12. Chapter Twelve: Theo

“Perhaps this isn’t the best plan,” Octavian says. This is the fourth time he’s voiced his unease, and for the fourth time, Theo ignores him. Octavian sighs when he sees the set to Theo’s jaw, and pulls his hood to cover his face despite the sky’s lack of a moon. Their boots crunch across the frost-bitten ground.

It is the coldest night since the Kiterans first arrived outside Cesscounthe’s walls, nearly four weeks ago now, and Octavian’s breath fogs the air with each exhale. The guards lining their camp’s makeshift walls are still tense from the incident three evenings ago, which saw the Siacchians sending out their second wave of hopiar soldiers. Or, according to Evland Childes, a more accurate title would be hopiar slaves. It was easy enough for Theo’s well-trained soldiers to cut down the two dozen Siacchians, though they did so with looks of disgust.

“They didn’t need to die,” Theo said after the last man’s head was severed from his neck. His soldiers looked to him; they were only a month into the siege. They knew this might last for much longer.

But Theo needs to end things. The Elder’s deadline looms, only days away.

“We can get Siacchi’s walls open if we have the right leverage – like Council Member Dawls,” Theo replies to Octavian, trying to ignore the way the guilt in his stomach only grows heavier and fouler, like a festering wound in his gut. “Evland Childes shares things with me, but we need more than a few dead officials. This will be enough to crack him open completely.”

“I still don’t know how you could put so much faith in just him. He might know nothing of import, Theodori.”

“If he does not, then we now have two additional prisoners – isn’t that what you wanted, Octavian?”

Octavian’s wrinkled nose is only just visible. Ordinarily, Theo would chuckle at his second’s look of distaste, but he’s too distracted by thoughts of his prisoner. He left Evland Childes curled in his bedroll, hand tucked beneath his cheek, dark tendrils of hair splayed across his lips. Never before has Theo shared his bed with someone for so long and not been inside of them. Theo had brushed those locks away with unthinking hands, and Evland turned into the touch, lips parted.

Such a sight – such a hard thing to leave.

And an even harder thing to betray.

These past few days only led to the tension between them tightening. The kiss was never mentioned, of course, but Theo had found himself absently gazing at Evland’s lips when he was certain the other man wasn’t looking. Twice now, he has been caught.

And twice now, Evland looked away, cheeks colored, brows furrowed. The interest that had shone so brightly in his eyes extinguished, now lost to a snarl of conflicted emotions that Theo only recently came to understand: after Theo had spoken with Octavian outside the tent about the Elder’s imposed timeline, it became clear Evland’s opinion had soured.

It was as Theo suspected. Somehow, Evland had heard Octavian and Theo discussing their plans. It was a high price to pay to test such a measly theory – but Theo had done it intentionally.

Surely human ears wouldn’t be able to hear so keenly?

Which meant…

But Theo hadn’t even dared to think his theory and he was glad he hadn’t. In the days that followed, he tried to determine if his prisoner was a hidden hopiar.

But Evland had failed every test Theo had subtly put to him with flying colors; he had no superior reflexes (every time Theo tossed his lunch, pillow, or threw a Ravage piece at a speed only hopiar would be able to handle, Evland fumbled, no matter how off guard; he had no easily provokable wolf that would rise to the surface when poked or prodded, as Theo had learned during a late night of fierce name calling that nearly devolved into a second round of kisses; he even didn’t have a superior sense of smell: he hadn’t detected how foul the horse’s milk had turned before taking two deep sips of it).

Sure, these were all things that could be faked, but it would have been difficult for a man like Evland to keep up such an act for so long.

No, Theo is quite certain the man is human, and therefore absolutely not his mate.

Which means what he’s about to do – what he’s already done – isn’t something unforgivable. It’s something he has to do to win this battle – to win this war. To finally prove to the Elders he’s someone to trust with power.

Theo and Octavian draw to a halt outside the newly erected tent. It stands on the outskirts of the camp, kept isolated from the bustle.

“Are they awake yet?” Octavian asks one of the four guards posted.

The Kiteran woman shakes her head.

“Must be still shaking off the spirits,” Octavian says to Theo. Theo narrows his eyes at his second and waves a hand at the guard posted at the head of the tent. The man draws the flap aside. Before Theo enters, he exchanges a look with Octavian. He speaks in a voice so low, he is certain that even the guards across from him won’t be able to hear. “And the mercenaries who carried out this mission…?”

Octavian’s nod is the slightest dip of his chin. “Dealt with using monkshood.”

Theo smiles grimly. He will not have another leak take place, especially since only those who were well acquainted with Cesscounthe could have been used for this task, and mercenaries familiar with the inner city – so far removed from Kitera – cannot be trusted. He is only grateful that the mercenaries were able to snatch his new captives. For all that both are nobles, they spent an unusual time in the lower districts of Cesscounthe.

Theo can’t afford any mistakes. He has to hide his tactics from the Elders, who surely keep close tabs on his own movements. Avoiding their spies meant ensuring that the guards posted outside this tent are rotated on a regular basis and never told the truth about the people kept inside. This will narrow the pool of people aware of his decisions down to two: himself and Octavian.

If another information leak occurs, Theo will know where it came from.

Theo and Octavian enter the tent, both pausing as their eyes adjust to the flickering oil lamps.

There, crumpled on opposite ends of the tent, lie two bodies: one female, one male. Both unconscious and bound, left facing away from each other. The rest of the tent is barren but for a chamber pot.

Octavian’s breaths fog the air as he speaks, “Would you like me to watch them? I can alert you when they wake.” His eyes narrow as he shoots Theo a sideways glance. “That way you can get back to your prisoner.”

Theo shoves down the bile that rises in his throat at the thought of returning to Evland after witnessing first hand what he has done. Before he can reply, the female prisoner lets out a low moan, rolling onto her back.

Theo walks to stand over her. She is pretty, with a heart-shaped face and round, freckled cheeks. Her fire-colored hair falls in clumps around her face, bits of dirt and grit caught in her auburn curls.

Her lids flutter as her eyes part. Dark irises, so dark, he can barely make out the swell of her pupils as she stares up at him, dilated with fear.

Her scent matches her description – female hopiar.

Her name – spoken to him in only passing by Evland – rings through Theo’s thoughts. It had taken some digging to find her, and it was only because of Octavian’s clever wits and Cesscounthe’s paper-runners, eager to report on local gossip – that, and more digging – that Theo and Octavian were able to find the man that Evland spoke of. Getting their hands on the woman was easy enough; she spent almost all of her time in the lower district, escorting impyassi refugees past the siege.

The tricky part had been capturing Luka Lockehart.

How fortunate that the now killed Siacchian mercenaries Theo hired found Luka Lockehart outside of an impyassi whorehouse.

But now that Theo has captured Xyla Mobiele and her lover, Luka Lockehart, Theo has leverage over his prisoner.

Now, he will get his Evland to tell him everything.

With victory so close, Theo isn’t sure why he feels this is going all wrong.