Eliakim waited until the barracks' dim lanterns guttered low, the light shrinking into trembling patches on the walls. The guards outside had settled into their rotation — three steps, pause, shift of spear, three steps again.
He sat cross-legged against the wall, head tilted back as if half-asleep. But his right hand rested palm-down against the cold floor, fingertips tracing subtle patterns in the stone.
Across the chamber, in the small adjoining pen where they'd penned Skyling, her head lifted. The null-binders still dulled her feathers, the shimmer long gone — yet her eyes remained bright, fixed on his hand.
Eliakim altered the tapping into a rhythm only she would know: the same one he'd used to call her from the cliffs outside Yldrahollow.I'm here. Wait.
Her talons shifted against the floor in reply — faint scrapes, almost lost under the drip of water from the ceiling.Understood.
It was crude, almost painfully slow, but it was something.
A shadow detached from the far corner and slid down beside him. Caleb's voice was low, bitter."I've been thinking about my bow."
Eliakim didn't look at him. "Dangerous pastime in here."
"I'm serious. I know where they've taken it — the captain's personal rack in the armory. I can get it back if…" He hesitated, glancing at the guards. "…if you make a distraction. Big enough that no one notices I'm gone."
Eliakim finally turned his head. Caleb's eyes were hard, still carrying the sting of earlier."You'll get yourself killed."
"Maybe. But without that bow, I'm just a man in a cell."
Eliakim didn't answer right away. The truth was, Caleb's desperation could be turned to their advantage — if timed right."Not yet," he murmured. "Wait for the right crack. You'll know it when it comes."
Caleb frowned, but nodded once before melting back into the shadows.
Far from the barracks, Captain Vaeryn Solthir rode into the mist-wreathed ravine.
The outermost sanctuary of the exiled queen lay here — a hidden fortress carved straight into the cliffside, its walls masked by enchanted vapors that bent light and sound alike.
From the outside, it was nothing but shifting mist and jagged rock. From within, it pulsed with quiet readiness. Legionaries trained in courtyards of shadow, their movements precise and silent. Their armor bore the sigils of rebellion — curling motifs forbidden in the central city. Above, narrow bridges arched between the fortress towers, each patrolled by sentries whose footsteps made no sound on the stone.
Vaeryn dismounted at the gate, nodding curtly to the gatekeepers. In the courtyard beyond, steel hissed in the air as sparring pairs clashed, the sound sharp but strangely muted in the misted space.
Inside the queen's hall, Vaeryn delivered his report — carefully omitting any mention of the unease in the prisoners' eyes. He played the part of the loyal captain, certain the captives were secured and useful for the queen's coming gambit.
Later that night, he volunteered for a patrol along one of the outer bridges — the perfect place for a man to disappear for a few minutes.
He picked his spot: a blind curve where the mist swirled thickest.
The "attack" came suddenly. A grunt, the scrape of boots, then Vaeryn's body went limp against the bridge's edge. Anyone finding him would see a captain struck down by some unseen assailant — an intruder, a spy, perhaps even an advance agent of the enemy.
When the sentries reached him, he played his role to perfection, blinking in disorientation. "Prisoners… the barracks… they're gone…" His voice carried just enough urgency to send the patrols into motion.
Behind his practiced shock, the captain's mind was already working. This, too, was part of the game.