Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

Being made to ride alone in a carriage all day might be some kind of punishment—a silent reminder of my outsider status. But I guess there’s something to be said for solitude.

There’s safety in loneliness, but there’s a lurking danger too. One that doesn’t come from anything other than yourself.

The danger for me, of course, is the memories.

The long hours offer me a lot of time to think. Without anyone else around, no distractions, no words besides my inner voice. There’s nowhere for those memories to be shoved away while I’m exposed, stagnant in my own festering company.

And so, I remember. Even though I don’t really want to.

“How many coins, girl?”

My six-year-old hands are sweaty, hidden behind my back, fingers curled tight.

The man looks me over, impatient, tired, a pipe stuck in the corner of his mouth that breathes out smoke of blue.

He snaps his fingers. Zakir doesn’t like to linger with me beneath the red striped overhang in the market square. If he’s caught peddling beggar kids, he’d be in a world of trouble.

Rain drips off the awning cloth like strings of drool hanging from snarling lips of the wild dogs that run rampant through the city. The sky hasn’t let up from its drizzle all day.

My hair is wet, making it look darker than it is, no shine to hide the matted knots. At least the burlap fabric of my dress helps sluice some of the water off, though I still feel like a drowned rat.

When Zakir’s glare grows dark, I quickly pull my hand out from behind my back, begrudgingly unfurling my fingers.

He looks down at the offering in my palm, pipe bitten between his back teeth. “Two coppers? All you’ve gotten all day is two bloody coppers?” he growls.

I tremble at his tone. I don’t like making him mad.

He snatches the coins and shoves them into his pocket. Taking the pipe out of his mouth, he spits at my feet, though I’m used to it enough that I don’t grimace anymore.

“All you gotta do is stand there,” he snaps, shaking his head as he looks down on me in disappointment.

His accent is harsh to my ears still, even after all these months I’ve been with him. Some of the other kids call him Toad behind his back, because he’s always making this croaking sound when he first gets up in the morning to clear his throat.

“Stand at your corner and smile, and these numps will practically toss money at ya!” he says, spitting the words like an accusation, like I’m not doing everything he’s told me to do.

I bite my lip, looking down at the ground, pinching my arm as a reminder not to cry. “It—it’s raining, Sir Zakir. I don’t get as much when it’s raining,” I explain shakily.

“Bah!” Zakir waves a hand dismissively. He digs through the front pocket of his checkered vest to pull out his box of matches, relighting the end of his pipe where the leaves got soggy from the rain. “Get back out there.”

My bottom lip wobbles. I’m hungry, cold, tired. Inara is a bad sleeper, and I got stuck next to her all night, crammed between her flailing legs and the corner of the room, so I’m dragging even more than normal. I’ve been looking forward to getting out of the rain, to being allowed to eat and rest.

“But—”

“You got rain in your ears, girl? I didn’t ask for argument.” Zakir flicks the used match at the ground. I watch it land in a puddle, flame smothered in an instant. “Six more coins, or else you won’t be sleeping inside tonight.”

Collar pulled up against his neck, hat placed on head, Zakir leaves, probably to go meet with the other kids, while I slink back to my designated corner in the market square, knowing full well I won’t earn six more coins.

I can usually get people interested enough to stop instead of walk by like I’m invisible, but under the shadow of dripping clouds, I’m just a wet beggar child, far beneath notice.

Still, I stand at my muddy corner between a hatmaker and an egg stall, and I smile. I wave. I make eye contact with everyone who passes by, stuck in the heart of a foreign city that smells of fish and iron.

The shoppers don’t stop, the merchants ignore me.

No one can tell the difference between tears and raindrops on your cheeks. No one sees your watery smile when you’ve got the clouds to compete with. Even if they could, they wouldn’t do anything, anyway.

So I beg all day and well into the night, with wet hands cupped out in a plea. If anyone really looked at me, they’d know I’m not begging for money. Not really.

But no one looks, and I don’t earn those six coins.

When I finally drag my pitiful self to Zakir’s house much later, I curl up in a puddle on the front doorstep—me and one other kid who didn’t meet his quota. Even though we could offer each other warmth and comfort on this dreary night, the boy shuns me too, deciding to climb up the dilapidated eaves and sleep on the roof instead. None of the kids like me much.

That night, I promise the goddesses to never complain about Inara’s sleep-flailing ever again, because getting kicked is a whole lot better than sleeping outside alone.

My chest aches as that memory fades. I sniff, like I’m getting rid of the scent of the sopping village, the saltwater fish, and Zakir’s pipe smoke. I was with him for a long time. Too long. I spent many nights where the only blanket I had was the cover of darkness.

From five years old to fifteen, I never truly had a good night’s sleep—not until Midas rescued me.

“You’re safe now. Let me help you.”

It’s so strange to think about—how I went from that girl begging on a muddy corner, to a woman adorned in a gilded castle. Life takes you on paths you don’t have a map for.

I turn my face to the carriage window, seeing the snow flurries drifting by, fog clouding up the glass. What I wouldn’t give for Midas to ride in right now with torch and sword in hand to rescue me.

But he doesn’t know where I am, doesn’t even know that I’m in trouble. Which is why it’s more important than ever that I get a message to him. Not just for myself, but because the last thing I want is for this army to sneak up on Fifth Kingdom and slaughter them all.

If I don’t do everything in my power to warn Midas of what’s coming, then the fate of Fifth Kingdom will be my fault.

I can’t fail.

A warning is all I have to offer. It’s not much, but hopefully it’s enough to help Midas meet the threat on a more even footing.

Once he finds out that I’ve been taken, I know there’s nothing he won’t do to get me back. Nothing.Property belongs to Nôvel(D)r/ama.Org.

When the gloom of a gray dusk descends, my carriage lurches to a stop, and I feel the jostle of my driver jumping down from his seat. I swipe my sleeve against the window, leaving a clear streak to peek out.

Outside, there’s a singular rise in the ground, a hill that slopes gently up like a dune of snow. At its center, the hill is hollow and shockingly blue. It’s so bright, even in the dark, that it almost seems unnatural, like a giant who’s fallen asleep on the ground, a blanket of snow covering all of him except for that dazzling blue iris peeking out.

The soldiers make their main camp right at the center of the short, yet wide length of cave. Soon, they have a large fire built right at its pupil, a glittering wink of flame that sheds light on the deeper part of the cavern.

The click of my lock sounds, and the carriage door swings open, revealing Osrik. I step down, the ground slightly slippery beneath my shoes. All around me, tents are being put up, horses gathered, fires lit, a latrine being shoveled.

“Commander wants to see you.”

I look up at him. “Why?”

His tongue moves the wooden piercing in his bottom lip in an absentminded gesture.

“I’m tasked to fetch you. Not to answer stupid questions.”

I sigh. “Great. Lead the way.”

I follow him as he cuts a path through the camp, but it’s not easy. I have to dodge soldiers, veer around exposed stakes in the ground, and slog through snow that hasn’t been packed down by footsteps yet.

When I nearly trip over a pile of wood that’s been dumped to make a campfire, I curse, barely catching myself before I end up face-first in the snow. Osrik looks back at me with a smirk.

My blood boils. “You’re purposely leading me on the shittiest path you can find, aren’t you?”

“You catch on a little slow, but I’m glad to see you’ve arrived at the realization,” he replies, the bastard.

I step over the rest of the disarrayed woodpile, catching up to him. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

He grunts, as if my blunt question surprises him. “I don’t like Midas, and you’re his symbol.”

I falter, footsteps stopping for a moment before I snap myself back into movement. “What do you mean I’m his symbol?” I’ve never heard anyone refer to me that way before.

Osrik leads me past a circle of horses huddling around bales of hay, making me step around the manure peppered over the ground.

“You’re his trophy, sure, but you’re also his mirror,” Osrik tells me. “When everyone looks at you, all they see is him. All they think about is his gold-touch power and what it would be like to have magic like that, that endless wealth. You represent his reign—not just over his kingdom, but over all the greed in Orea, and he fucking loves it.”

I’m stunned, too surprised by his words to form a response.

“So yeah, when I look at you—his little golden pet that he shows off—it pisses me off.”

“Then don’t look at me,” I retort, my voice carrying a hard edge.

Osrik snorts. “I try not to.”

I don’t know why shame crawls up my neck and into my cheeks, leaving me with a rusty blush, but it does.

“For the record, I get pissed off when I look at you, too,” I reply.

A rough, quick bark of a laugh escapes him, so loud and sudden that it makes me jump.

“I guess neither of us should look at one another then.”

I dart a look at him. “I guess not.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence, but I notice that this time, Osrik chooses an easier path.