I suck in a waking breath as the wagon jolts forward. A bump draws a groan from my lips.

We continue along the ever snaking trail in the light of dawn. With a roll of my shoulders, I realize the brief rest did me some good. A smile pulls at my lips as I remember that first meeting of the two boys, the two I came to call brothers.

The smile drops from my face before it crosses my face. What must the boys be going through? Behind me, a cry arises from one of them, tearing my wounded heart further asunder. Will they take them to The Pits: used, beaten, killed? I can imagine their sightless eyes as the royals feed them to their pets.

“I’ll free you,” I promise in a whispering breath only the wind is privy to.

~~~

We stop before the moon meets the highest stars. I'm shoved a hard piece of bread and a bucket through the hinged hole in the door just wide enough to fit my head. It's tempting to catch the arm and break it just for spite, but they took enough precautions and were ready to spike my hand should I have attempted it. I'm quite attached to the appendage.

The following day passes uneventfully amid bumps and whatever rest I can achieve. They stop to relax the horses at a watering hole when the sun is high in the sky, giving me a chance to listen to chatter from the jingoist. Were I not in a cage, I'd be tempted to laugh at the topics discussed. These men are worse than maids in a castle.

I didn't need to know Jack so and so married his cousin, nor that Bronson had hives for a month because he wiped with stinging nettle, thinking it was mullein. How do you even mistake those two? One is blue green with soft, felt-like leaves, the other is a dark green and stings on contact. Even an idiot should be able to feel the sting in his hand before—yeah. Some things you just can't unhear, nor unsee.

Overall, I count between twenty and thirty jingoist, plus some wounded who limp around or lay upon pallets with a pallor on their brow.

An odd scent touches my nose. It reminds me of the dusky, somewhat sweet, and tangy musk of a Shifter. And yet, it's also tinged with something else. Something dark and oily. I wonder if they have another Shifter caged within one of these wagons.

The moon and starlight are covered by a thick overcast blanket of gray clouds, making it hard to drive the wagons through the night, even with magelights.

I put my eye to a knothole. All I see by the soothing light of a silvery moon is a small pond the horses congregate around. The tasks of setting up camp occur all around the central point of the water. They pitch tents, unsaddle the horses and brush the mounts down, set up hobbles and pickets, and others gather brush and wood from the surrounding forest to build fires to last the slightly nippy fall evening.

One large, bushy man sits on a rock sharpening his blade. The others give him a wide berth, casting glances his way when they don't think he's looking. A smirk tips his lips that the others are too frightened to notice.

We've traveled thirty miles over the last two days, alternating between a walk the horses can keep up for days with short, brisk trots.

My ears perk at a footfall outside the wood. The slightly limping gait of the jingoist commander. I push back into the center of my cage with lips pulled up in a silent snarl. He thumps my cage with a blunt object, probably wishing to make me quiver. He doesn't know what I am, or he would know it takes much more than a loud noise to unsettle me.

He eyes me through the slats of the cage, his eye tightening in mirth as a smirk pulls at the side of his lips visible through the gap.

"Edward. Jones!" he barks, watching me with triumph in his squinty eyes.

A young man breaks from tent duty, only a few years my elder. The other is the giant who was sharpening his blades.

"Commander Vex, Sir!" The two opposites salute in unison.

"You two will be in charge of this... warrior," Commander Vex says, finally stepping back from my cage to address the two soldiers directly.

The guards snicker, as if I'm the butt of a joke.

Ha Ha. Hilarious, my subconscious dryly comments.

"There is another Kursk who needs containment. We already caught it. Just pack it up and meet back at Greyston. If you want to be paid, meet us there within a week." Commander Vex flashes my cage a look after those orders. The gleam in his eyes is dark and foreboding, making chills race up my spine. If I were in wolf form, my hackles would be raised.

Commander Vex's eyes dart to the wagon as soft singing emanates from within. My blood runs cold. He means to separate us. As he has said before, it's his goal to break me, and making me wonder what he's doing to those I care about while I'm gone... he probably doesn't know just how deeply that will affect a half-wolf. Or—judging by the cruel gleam in his eyes—perhaps he does.

This... it's a game to him. I snarl, the sound emerging from the depths of my chest and startling some quail and large bramble bees the size of my hand who were bedded down in the brush beside the wagons. The flapping of the birds and the quiet hum of the green and brown bees slowly disappear into the distance as they find another place to settle for the night.

The two lackeys jump. They trade looks, peering at my wagon. The younger man gulps. The hairy man sneers. But they salute in acceptance, doing what the commander expects despite their dread.

Determination tightens my chest.