Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)
Glint: Chapter 31

After living in Sixth Kingdom for the past ten years, I thought I’d experienced every kind of cold there was. But when we cross into Fifth Kingdom, I realize that’s not true at all.

The cold in Sixth Kingdom is frigid wind, sharp needles of sleet, blizzards brought on by the loud wailing of a grieving gale widow, and an endless shroud of clouds.

But Fifth Kingdom is different.

We cross into its territory during midday, with the view of an arctic sea on the horizon. Chunks of ice as clear as glass drift lazily around with the tide, sea birds resting on them between their dives for fish.

Further out, cerulean blue icebergs jut from the water like frozen sentinels shielding the harbor, the floating mountains proud and tall.

We set up camp there, right on the shore. When night falls, the ground seems to glow, while the bright blue water goes black as ink, waves crashing into the shore with a ballad sung by the tide.

No, I’ve never known cold to be like this before.

This wintry land of Fifth Kingdom is nothing like Highbell. It’s not blustery or loud or punishing.

It’s still. Quiet. The glacial calm of a land at peace with the cold, rather than at war with it.

It’s not just the weather that’s different. The army is too. They’re more sedate tonight, as if crossing territories into the crisp, calm land sobered everyone’s thoughts.

After eating dinner alone in my tent, I wander outside toward the shore that’s speckled with bonfires, a mass of soldiers gathered around.

Reconsidering, I decide to turn, and instead of heading right for the crowded beach, I go toward the shadow of boulders off to the right.

Gray and pitted, the stones are gathered in a clump, like timeworn marbles left to scatter the ground on the icy beach.

I carefully make my way over the rocks in hopes of finding someplace more private, because a night like this seems to call for it.

It’s slow progress over the slippery surfaces, but I manage it by the heel of my boots and the grip of my gloves. Once I get to the top of the stone pile, I breathe in, enjoying the view for a moment before I start making my way down the other side.

I’m almost to the bottom when the toe of my shoe hits an ice patch and I slip. I go falling forward with pinwheeling arms, but before I crack my head open on the rocks, a grip catches at the back of my coat.

My body jerks to a stop, awkwardly suspended mid-fall. I look over my shoulder to find Rip, and surprise makes my eyes go as wide as saucers.

“I slipped,” I say stupidly. I’m both embarrassed that he saw me fall, and relieved that he caught me.

In the moonlight, I can see him arch a brow. “I noticed.”

He tips his head, indicating that he wants me to walk. Feeling flustered, I straighten up and face forward, regaining my footing carefully before I start to pick my way down the rocks, all too aware of his presence, of his hold.

Rip keeps a grip on my coat the whole time, until we’re back on the flat ground. As soon as my feet hit the snow, he releases me, like he couldn’t do it fast enough, like he’s bitter he had to catch me in the first place.

It shouldn’t bother me, but it does.

I turn to him. “Thank you,” I say quietly.

He nods at me, but he’s stone-faced, colder than the bobbing ice. “You should’ve brought your ribbons out immediately to break your fall. You need to work on your instincts,” he says in reprimand.

A small sigh escapes me. “So I’ve been told.”

I brush down the feathers on my coat and look around, noting the small, empty beach. It’s caught between another mound of stones about forty feet away, making this little notch feel secluded, secret. A clandestine coast along an icicle sea.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, turning to face him.

“Waiting.”

I tilt my head in curiosity. “For what?”

Rip watches me for a moment, like he’s debating whether or not he wants to reply. When he stays silent, I have my answer.

Disappointment fills me, but it’s nothing more than what I deserve. I deserve a lot worse, to be honest. I deserved for him to let me fall on those rocks instead of catching me. I deserved to be locked up, to be hated.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. And I’m not exactly sure what parts I’m apologizing for, but my words are sincere nevertheless.

His expression shutters, giving nothing away.

When I realize he’s not going to respond to that either, I almost turn and walk away. Almost.

But something keeps me standing there, rooted with him.

As we watch each other beside the brine-breathed water, all I can think of is how his lips grazed against mine. How the feather-light touch was so contradictory to his rough reputation and sharp edges.

Even though I shouldn’t care, I find that I don’t want him to hate me. I don’t want his cold indifference.

My body remembers that night. From the heat of his breath, to the feel of his fingertips skimming my jaw. Every time I close my eyes, my heart pounds with the thought of it, my mind spinning with what it meant, why he did it.

Why did he do it?

I’ve tried fighting him tooth and nail since I met him. I’ve tried hating him. Blaming him, but…

But.

That argument of him being my enemy, it doesn’t feel true anymore.

Something changed. Something split off, and I can feel it, I can feel me drifting blindly in the water like one of those pieces of broken-off ice.

Maybe it was the barely-kiss that did it. Maybe it was the poke and prod, the proud smile I received when I unleashed my ribbons and admitted what I am.

Or maybe it was right from the start, when he saw me and he knew what I was and he did not balk. Maybe I was doomed from the beginning, the moment I walked off that ship.

I wrap my arms around myself and move my gaze to the ocean. It’s easier, to face that than to look at him as I talk.

“You’ve never treated me like your prisoner, not really,” I say quietly.

Hopefully he can hear me over the waves, because my voice doesn’t have the courage to go louder.

“I thought it was a tactic. Maybe it was—is. I don’t know. I never know with you, because you confuse me. This whole damn army confuses me,” I admit with a small scoff as I shake my head at myself.

I’m breathing harder, exerted from carrying the weight of my confession.

This could be a mistake. But everyone keeps telling me to listen to my instincts, and my instincts keep telling me to stop. To stop my knee-jerk reactions and try to see things in a different light instead.

Because even though that kiss was the softest, lightest touch, I felt its weight all the way down to my bones. And that can’t be a trick. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Right?

This quiet night is perfect for these timid thoughts. Perfect for looking at the shifting waves and feeling myself shifting too. My cheeks fight between a flush and the frost, heat and chill.

The clouds move overhead, like a curtain peeling back, finger to lips, an eavesdropping sky.

“But I just realized something,” I go on with an almost-smile.

Beside us, the seawater crashes against the rocks with a clap and a rumble.

“And what’s that?” Rip asks.

Our gazes stay locked on the thundercloud sea.

“That even if you are tricking me, I’m grateful. For all of it.”

Rip doesn’t reply, but he’s tense beside me. I can’t hear him breathe, don’t see his chest rise.

“You saved me from the Red Raids, but I think you also saved me from myself. And even if it is a manipulation, a ploy, it’s worth it, for what I learned.”

A pause. Then, his voice in the dark. “What did you learn?”

“I’ve been in a cage of my own making.”

I finally turn to him and look at the profile of his face, the scales that perfectly follow the line of his cheekbone. I see the hard set mouth, the drawn brows, the spikes raised along his back. The waves crash again, and the brined mist sprays up, kissing my face.

“I’m loyal, but…I feel guilty about the hawk.”

I know that it was a test from the goddesses. I’m just not sure if I failed or if I passed. What I do know is I’ve been churned and tangled up inside ever since I sent that message.

Rip doesn’t say anything for a moment, but I see the slight drop of his shoulders, his spikes in a bend, like they’ve let out a sigh. “It doesn’t matter that you sent that letter. Not in the way you think.”

My brows lift, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“He already knew. King Ravinger sent a missive to Midas when I first got you.”

Inside my chest, my heart missteps, trips over a beat.

He knows. Midas already knows.

The roar in my ears is louder than the crashing waves, and I have to shake my head to clear it. “Why would your king do that? I thought the plan was to shock Midas and leave him to scramble? Why get rid of the element of surprise?”

“Fourth’s army doesn’t need the element of surprise,” he says, and even if it’s arrogant, I don’t disagree. “King Ravinger likes to intimidate and brag. I’m sure telling Midas that Fourth’s army has his most prized possession pleased Ravinger immensely.”

I let that truth settle as my thoughts whirl, but I don’t want to swim neck-deep in games of kings. Not tonight.

So instead, I let out a long breath and change the subject. “When I asked you before what you were doing out here, you said you were waiting. What did you mean?” I ask, hoping that this time, he’ll answer me.

He looks up and points. “I was waiting for that.”

Following the direction of his finger, I notice that there’s been a change in the sky. There’s a blue tinge to the moon now, a melancholy sapphire veil. As I watch, I see a star drop beside it, streaking downward, before it disappears behind the horizon.

“Wow. I’ve never seen the sky look like that.”

“It’s a mourning moon,” Rip says, voice low, almost…sad. “It happens every few years. The fae used to gather to watch it in this realm.”

My throat bobs as I glimpse another star falling, fading out of sight, like it dove into the dark sea. I instantly understand why they call it a mourning moon. She looks so blue where she hangs in the sky, so somber. All around her, the night is crying tears of starlight.

“The goddesses make this night so that we can remember,” Rip tells me, and chills sprinkle over my arms. “The fae watch so we can honor the ones that we mourn. To remember them.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him who he honors, who he mourns. But that’s too personal, and I have no right. Instead, I watch the blue glow of the moon become deeper, its color painting the clouds.

His head drops down, turning, and we meet each other’s eyes. I used to think that his were as black as a bottomless pit, but I was wrong. They aren’t suffocating or soulless. Something swims in them when he looks at me.

I’m afraid that if I look too long, that same thing will swim in my eyes too. I look away again, using the sky as an excuse.

There’s a tentative truce between us, and the relief of it releases something heavy that was weighing on my shoulders.

When another star drops, I think of how I can offer my gratitude to him, and I decide to settle on a truth, freely given.

“You asked me before where I was from, but I didn’t answer.”

I feel him look over at me, those black eyes soaking in like dew against a parched leaf.

“I’ve come from a lot of places. From Highbell of course, and before that, a few villages in Second Kingdom. One of them was called Carnith.” My voice nearly splits in half at the name, but I manage to hold it together. “Before that, a shipping port along one of the coasts of Third.”

That ocean was so much different from this one. I can remember the smell of that beach, the markets that teemed there, the shore that was littered with boats and noise and people.

“The ships always came full and left empty. It was busy. It always reeked of fish and iron. It rained a lot,” I say, tone like a lull.

“And before that?” Rip asks carefully, and my chest is beating so hard, because it hurts to think of it, to remember it.

I haven’t spoken it aloud in a long, long time. I only ever dared to murmur it in my head on the cusp of a dream.

“Annwyn,” I whisper. “I was in Annwyn.”

The realm of the fae.

I feel the ache of home crack inside of me like an eggshell star.

Twenty years. It’s been twenty years since I’ve been home. Twenty years since I’ve breathed its fresh air, since I’ve walked on its sweet soil, since I’ve heard its sun’s song.

Rip and I watch the mourning moon for a long time after that. We don’t talk any more, but we do sit on the stones together, and it isn’t tense or awkward. Maybe for both of us, it’s a comfort. Each of us represents a little piece of home, and maybe that’s what we mourn most.

When I start to shiver inside my coat and shift it around me, his eyes fall to it. I quickly gather the hood and lift it over my head as Rip rises from the stones. “Time to go, Goldfinch.”

My heart squeezes from the nickname as I get to my feet. I’m going to miss this, when I’m back with Midas. I’m going to miss him.

That realization, this awakening awareness, it feels as if the world is moving beneath my feet. Like I’m going to look up and see the ground while I walk on the sky.

Even more shocking is that it somehow feels right.

I’m going to miss him, and I can’t lie to myself about it anymore.

He helps me over the rock pile and then walks me back to camp. The moon’s blue shade is already fading, the stars going still and clear again in the sky, like drying tears.

When we get to the tent, he stops just outside of it. “We’ll reach Ranhold Castle tomorrow night.”

My pulse jumps. “Already?”

Rip nods, watching me steadily, expression unreadable. “King Ravinger will be arriving so he can greet Midas.”

I feel my eyes flare as fear suddenly thrums through my entire body. “Your king is coming?”

“You need to prepare yourself.”

I want to ask him to clarify, to ask what I should be preparing myself for, but he’s already walking away.

King Rot is coming.

And yet, I’m not sure who I’m more nervous to face—him or Midas.

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