You in the Ruins

sage 4

Sage came back to herself in fragments: first the pounding in her skull, sharp and relentless, like someone had driven an iron spike above her brow. Pain radiated outward in hot waves. Then the rocking—slow, rhythmic, side to side. Her body swayed with it, knees gripping something solid and warm beneath her. Horseback. The realization hit like cold water.

She tried to lift a hand to the throbbing spot on her forehead, but her wrists wouldn’t separate. Rough rope bit into her skin, binding her hands together and lashed tight to the horn of a saddle. She was tied to the horse in front of her—someone else’s horse. Panic flickered, then memory crashed in.

Her birthday. The new green dress still clinging to her, torn at the hem now, smelling of smoke and blood. Dancing. Stars. Jase’s lips on hers—soft, electric, the first and only real kiss she’d ever had. Then screams. Torches. Arrows. Jase charging with his hammer. Jase falling. Jase dead.

“No…” The word scraped out of her dry throat, barely a whisper. Tears burned behind her eyelids, but she squeezed them shut harder. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet.

A voice came from directly behind her—close enough that she felt the words rumble against her back. Low, calm, edged with something almost amused.

“I see you’re awake. Sorry about your head. You were… relentless. Had to crack you with the hilt before one of my men put an arrow through you.”

She knew that voice. The same one that had ordered her family bound. The same one that had driven steel through Jase’s heart. She could picture those piercing blue eyes without turning—cold, unblinking, like winter sky over frozen ground.

“You killed him,” she rasped, throat raw as if she hadn’t spoken in days. “Why?”

She felt him shift, the heat of his chest pressing briefly against her spine. He smelled of firewood smoke, sharp herbs she couldn’t name, and something metallic—blood, maybe his own or someone else’s.

“It was him or me,” he said simply. “Would you not defend yourself if someone came at you with a hammer?”

Sage swallowed the sob that tried to rise. Instead she thought of Ma crumpled in the dirt, nose streaming. Will on his knees, spitting defiance. “Ma… and Will… are they…?”

She couldn’t finish. Didn’t want the answer if it was the one she feared.

“They’re alive,” he said after a beat. “Your brother’s at the back with the other hostages. Your mother… turns out my men enjoyed some bread she made. Suggested she come cook for us instead. Had to be damn good bread if they’d rather eat it than use her in other ways.”

Rage ignited in her chest, white-hot and sudden. Before she could think, she slammed the back of her head as hard as she could—aiming for his face, hoping for his nose. Bone met bone with a dull crack. He cursed sharply.

She felt the wet warmth of blood on the back of her skull—his, not hers. A small, vicious triumph.

Then he chuckled, low and dark. She heard him lick his split lip.

“You made my lips bleed…”

His hand shot up, fingers wrapping around her throat—not choking, but firm enough to remind her how easily he could. He pulled her back against him, bending so his mouth was at her ear. His breath was warm, steady, carrying that same smoke-and-herb scent.

“If you try anything like that again,” he murmured, “I’ll start cutting pieces off your family while you watch. Even if you manage to kill me, then what? My men get you. And they won’t stop at a headache. Things you won’t come back from, even if your body survives.”

Tears welled, hot and helpless. She hated this—hated the fear coiling in her gut, hated how small she felt with her hands tied and her world reduced to the sway of a horse and the press of a killer at her back. She clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, forcing the fury down to something cold and hard she could hold onto.

Then she heard it: a familiar low nicker, close and concerned.

Titan.

Relief crashed through her like a wave. “Titan, boy…”

The big Percheron answered with another soft huff, the sound so achingly normal it nearly broke her.

The man behind her spoke again, quieter this time. “He wouldn’t let anyone near him unless you were close. Had to ride him with you. Shame to waste a beast like that. He’ll be useful pulling stone in The City.”

The City.

The word landed like a stone in her stomach. All the old stories rushed back—raiders half beast, half man, metal armor fused to skin, teeth filed to points. She risked a glance around now, blinking against the bright daylight. The men riding nearby looked… ordinary. Hardened, scarred, faces streaked with red clay in jagged patterns that might have been war paint or ritual marks. Teeth normal. Armor pieced from scavenged metal, not grown from their bodies. Just men. Cruel men, but men.

Before she could process it, a horn blew sharp and low up ahead. The long column of horses, wagons, and captives slowed, then stopped.

“What is it?” the man behind her barked.

Hoofbeats approached at a gallop. A massive raider reined in, dwarfing even the draft horse he rode. Sage’s heart stuttered—he looked vaguely familiar, maybe one of the younger men from Home, but the fear in his eyes said he wasn’t riding free.

“Five trees down across the trail,” the scout reported. “Big one rotted at the base, took the others with it when it fell. Gonna take most of the afternoon to clear.”

Silence stretched. Sage felt the man behind her thinking, weighing.

Then, decisive: “Set up camp. Tell the boys we won’t make The City tomorrow like I hoped.”

Murmurs rippled down the line. Horses shifted, men dismounted, ropes were checked. Sage’s pulse hammered. Camp meant time—time to think, to watch, to find a way to Ma and Will. Time for Titan to be near. Time, maybe, to make this monster bleed again.

The column halted in a narrow clearing ringed by dense pines, the fallen trees blocking the old trail like a deliberate barricade from the wild itself. Men moved with practiced efficiency: horses were unsaddled and hobbled, fires kindled from dry branches, wagons circled for defense. The air filled with the low clink of metal, the snap of kindling, and the occasional curse as someone wrestled a stubborn mule into place.

Sage was pulled roughly from Titan’s back, her bound wrists yanked downward until her knees hit the needle-strewn ground. The rope was looped around a sturdy young pine, cinching tight enough to bite but not quite cut off circulation. She sat hard against the trunk, legs splayed in the dirt, the green dress now filthy and torn. Titan was led close—close enough that she could reach out and brush his massive foreleg if she stretched. The big Percheron stood quietly, ears flicking, his dark eyes fixed on her like a silent promise. At least they hadn’t separated them. Small mercy.

She watched the camp take shape through half-lowered lashes, every movement deliberate to avoid drawing attention. Fires bloomed in a loose ring. Bedrolls were unrolled. A few of the captured women from Home were herded to one side, hands tied in front, eyes downcast. Ma was among them, face swollen and crusted with dried blood, but moving under her own power. Will was farther back, shackled to a wagon wheel with three other young men, head bowed but shoulders tense. Alive. For now.

A shadow fell across her. Small—almost child-sized—but broad-shouldered in a way that spoke of density rather than height. The man crouched in front of her, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. Leather jerkin, patched breeches, a short sword at his hip. His face was painted with the same red-clay streaks as the others—swirling lines across his cheeks and brow—but his expression was open, almost curious, lacking the hard edge she’d seen on the rest.

He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re the one who dropped three of ours like stones. Impressive shooting. Name’s Iain.”

Sage didn’t answer right away. Her gaze kept drifting past him—to the tall figure across the camp. Ronan. He stood near the central fire, directing men with curt gestures, ponytail swaying as he turned. Blood still darkened his lower lip where she’d cracked him; he hadn’t bothered to wipe it away. He caught her staring once, held her eyes for a long beat, then looked away as if she were nothing more than scenery.

She forced her attention back to the small man. “Those markings,” she said, voice low and rough. “The red on your faces. What do they mean?”

Iain touched his own cheek absently, smudging the clay just a little. “Old habit from before the fall—or so the stories go. Each pattern tells something. Clan, kill count, rank. Some say it’s to scare the spirits off when we raid at night. Others just like how it looks.” He shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Me? I do it ‘cause it keeps the sun out of my eyes when I’m scouting. Practical.”

Sage nodded slowly, filing the information away. Her eyes flicked back to Ronan again. He was speaking to the big scout from earlier, voice too low to carry, but the way the other man straightened said he was giving orders.

“And him?” she asked, barely above a whisper. “The one who… the one in charge.”

Iain followed her gaze. His smile faded into something quieter, more careful. “That’s Ronan. Son of the old man who runs The City—or what’s left of it. He’s second only to his father, and even then it’s a thin line. Smart. Ruthless when he needs to be. Doesn’t waste words or lives unless there’s no other way.” He paused, glancing at her bound hands. “He could’ve had you killed back there for what you did. Didn’t. That means something.”

Sage’s throat tightened. “It means he wants something from me.”

“Maybe.” Iain stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “Or maybe he just doesn’t like waste. You’re strong. Skilled. A horse like that one—” he nodded toward Titan “—and a woman who can put arrows where they count? That’s rare out here. He sees value.”

She swallowed hard, anger and grief tangling in her chest. “Value,” she echoed bitterly. “Like livestock.”

Iain didn’t deny it. He just gave her a long look, almost sympathetic. “Survive long enough, and value can turn into leverage. Keep your head down tonight. Eat what they give you. Rest if you can.” He hesitated, then added softer, “Your ma’s cooking for the officers’ fire. She’s safe for now. Your brother too. Ronan gave the word—no one touches them without his say.”

Before she could ask more, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the growing dusk between the wagons.

Sage leaned her head back against the rough bark, closing her eyes for a moment. The camp sounds wrapped around her: crackling fires, low voices, the occasional whinny from the picket line. Titan shifted closer, lowering his huge head until his warm muzzle brushed her shoulder. She pressed her cheek to it, breathing in the familiar scent of horse and hay and home.

Across the camp, Ronan glanced her way again—brief, unreadable—then turned back to the fire.

She stared at the flames until her vision blurred, the question burning hotter than any blaze: What did a man like that want with someone like her?

And how long before she found a way to make him regret taking her alive?

But for now she sat still, hands bound, head throbbing, the warmth of her enemy at her back and the weight of everything she’d lost pressing down like the sun itself.

She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of Titan’s coat, the only piece of Home still within reach.