Throne of Ash and Blood

Chapter 13 Fear and Trust

Alphonse stared into the dim interior of the caravan. The frightened dragon children clung to each other, trembling, their wide reptilian eyes glistening in the low light. The smaller ones—barely two or three years old—cried in soft, hiccupping sobs, pressing their tiny scaled faces against the older ones. Those slightly older—five, maybe seven—stood in front of them protectively, some baring their small, sharp teeth and letting out low hisses that made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

Alphonse slowly lowered his staff to the ground and raised both hands, palms outward. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said softly, his voice carrying a rare gentleness.

One of the older boys growled in defiance, tiny sparks flickering in his throat—only to jerk forward in pain as the iron collar at his neck flared with runes, shocking him. His cry was sharp and raw.

Alphonse’s gut clenched as his eyes swept over the children. Every single one of them wore one of those collars. They weren’t just shackles—they were chains to their very nature, cutting them off from the fire and magic in their blood.

A lump rose in his throat. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head to the side, baring the curve of his neck—a sign of submission among beast people. The neck was the most vulnerable spot on the body; to expose it was to say, I am no threat to you.

The children’s sobs turned into soft, confused whimpers. Some spoke in the beast people’s tongue—small, broken words heavy with fear.

Then Emiko stepped forward. The moment she entered their view, her white-furred ears pricked forward, her tail swaying slowly in a soothing rhythm. She knelt, speaking to them in their own language. Her voice was warm, almost songlike, carrying the tone of a caretaker rather than a stranger. The hissing faded, replaced by sniffles and wary stares.

Together, she and Alphonse helped the children down from the caravan, one by one. Their small hands were cold and rough, their movements hesitant, but with each moment away from the locked wagon, they seemed to breathe a little easier.

Emiko inspected one of the collars, her golden eyes narrowing before she pulled a small set of delicate tools from her belt. With practiced hands, she worked at the locks, the faint click of tumblers falling away becoming a steady rhythm. One by one, the metal restraints clattered to the cobblestones.

Then, without warning, Emiko straightened and tilted her head back.

A sharp, clear birdcall split the air.

From the shadows beyond the street, figures began to emerge. Mercenaries—half human, half beast people—stepped forward, their armor muted in color but clearly well-kept. Weapons rested easily in their hands, their eyes scanning Alphonse’s group with suspicion.

Alphonse instinctively shifted his weight, ready for another fight, but Emiko moved past him with unhurried steps. “It’s alright,” she said, switching to the common tongue. “They helped save the caravan.”

A man emerged from behind the others—broad-shouldered, muscular, and strikingly handsome. His presence alone seemed to command silence. His sharp, dark eyes met Emiko’s, and for a moment his guarded expression softened. He gave her a small nod, one of trust born from something deeper.

He turned to his men. “Get the children to safety,” he ordered in a low, commanding voice.

The mercenaries moved with quiet precision, guiding the children away into the winding black market alleys, their forms vanishing into the deeper shadows.

The man lingered, his attention shifting to Alphonse’s group with a measured caution. His eyes flicked over each of them as though weighing their worth. He leaned down slightly toward Emiko, murmuring something in the beast people’s language—his tone low, suspicious, protective.

Emiko’s reply was softer, warmer, a tone Alphonse had heard her use only for those she truly trusted.

The man studied her face for a long moment, then sighed. His expression changed—his eyes gentled, his posture eased. Slowly, he reached up, his large hand cupping her jaw as his thumb brushed along the edge of her cheek. The gesture was intimate, protective… familiar.

Then, without another word, he stepped back, turned, and disappeared down the same path as his people.

Alphonse stood frozen, his chest tightening. He didn’t understand why that simple touch had left a sharp twist of jealousy clawing at his ribs, but it was there—hot, insistent, and impossible to ignore.

Emiko turned back to Alphonse and his group, her golden eyes narrowing as her tone sharpened.

“You truly had no idea what you were transporting?”

Alphonse met her gaze and shook his head. “We were told we’d get paid two hundred silver to get the caravans across the Barron. One held water… the other…” He gave a small shrug. “They didn’t tell us. We weren’t allowed to look inside.”

Thomme let out a slow breath, as if a puzzle piece had finally clicked. “Now it makes sense why those dragon folk in the Barron went straight for that cart and left the other one alone.”

Emiko crossed her arms, tail twitching with quiet agitation. “And you took the job without even knowing what was inside?”

Throkreat straightened his back — still shorter than everyone else, but brimming with stubborn pride — and huffed. “Two hundred silver,” he said firmly. “Wasn’t about to pass that up.”

“What could you possibly need so much for?” Emiko asked, suspicion lacing her tone.

Salish let out a soft scoff, folding her arms. “We’re trying to get Alphonse home so he can reclaim his throne.”

Emiko’s ears pinned back and her brow creased deeply.

Her silence stretched long enough for the sounds of the market to drift in — muffled shouts, boots on stone, the distant clatter of carts. Finally, she spoke, her voice quieter now.

“You haven’t heard… have you?”

Alphonse frowned. “Heard what?”

Emiko’s gaze flicked over their shoulders, scanning the shadows as though expecting someone to emerge at any moment. She stepped closer, her tone low and clipped.

“It’s not safe to talk here. Too many eyes… too many spies.” She jerked her chin toward a narrow alley. “Come. I know a safe place.”

Emiko moved quickly through the twisting back alleys, her ears flicking at every sound. She stopped in front of a sagging, dust-covered house whose windows had long been boarded shut. Without a word, she pushed the warped door open, stepping into the darkness inside.

The air smelled of old wood and faint mildew. Emiko crossed the creaking floorboards and pressed her palm against a panel in the far wall. With a muted click, a hidden latch released, and the panel swung inward, revealing a narrow passage sloping down.

“This way,” she murmured.

They descended into the shadows, their footsteps echoing faintly as Emiko led them through a winding labyrinth of stone tunnels. The air grew cooler, lit only by the occasional lantern hanging from the low ceiling. The path twisted and turned until, at last, they emerged into a wide underground chamber.

Alphonse’s eyes swept the scene — rough-hewn walls lined with bedrolls, crates of supplies, and tables covered with bowls of steaming food. But what caught his attention most were the dragon children from the caravan. They were here — free from their collars — being fed, washed, and bandaged by the mercenaries. The children’s frightened expressions had softened, some even managing small, weary smiles.

From across the room, the man from earlier approached — tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp, striking features.

“I’m Gareth,” he said, his deep voice carrying the weight of authority. “Leader of the Blood Blades.” He gestured to the others. “We’re a band of mercenaries who hunt slavers… and free those they take. Children most of all.”

Alphonse inclined his head politely. “Alphonse Grayson, of Norwich.”

Gareth’s expression shifted instantly — his easy confidence giving way to something harder, warier. He studied Alphonse in silence for a long beat, then lowered his voice.

“You may want to keep that to yourself.”

Alphonse frowned. “And why is that?”

Gareth’s eyes flicked toward Emiko before returning to him. There was something unspoken between them — something that made Alphonse’s chest tighten.

“Follow me,” Gareth said finally. “We’ll talk over drink and warm food.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and started toward a quieter alcove at the far end of the hideout.