Marked

Chapter 12

RYN POV

As the last word left my mouth, I wanted to take it back. All of it. Not because it wasn’t true. But because I hadn’t meant to say it to him.

I hadn’t spoken of my parents’ death in years. Not out loud. Not to anyone—not even Teryn. And certainly not to a male who, by all accounts, had murdered more rebels than anyone still walking.

And yet… there it was.

Laid bare between us. Like some kind of offering. I watched him carefully. Waiting for a smirk. A jab. A cold remark. But none came.

Instead, his gaze shifted—just slightly—and for the first time since we chained him to that wall… I saw something flicker behind his eyes.

Not amusement. Not defiance. Something quieter.

He wasn’t leaning forward anymore. Wasn’t playing the game. He’d settled back against the wall again, eyes shadowed, face unreadable.

But his confidence—the self-assuredness that had coated his every word like oil on water—it had cracked.

Even just for a moment. Interesting. And unnerving. Because part of me wanted to press forward, to push deeper, to unravel him word by word. And another part…

Wanted to retreat.

I shifted on the stool, suddenly too aware of how small the cell was. How quiet.

“I don’t usually talk about them,” I said before I could stop myself. My voice was quieter now. “Not to anyone. Especially not someone like you.”

His jaw flexed at that, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t meet my eyes. He looked…

Haunted. Not in the way soldiers sometimes looked after battle. Not in the way murderers wore regret.

But in the way someone looks when they’re trying very hard not to feel something they can’t quite name.

That flicker in his eyes—it was gone now. But I’d seen it. And I wasn’t sure what unsettled me more: That he felt something… Or that I wanted to know what it was.

I shook the thought from my head. The memory of my parents. The way his eyes had changed. The silence stretching too long between us.

It needed to end. Now.

I stood from the stool, letting it scrape softly against the stone. His eyes tracked the motion but he didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched.

“I’m going to get you some food and water,” I said, voice neutral again. “I’ll be back later. We’re not finished.”

He didn’t answer. But I didn’t wait for one. I stepped out of the cell, pulled the heavy door shut behind me, and turned the key in the lock with a sharp click. The sound echoed down the hall, solid and sure.

Just like I needed to be. The cool air upstairs hit me like a breath of fresh thought.

I stepped into the main room, grabbing my satchel and pulling the two waterskins from our packs near the hearth.

“Teryn,” I called, my voice steady now, “I’m heading out. I’ll bring back something for the fire before nightfall.”

“Don’t be long,” her voice answered from somewhere down the hall. “And stay sharp.”

“Always,” I muttered under my breath.

I slipped through the front door and into the late afternoon light, letting the door shut behind me.

The woods greeted me like an old friend—cool shadows, birdsong, and the promise of movement. My boots found the trail easily, and I moved fast and quiet, back toward the stream we’d passed before reaching the safehouse.

There was still plenty of light left.

Enough to hunt.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to remind myself that I was still in control.

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Riv POV

The silence came back after she left. Not the usual kind. Not the steady quiet I’d learned to live with—survive in. This was heavier. Thicker. It stuck to my ribs and filled the space she’d left behind like fog after a storm.

I stared at the door for a long time. Not because I expected her to come back right away—but because her voice still echoed there. Twenty years. Six years old.

I didn’t know the details of her story. Didn’t need them. I knew enough.

Enough to recognize the kind of loss that turns you into something sharp. The kind that never stops hurting—it just teaches you how to carry the pain without flinching.

And gods… how many times had I looked in the mirror and seen the same thing?

I leaned my head back against the stone wall and let the cold bite into the base of my skull. Let it keep me grounded while the thoughts started circling again.

My mother’s face flickered into memory—warm eyes, quiet strength, the hum of her voice as she whispered fairytales.

I barely remembered the sound now. Only the way her body hit the stone floor when he—

I clenched my fists. The king. The bastard I served. The monster who turned me into one of his own. I hated him more than words could touch. For killing her. For using me. For turning my blood into chains and my magic into a curse.

No one knew who I truly was. Not the king. Not the court. Not the soldiers who flinched when I passed. Not even the rebels who whispered my title like a death sentence.

I didn’t even know who I was anymore.

Just a shadow. A weapon. A ghost with no future.

Because I’d never been allowed to dream about freedom. Never had the space to imagine a life where I wasn’t hunting someone. Running from something. Killing because I had to.

So I never dreamed at all. But now… Now there was her.

Ryn.

A name and a voice and a fire that didn’t ask for permission to burn. She was young.

But not soft. She reminded me of something I’d forgotten—what it felt like to fight for something, not just against everything.

I was already starting to like her. Which meant I needed to be careful.

Because liking her? That was dangerous. For both of us. Footsteps echoed down the stone stairwell.

Not rushed. Not hesitant. Measured.

I shifted slightly on the cot, chains scraping softly as I straightened. I expected her. Ryn. Thought maybe she was back with food or another round of carefully framed questions.

But something felt off. The rhythm was heavier. The presence colder. Then I saw her.

Not Ryn.

The older one.

The sharper-edged companion with the perpetual scowl and the stare that held no room for mercy.

She stepped into the corridor, shoulders squared, a metal poker clutched in her gloved hand. She didn’t speak right away. Didn’t posture.

Just walked to the cell door, opened it with a flick of the wrist, and propped the poker against the frame like a promise waiting to be made.

“I want answers,” she said.

No greeting. No expression. Just words delivered like stone.

“Now.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of a twitch or a breath too fast. But my thoughts shifted quickly.

Ryn had bought time, that much I was sure of. She didn’t want this—didn’t need this to get what she wanted.

But this one? She wasn’t waiting. She was acting. Because the second Ryn stepped away…

All bets were off.

The older female crossed her arms and stared me down like I was already bleeding.

“I know your kind,” she said flatly. “Think if you stay quiet long enough, someone else will crack before you do. But I’m not the one who’s going to crack.”

Her eyes flicked toward the poker, then back to me.

“I’m not here for conversation. I’m here for results.”

I stared at her. Measured her.

Hard lines in her face. Calluses on her hands. The set of her stance said she'd led troops, not followed them.

She wasn’t bluffing. And she wasn’t going to wait.

“Careful,” I said at last, my voice calm but edged. “You might burn me, I won’t scream.”

I let the words hang.

“I’ll remember.”

Her lips curved—not into a smile, but something meaner.

“Good,” she said. “Then we’ll both get something out of this.”

She didn’t flinch when I warned her. Didn’t second guess. Didn’t leave. Instead, the older female grabbed the poker and turned, stepping back out into the corridor without a word.

I heard her settle near the torch mounted just outside the cell—heard the scrape of metal against stone and the low hum of iron as it began to heat. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

Let the sound of the flames fill the silence. Let the pain coming settle like a storm on the horizon. A few minutes passed. Then her voice called through the bars.

“Your name.”

I said nothing. The chains tugged faintly as I shifted, but I didn’t rise. Didn’t move. Just waited. Another minute.

Then: “Why were you following us?”

Her tone was colder now. Sharper. But I still said nothing. She didn’t shout. Didn’t threaten. She just waited.

Waited until the poker began to hum—until the metal turned from dull gray to red-hot, the tip glowing like the edge of a forge.

Then she opened the door again and stepped inside. The heat rolled off the iron in waves. She didn’t speak as she held it up—just showed me the end. Let me see it. Let me feel the threat without needing to say a word.

But I still didn’t move. Still didn’t blink. Because pain? I’d lived with pain for a hundred years.

And it hadn’t broken me yet. She hesitated only for a second. Then she stepped forward, drew the poker back—

And drove it into my thigh.

The pain was blinding. White-hot. Blistering.

I clenched my jaw hard enough to crack something and shoved back against the stone wall, muscles seizing. A grunt tore from my throat—raw, involuntary.

But I didn’t scream. I wouldn’t scream. The poker hissed as it was withdrawn.

I could smell the scorched flesh. Feel the searing heat still radiating through the wound. Blood—hot and sharp—began to spread beneath the burned skin.

I forced myself to breathe. To stay upright. To look her dead in the eyes. She didn’t smile. Didn’t gloat. Just stood there. Waiting. But I said nothing.

Because if she thought fire would loosen my tongue… She didn’t know me at all. The burn seared.

The chains bit into my wrists as I braced harder against the wall, every muscle in my body locked tight to keep from showing how deep it went. I’d felt worse. But not recently.

She stood a few feet away, poker still in her hand, its tip glowing less brightly now but still dangerous. Still hot enough to maim.

Still tempting enough for her to use again. She stared at me for a long moment. Not like she was searching for cracks. Like she was daring me to make her try again.

“I’ve seen grown males scream after the first touch,” she said at last. Her voice was flat. Cold. “You didn’t even fall over.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. But something about my silence seemed to frustrate her more than a curse would have. She took a slow step forward, stopping just shy of where the chain allowed me to reach.

“You’re not just some mindless killer,” she said, eyes narrowed. “You’re smart. Calculated. And yet here you are… wasting my time.”

Still, I held her gaze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“You’re loyal to him?” she asked, voice sharpening now. “To that monster?”

A laugh almost escaped me. Dark. Bitter. But I didn’t let it out. If only she knew.

When I said nothing, she exhaled through her nose like she was losing patience—if she ever had any to begin with. Her fingers tightened on the poker.

“Last chance,” she warned.

No fire in her voice now. Just finality. I looked at her—really looked. The tension in her shoulders. The cold gleam in her eyes. The calculation, yes—but something else too.

Desperation.

She needed something from me. Information. Answers. Control. But she wasn’t going to get it this way.

“Then do it,” I said, voice low and ragged.

“Go ahead.”

She stared at me, poker trembling just slightly in her grip. But she didn’t move. Didn’t step closer. And in that moment…

I knew she was deciding. Whether this was still about the mission. Or just proving she could break me. She stared at me a moment longer.

Then she turned. Walked back to the corridor. Back to the torch.

I heard the hiss of iron meeting flame again—the sharp intake of fire as it licked along the poker’s shaft. The scrape of metal shifting in her grip.

She was heating it again. My thigh throbbed where she’d burned me, the skin charred and angry. The smell of it still clung to the air.

But the pain? It was background noise now. The real weight settled in my chest. Her footsteps returned, slower this time. Measured.

She stopped in the open doorway again, the poker glowing brighter than before, casting red light across her hardened face. But she didn’t move toward me. Not yet.

Instead, she said, “There was a girl. Seventeen.”

Her voice was quiet now, but sharp as the edge of a blade.

“She wasn’t part of the rebellion. She didn’t fight. Didn’t cast. Didn’t run.”

The words sank like stones in still water.

“She helped her brother heal someone. That was it. You tracked her across half a province, hunted her down like prey. And when she begged—begged—you didn’t hesitate.”

My throat clenched. But I said nothing. Because I remembered her. Of course I did. I remembered all of them. She stepped forward, raising the poker slightly, the heat radiating between us.

“I held her while she bled out.”

Her voice cracked at the end—barely. Just a fracture. But I heard it. Felt it. I knew what it meant to hold someone you loved while their life slipped through your fingers.

Still, I stayed silent. Because what was there to say? She wanted an answer that didn’t exist. She wanted justice. And I was just a sword the king had pointed. But the guilt—

It was always there. Every face. Every name. Every broken plea in the dark.

They haunted me in the moments between orders. Between kills. In the quiet of sleep when no shadows dulled the memories.

But I couldn’t dwell on them. Not for long. Because the second I let the guilt in—really felt it—it would bury me alive. So I braced my hands against the wall behind me, lifted my chin, and locked eyes with the female in front of me.

The pain from the burn still screamed beneath my skin. But I kept my voice even.

“I remember her.”

She didn’t speak for a breath. Just stood there, poker burning red in her hand, breath uneven. Then, in a voice that sounded more like a vow than a threat, she said, “This is for Caleira.”

And then she drove the poker into my arm. The pain was blinding. It tore through flesh, split tendon, shattered bone.

It was deeper than the first—brutal, exacting. The kind of pain that stole the air from your lungs before you could even gasp.

I felt the poker grind as it pierced all the way through and hit stone behind me. I didn’t scream. But a sound tore from my throat—low, guttural, raw.

My vision went white around the edges. I slumped against the wall, chains straining, sweat pouring down my back.

Blood pooled fast beneath me, hot and thick and too much. But I didn’t break. I wouldn’t. Not for her. Not for him. But then I heard it—boots pounding on stone, fast and light.

And a voice. Hers.