.”
​
Isahn scoffed. It wasn’t worth the risk. Not yet, at least. He was on this journey to save his life. His magic was far from weak, but he was smarter than to reveal himself before he was in any real danger from this squad of spies, or soldiers, or whatever they were.
​
“Probably,” the woman called Melody murmured.
​
“We have to move, though.”
​
“Yes, how?”
​
“Questions, Odos.” Mira’s voice held laughter as she scolded the guard.
​
“I have some ideas, let’s go talk outside where there’s more space,” Melody suggested.
​
Isahn heard their footsteps thump across the floor before the door opened and slammed shut again. The orchestra ceased.
​
Sighing into the dry basement, devoid of any strange sensory images at present, Isahn reassured himself it was all a facade. When he focused on that, the pain, the confusion brought on by the sensory magic hardly registered, because it wasn’t real. And with his mind clear-ish, he could have some fun with them.
​
***
​
After a full day of failed attempts, they’d blindfolded the prisoner and tried to get a good night’s sleep. Today, with Hildy still furious they’d abducted a man without her permission, George didn’t really have a choice but to get involved in the questioning, not if she wanted to assuage some of her guilt over roping everyone into her wild scheme. When Hil told George she’d earned herself the role of lead torturer their next time downstairs, she agreed, as long as she could go in as George-the-man.
​
Disguised as a lumbering, six-foot-tall warrior sporting a beard that rivaled their prisoner’s, Georgie followed her friends to the basement, steeled herself with a deep breath, and forced her eyes from the captive’s muscled thighs to his mussed hair. She could do this.
​
Ignoring the group standing behind her subject, she ripped off his blindfold, and he blinked up at her through stunning blue eyes. Silently, she thrust a glass of water into his face, tipped it to his mouth, and spilled half down his dirty tunic as he drank.
​
Then they brought out the brand.
​
It wouldn’t leave a mark, being a mirage, but the man before her didn’t know that.
​
“What’s your name?” George growled, her voice impossibly bassy as she held up the glowing metal spike.
​
The prisoner remained silent, and if she wasn’t losing her faculties, she could’ve sworn his brow lifted a smidge.
​
“Who do you work for?”
​
His eyes darted to the poker, then returned to her face, his lips quirking to the side.
​
Couldn’t he just answer and make this easier? She jabbed him on the upper arm—Dunstan’s touch magic piled onto hers, adding the sensation of heat. A sizzle crackled in the air, compliments of Hildy, and the stench of burning flesh singed her nose—Burke’s work.
​
The prisoner jerked back, grunting through clenched teeth, and George nearly vomited. Guilt scrambled her guts as the stranger gripped the wooden chair handles, veins popping from his tense hands. He inhaled slowly as his fingers relaxed, then he moaned.
​
It was not a sound of pain, and it was so soft she could barely hear it.
​
More unanswered questions and a second jab to the arm led to the same reaction. His soft groan, almost a whimper, bottomed out George’s stomach as her chest, shielded by the mirage, rose and fell rapidly.
​
“He’s not going to talk,” she announced abruptly. Maybe he was and she was wrong, but what she did know was she wasn’t built for this, and neither were her friends. No one else was stepping in to take up the poker and have a go. Fates, the only person they wanted to harm was her father.
​
“Keep your convictions close.” Mamma’s words slipped through her mind, firming Georgie’s resolve and amplifying her guilt.
​
“Feed him and clean him up. I want his face shaved by the next time I see his sorry ass.” Maintaining character, George-the-man scoffed as George-the-woman sagged behind her mirage, a frown tugging her lips.
​
“Good call, never trust a man with a beard,” Burke muttered, his voice higher than usual.
​
“Never,” Dunstan and Hildy agreed in a new monotone.
​
Ignoring their jokes, ignoring the glossiness in their captive’s eyes and the flush on his cheeks, she swept around the befuddled, silent man and thundered upstairs, dropping the mirage as she entered the kitchen. George scrubbed her hands through her messy curls and grabbed a glass of water from the table to chug it while panting.
​
Fuck.