Page 12 of Lich's Mate

Before he can get close to me, he freezes in place.

A thick black rope binds itself around his arms, and a gray veil enwraps his torso and legs.

I can see him struggling, his hands shaking around the knife in his hand.

“What is this?”

He can’t hide the panic from his voice.

I pace around him, as he’s completely unable to move his body, his legs also covered in a thick shadow, made physical by my abilities.

“You really don’t mess with a lot of demons, do you?”

I chuckle to myself.

Guess I’m not staying for a drink after all.

I know that the bartender will probably see my side. Maybe the guy is a problem customer.

But I don’t intend to stay and find out.

When I finally leave the bar to find the caravan, without tasting a single drop of alcohol, nobody cares that the xaphan is bound up, suspended from the ceiling.

The sun is setting. Soon, the whole of New Solas will be covered in darkness.

It’s the perfect time to find a slave caravan.

It’s also the time when the shadows are thickest.

5

MEERA

Any day now. We’ve got to be close.

It’s what I’ve been telling myself to ease through the pain. The cuts on my arms haven’t stopped stinging—I suspect some of them may be infected—and the way this cage rocks, I have a pain in my side that never seems to go away.

How long have I been on this slow-moving caravan? The hours feel like weeks. The days feel like years. And the constant overbearing sun pours down on me. My body feels disgusting and covered in sweat, my hair matted with blood and dirt.

The cage shuffles as we move up a mound and I brace for impact, doing what I can against the impossibly tight shackles bound to my wrists. But as we slide down it, my ribs are forced into the splintered wood once again.

I can’t cry out in pain. They always go after the loud ones first.

I don’t know why I’m still hanging on. I’ve seen several of my friends taken prisoner who gave up along the way, finding jagged objects and knives to end their suffering, or just escaping the caravan to jump off steep ledges.

I don’t know what’s left for me in this world. When I sleep at night, I still remember the horrors I witnessed—remember that many of the people I cared about most are gone.

That’s if my stomach doesn’t keep me up, of course.

The caravan stops briefly, and I realize that it’s feeding time.

I remember keeping pets and watching farmers with their livestock. This humiliating ritual is a reminder that we’re little more than animals to them.

I can hear the footsteps growing closer. I tighten my wrists as if there’s any hope of escape—as if I could possibly attack my captors.

How am I still fighting?

“A tiny sliver for the tiny lady,” the xaphan says, bringing another pitiful bowl of gruel beside my cage. “Try to make it last.”

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