Page 12 of To Bleed A Kingdom

A horse nudges my own as its black-haired owner stares at Zander, annoyance twisting the swirled marking on his pale cheek. Wearing a royal blue tunic beneath a black leather vest and matching leather trousers, there's not a spot of dust on Tristan. Unfortunately, the rest of us can't say the same. Covered head to toe in dirt, dust, and whatever other ungodly substances the forest excretes, I'll be scrubbing myself for weeks to rid myself of this stench.

Tristan's brown eyes veer to me, and I laugh even harder when he gestures between Zander and me as if I could possibly move us along quicker. He may get frustrated with the curious, silly male, but I find him to be highly entertaining.

Lips turning down into a frown, Tristan trots his brown stallion up beside Zander’s, peering up at the object of his fascination.

“Well,” Tristan shrugs, “it is a wall.”

“But how did it get so tall?” Zander asks, unmoving from his position.

“It was built that way,” Amara says slowly.

Blowing out a raspberry, Zander’s irritated gaze snaps to hers. “Of course it was built that way, but how?”

“You act as if you've never seen a wall before!” Amara shouts, tossing her arms up.

“Not one that tall.” He jabs a finger outward. “How did they even build it?”

Knowing this discussion could last for eons, I glance down at my hands covered from knuckle to forearm with my leather vambraces, and pull the reins to signal to my white mare to continue on the dirt road toward the city gates.

“Probably by using those with strong Nature and Air Gifts,” Tristan explains, now trotting his black stallion beside mine, the others following on his other side.

“They'd have to lift the rocks all the way to the top and float someone up just as high.” Zander shakes his head. “No one from this land has enough power to do that. And who would want to? No one willingly.” He bobs his head, reconsidering. “A slave would, of course. They’d have no choice.” He sucks in a breath, his green eyes widening. “Do they have slaves?”

Amara groans. “Vanyimar outlawed slavery generations ago and we’ve not heard even a whisper of them acting otherwise. So what would make you think that this kingdom would defy this law?"

“Because no one sane would be willing to fly that high!” Zander sputters. “They'd have to force them. I bet they have slaves.” He looks at me, his lips curling downward into a pout. “Do they, Lena?”

He looks like a wounded puppy.

“I doubt it,” I reply, my heart beginning to drum beneath my breast the closer we get to the gates.

“I hope not. I’d make an awful slave,” he notes.

“I think you’d make a wonderful slave,” Tristan teases. “You're strong and can shapeshift. They could use you as a mule.”

Zander gasps. “I would never shift into a mule!”

“No, he's too pretty for that.” Amara smirks. “They'd make him a whore. With your good looks, you'd be a favorite.”

Zander places a palm to his chest, appearing as if he might shed a tear. “Aww, that's sweet.”

Amara blinks slowly. “Fuck, you’re stupid.”

“How dare you?!”

“He’s not stupid,” I toss over my shoulder. “He just didn't hear anything besides he's too pretty.”

“Thank you, Lena,” Zander says with a haughty raise of his chin.

Sweat dots my brow when we reach the arched iron gate. My breathing becomes labored as we pass beneath the stone archway. A desperate longing urges me to join those rushing past us with the slowly darkening sky. I glance warily at the wall to my left, then to my right. My breaths become harsher as I imagine the white walls contracting around me, suffocating me, inching towards me until I’m pinned in like the rest of these fools.

Like a pig to a slaughter.

Feeling as if I'm a hair's breadth away from snapping, I squeeze my eyes shut and drop my head back. Staying that way for a long moment, I finally slide my lids open and breathe a sigh of relief once I see red, orange, and pink brushes painting the vast sky above.

Not entirely caged.

Once my heart begins to slow, I return my attention forward and my gaze veers to the guards loitering ahead. Slowing, I reach for the hood of my cloak and tug it over my head to shield my eyes and the top half of my face, hoping the act will draw less attention to ourselves.

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