To do what was required of her meant in most cases she needed to silence the part of herself that called out with the cries of the sinking crews. On her last run, as soon as she and her crew boarded the vessel and began tearing apart their commodities, she realized immediately it was not like any of her other assignments…
The Nail Ward, as they called it, was as miserable as it looked from the outside. The thousands of needles covering the floor and walls made it impossible to relax, and sleep was terribly out of the question.
So Kerrick stood in the corner waiting, patiently, for the sunrise.
“I don’t have a reason to tell you anything. I can wait here, whether you kill me or not, you won’t make it out of here alive.”
Emry rounded the room, giving the dead soldier a wide berth. The scent of fresh blood intermingled with that of the rot and decay heaved her stomach on itself.
Smoke still billowed from the depths of Icehold, a sight she admired for a moment, the faces of the terrified guards still fresh in her memory.
The early morning of Godspine felt no different to her than any other day, but something within her stirred. Rheysan’s words bounded through her in consideration of the voice inside. If Farrakha was a dragon, what did she want with Sekehenna, or Emry, for that matter?
He dragged one such body, that of a young boy who’d been imprisoned for, judging by the look of his ribs through his abdomen, being hungry. Kerrick hefted the young corpse carefully upon the mound of prisoners while Heindor worked on the other side of it, pulling them one at a time and lining them up to prepare them for the mass grave.
“Don’t touch her.”
The woman’s voice was cold, emotionless. Klauven didn’t react as he crouched over her and dragged the tip of his knife across Emry’s side. Blood seeped from the wound, tickling her as it slid across her bruised skin.
Emry gripped the knife in her hand. Unable to trust her vision in the darkness, she searched with her hearing. Listening for the sound of footsteps or voices intermingled with the cacophony of trumpet blasts and shouting in the distance. Wherever the guards were, they were not searching in the right place.
All around their bodies scattered pools of collecting water, the edges of the hole in the wall still frozen. In the center of the carnage stood a woman. Her skin was tan, her hair draped behind her, nearly touching the top of her thighs. Her body was covered with splattered blood and her eyes…
“They deserved it.” She muttered, pushing herself to her feet as she looked past the dead guards and into the Camps where she saw Haim’s body, limp and stained with blood. Cradled in the arms of his mother.
“My baby boy…” She whimpered, and Sekhenna turned away.
“What do your people do?” The Warden flicked ash onto his exposed arm. The sting faded quickly to a tickle as a nearby draft carried the charred Greenleaf into the room.
“My father is a tailor.”
Lohks raised an eyebrow. “Tailor, you say? With what company does he hem jackets?”
The Grimoire of Finality 