7. Chapter Seven: Luka

Someone is poking at his fingernails.

“He’s fine,” the someone says, voice smokey and feminine, accent foreign and thick. “Obviously not in the best of physical condition, but that’s to be expected for a Siacchian. It’s a good thing your men like you so much, Octavian. Had they known it was Wolf-Born asking for this capture, they would have banged him up more.”

Another person chuckles – male. “My men say he squealed like a rabbit when they captured him.” His voice is raspy with a slight whine.

“I have no doubt,” the woman replies. “All Siacchians are shrinking violets. Even so much as a boo, they faint and are found dead by heart attack. You’ll have to take care with him, Octavian. Wolf-Born must want this brain desperately to go to such great lengths to ensure his well being.”

All Siacchians? Wolf-Born?

Luka sorts his tattered memories; the alleyway, the match that Evland didn’t show up to – the cloth settling over his mouth. Darkness.

And then… a smell. Warm. Inviting. Like the sweet of dew on those early mornings Luka spent beneath the trees in the Lockehart compound, all those years ago, when Cesse was still an abstract concept. Even the memory of the scent calms Luka’s fear, slowing his heartbeat and easing his lips into a smile –

– which Luka aborts promptly. He cannot let these people know he is conscious. He cannot let them know he is listening – gathering information.

“Did Wolf-Born want me to check on him later?” the woman says.

“No need. He’s fine. Don’t want to draw any more attention to him than necessary, after all.”

“Oh, yes. Just our little secret.” The woman lets out a strained laugh. “Not even the Elders are to know.”

The man goes quiet before saying in a low voice, “Vittoria, if they find out, then we shall know who the rat is in this camp. Do not for a second think that Wolf-Born will be kind to you, no matter your status.”

There it is again – that dreadful name: Wolf-Born.

The main prong of the Kiterans’ attack on Siacchi. The bloodthirsty man who is leading the charge against Luka’s beautiful home –

Where am I?Luka’s mind drags from a crawl to a soar. The dim light of the morning presses against his eyelids. They’re facing west. Dawn – that means a few hours must have passed.

Which means the enemy is at most a few hours outside of Cesscounthe’s walls.

Luka’s throat tightens at the thought of the Kiteran’s soldiers closing in on his home – his place of safety – the only place he has ever known. How close must they be now? They weren’t supposed to arrive so soon. Surely miles must still separate their camp from Cesscounthe.

Even with his cold, rational thoughts crunching numbers and calculating distances, Luka cannot control the terrified message racing through his thoughts, the words pounding in time to his heartbeat: They’re here. They’re here. They’re here, and they are going to kill us all. Nothing can save his people – his people, to whom violence is so abhorrent, they must rely on beastly impyassi to protect them.

Oh, how he hopes – he so sorely hopes – that his mother has a plan to handle this. His people are not prepared to face such destruction. Even with their impyassi, these bloodthirsty Kiterans will cut through them like a scythe through corn – like a bullet through a fox.

Luka’s chest aches from caging his racing heart. To his horror, his teeth lengthen, arms itching – the beast is trying to break free. He needs to calm himself.

One inhale – Luka pictures the Cesse board. He pictures the perfect squares, the rounded pieces. He imagines the way the wood feels rolling beneath his fingers. He moves a piece forward, and then another.

He is seventeen moves into a game against himself when his emotions quiet.

He forces himself to reevaluate the facts.

First: he is still alive. Why? They need him; they must know his mother is a powerful political figure. They must know that she will do anything to ensure his safety… within reason. This has the potential to destroy her campaign.

Or… they are planning on using him for worse things –

Images of ropes and muscled men restraining and torturing him flicker through Luka’s thoughts. He shoves them away with a vengeance.

They are either planning on using him for a bargaining chip or they think he knows something that can help them. But why haven’t they just attacked? Cesscounthe is well guarded, but like Linne had said at dinner – last evening, now – the Kiterans could easily outman and outpower them, if they so desired.

The realization shoots through him: Linne is right. The Kiterans do want to use the Siacchians. They need them. If these barbarians could harness Luka’s people, they could attack more, ravage more, rule more – the Southern Balivartians, the Kiterans’ decades-old enemy, will easily crumble beneath the combined forces of the West and the North.

And now they have Luka.

Luka is not strong. He’s known this since childhood. He’s known this since his tutors sat him down to practice the Bombani Exam questions and tears streamed down his cheeks from the pain of their beatings. He remembers their words, burning through him like acid: You are weak. You will fail. You are useless.

Yes, the Kiterans can break him if they wish. It would not be the first time.

But while Luka may be weak, he is smart. He is the second in his generation to score a perfect score on his Bombani Exam. He can use this.

Could he maybe even… no. Luka doesn’t dare think it.

The only thing that matters now is escape. Escape from these Kiterans. Escape from Wolf-Born. From the man who has kidnapped him.

At the thought, Luka envisions a terribly hairy beast, more wolf than human, pinning him to the ground with a single paw, teeth glazed with saliva.

Luka cannot contain an involuntary swallow. He shifts slightly, feeling slowly returning to his limbs. His arms ache and are tied at the wrist, but his legs are free. Should he run now?

Heart in his throat, Luka cracks a hesitant eyelid.

A man stands with his profile to Luka, clothed in long vibrant blue robes, the edges muddied from travel. His face is marked by a crooked, narrow nose and framed by long dark curls drawn into a complicated braid. Pale gray eyes narrow. “Vittoria, hush,” the man says.

“I wasn’t saying anything!” the woman, who cuts a slender figure against the pale walls of the tent, says, crossing her arms over her chest.

The dark haired man’s – Octavian’s – gray gaze flickers to Luka, and it takes all that Luka possesses to lie still and pretend to be unconscious. The man’s eyes shift, and it might just be a trick of the light, but Luka is suddenly filled with the terrifying certainty that this man is an impyassus by the way his pupils dilate. By the way Luka thinks they might flicker with inhuman, monstrous blue, like the white-blue sheen of fresh winter ice.

He’ll know I’m awake.Luka’s heart slams against his chest. If the man is a beast, surely his unnatural hearing will make it out. Surely he will know.

But the man’s eyes only slide across Luka’s form before he shakes his head, looking away. “Fetch me something to feed him before we go,” he says. “Can’t have Wolf-Born thinking we’re starving his important prisoner, now can we?”

“Certainly not,” the woman says, turning. She hands the man a sack and a wineskin. “The drink is fresh. Still warm.”

“Perfect. Maybe we can fatten him up a bit. Make sure he survives the winter.”

The woman frowns. “Are we going to be here for so long?”

“As long as Wolf-Born needs us to be.” Octavian ties the bag to his belt and approaches Luka. Luka forces his limbs to weakness – he needs this advantage. He will not have many windows of opportunity to so openly observe the enemy. He can’t let them knock him out again.

Octavian again surprises Luka and instead of ensuring that he is still unconscious, the Kiteran hefts Luka onto his shoulder with a small grunt – using only his right arm. Luka tries his best to flop about with difficulty. Any doubt that Octavian is a normal man vanishes; this Kiteran is an impyassus. That strength is not human.

Despite the way the woman and Octavian discussed it, Luka can’t help but to wonder if this Kiteran – this impyassus – is Wolf-Born.

An uncontrollable shudder wracks him at the thought; stories from his mother and rumors from those outside the Lockewood household flash through his thoughts. More man than beast, Wolf-Born is known for his cruelty – and, shockingly, his intellect.

But he would be no match for Luka. Of that much, Luka is certain.

No, Luka thinks as Octavian bids the woman farewell and peels back the tent flap, stepping into the faint morning – judging from the height of the sun, it must be only just past dawn.

This is not Wolf-Born.For some reason, Luka is sure he will know the man – the creature – when he meets him.

No, Octavian, despite his impossible strength, is not built to intimidate, but instead to duck and hide. Certainly not the kind of person Luka suspects Wolf-Born will be.

Autumn air nips at Luka’s skin as the man carries him swiftly through a – makeshift camp? It’s hard for Luka to tell through narrowed eyes, but he can only just make out what look like endless pitched tents around shoulder height. Soldiers roam about, faces muddied, horses trailing behind them. Many call out friendly greetings upon spotting Octavian. A makeshift wall of wooden spikes marks the edge of the camp – the wood looks so hastily cut, Luka can see the strokes of the axe’s felling strikes from here. The land is flat, relatively treeless – familiar…

No.

There is good reason it’s so familiar. Luka’s stomach drops.

There, towering before them, is the wall of Cesscounthe. Luka recognizes the iconic fox hunters carved into the wooden entry – now locked tight. The guard towers glow against the pink dawn, likely occupied by terrified Siacchians or one of the few combat-trained impyassi.

But the Kiterans aren’t supposed to be here for another week!

Even if Linne does have a plan, surely she wouldn’t have accounted for such speed. To cut through Siacchi so quickly, how many lives must have been lost to the Kiteran’s warpath? How many families have been torn apart?

How many more will these monsters kill before they’re satisfied?

Luka’s breaths escape him in dry rasps as terror descends once more. His fangs lengthen, claws digging into his palms. Will they hurt Cassian? They’re going to hurt Cassian!

The thought is a catalyst to an explosion of rage and terror. He can barely contain himself. Something roars inside, something evil and deadly and hungry for blood. He has to get out of here –

“Just wait another minute more,” Octavian murmurs. “Mustn’t let all these fine soldiers know you’re awake, alright?”

The rage and fear rushing through his veins chills as Luka tenses. He knows I’m conscious.

Why would he pretend otherwise?

Why would the enemy allow me the time to take into account his defenses?

Hypotheses bubble to the forefront of Luka’s mind, fogged by the fear in his thoughts. Before Luka has the time to focus, Octavian says, “There you go.” He hefts Luka a little higher on his shoulder. Luka’s skin crawls at the touch. Out of the corner of his narrowed eyes, he can make out the man dip his head to a staring soldier. “Had a few too many last night,” Octavian tells his fellow Kiteran, shaking his head.

“You’re a beast, Octavian Scholar. Wolf-Born not enough for you?” the man replies with a laugh, and Octavian’s responding jovial chuckle reverberates through his narrow chest.

He either hasn’t seen the ropes binding me – or he doesn’t care.Luka’s cheeks flush.

“Careful about such questions,” Octavian warns. “You might find out.”

The man’s response is too quick and strangled for Luka to catch, the Kiteran dialect shifting to something near incomprehensible. This man holding me… he likely is… attended to by Wolf-Born.

Luka uses the distraction to gather his scattered emotions. Embarrassment stabs at him. He has not nearly lost control in years – almost a full decade. What would happen to him if he allowed his monster to burst loose here? His death, surely.

And then what would become of Cassian?

No. Nothing good comes of such fears.

Octavian’s speed slows as he approaches a tent placed far from the main cluster of the Kiteran’s shelters, bending low as he ducks inside and pulls the flap shut. He places Luka on a soft cushion and settles opposite, pushing stray strands of hair behind his pierced ears.

“Now, no need to pretend to be unconscious anymore, Childes,” Octavian says. “Let’s talk. I’m sure you have questions.”

Childes?

…Childes?

Two seconds is all Luka allows to gather his thoughts.

One: This man is high in the pecking order, but not the commander. Someone who has some sort of… relationship with Wolf-Born himself.

Two: They think I’m Childes – Evland Childes. But why?

Two seconds up, Luka opens his eyes. He collects himself, rolling his emotions inside like he would his Cesse pieces into a bag. Carefully, he balls his hands into fists so any minute changes to his claws will remain undetectable.

That is – if these people haven’t already scented the evil animal inside of him.

“You’re remarkably calm,” Octavian says.

Luka forces himself to take in the tent before he replies, the words trembling on his tongue. He needs to be careful. Every action that he takes now will be like a move on the Cesse board – belabored with purpose and meaning.

The tent is larger than the one he woke in; he would likely be able to stand comfortably. The walls are slightly translucent on the east side where the sunlight floods in, and Luka can faintly make out the shadows of the Kiterans soldiers moving outside. Beyond a plain bedroll unrolled on the dirt ground and a makeshift writing desk – all signs of letters or journals unfortunately tucked away – the interior is utilitarian.

“Calm?” Luka repeats. It’s likely not hard for Octavian to believe Luka doesn’t understand; Luka has a knack for dialects. He sounds practically fluent in Balivartian. But the Kiteran tongue is gruff and foreign to his ear.

If they think I’m Evland Childes, they must have never seen his face.

Realization is a cold slap: they’ve likely only seen drawing or daguerreotypes – like in a paper-runner’s article.

Even worse than that is the question that gnaws at the back of his mind:

What will they do when they find out I’m not their target?

When Octavian nods, Luka swallows, saying, “How could I be calm? I’ve been kidnapped – by the enemy.” Luka curls his lip at the word, trying to channel Evland’s superiority despite the fear making his palms sweat. As Octavian’s right brow lifts, Luka adds, “Whatever you’re planning, you should know my mother would do anything to ensure my safety.”

Octavian’s eyes only widen by a hair, but the surprise is enough for Luka to eliminate one of his theories: they aren’t after ransom money.

Ultimately, this is for the best. Besides the obvious fact that the Childes family would never pay for Luka’s safe return – in fact, they might even pay for the Kiterans to keep Luka captive – it’s a relief to hear the Kiterans aren’t seeking money.

Luka isn’t sure how much his mother would pay if it put her career in jeopardy.

“It’s not your parent’s finances we’re interested in,” Octavian says. “Your mother… she is an Elder – a Council Member, is she not?”

Luka nods.

Octavian steeples his fingers. “The Council Member whose position is being challenged?”

“Y-you know much about Cesscounthe politics.” Luka grits his teeth.

Octavian smiles. “It is my job to know things.”

And yet you kidnapped the wrong person.Luka tries to keep his face steady as he nods again. “So if not money, then why? Leverage?”

Octavian rises to his feet. His eyes flicker to the restraints at Luka’s wrists and then away as he paces the tent. “If you haven’t already figured it out, I’m not sure how much use your life will be to us.”

A chill rattles Luka’s spine. He forces his shoulders back, muscle memory instilled by thousands of tutors keeping his spine straight.

Ah.

The Kiterans do not seek compensation. They kidnapped the one who is most likely to win the Cesse Tournament. They want him for his intellect.

Well, they want Evland Childes for his intellect. All the more proof they are idiots.

“You want me to help you bring down Cesscounthe,” Luka whispers.

Octavian’s smile widens, and despite himself, old joy stirs in Luka’s stomach – the pleasure of having passed a test. He crushes the sensation.

Octavian says, “Yes. Do this, and we will spare you.”

Luka’s teeth sink into his lip as he forces the response out, “And if I choose not to?”

Octavian shrugs. “We replace you.” His hand falls to the sword hanging from his side.

Luka closes his eyes at the sight of the weapon, at the thought of such violence. He remembers the first and only time he accompanied his father on the yearly fox hunts on the outskirts of Cesscounthe. He remembers how the fuille fired through the air, filling the foggy morning with great clouds of smoke. He remembers the way the fox fell, twitching, blood pouring from its side. The little sounds leaking past its dagger teeth – the wild, rolling look in its eyes. And then the peace as it let out a small sigh and went still with death.

Will that be me?

“Oh, don’t look like that,” Octavian says, and Luka’s eyes spring open. Octavian grins. “Wolf-Born will torture you first.”

Luka gulps, and Octavian’s face grows even softer. “Look at you, you poor Siacchian,” he says. “I’ll make sure things don’t come to bloodshed. I do hate violence, especially when inflicted on those who don’t deserve it.”

Luka doesn’t trust a single word of kindness from the man’s lips. “If you want me to help you, you cannot harm me,” Luka says, though the creak to his voice steals any certainty.

“I’m doing my best to shield you from Wolf-Born, but speak to me like that again, I don’t think I’ll be able to save you from his wrath. Is that what you want?” Octavian asks as he crouches so they sit nose to nose. Shockingly, as the man’s face grows close to his, that beautiful smell flashes past Luka.

It’s not coming from Octavian – Luka would have noticed it sooner. No, it’s something that Octavian interacted with – something he must have touched recently.

The smell calms Luka, grounding him as much as his Cesse board. Luka parts his lips, unsure how he is supposed to respond, when his stomach growls.

“Ah, yes, right.” Octavian dumps the sack of food stuff and the wineskin onto Luka’s lap. “Dig in.”

Luka jerks his chin toward his bound hands.

“You’re small but you make up for it with your guts, don’t you, Childes?” Octavian says. He draws a small but sharp blade from his waist, and Luka grits his teeth as the man slices his bondings.

Luka flexes his hands as he draws a stiff piece of bread – stuffed with meat if his nose is to be trusted – from the bag. He devours it swiftly, and Octavian chuckles. “Not at all what I expected,” the man says when Luka looks up. “You eat like a Kiteran.”

He laughs at the look on Luka’s face. “Not an insult!” Octavian assures. “We Kiterans are quite clean. We cleaned you up, didn’t we?”

Luka disguises the tension that ripples across his shoulders at the words as he lifts the wineskin. He tries not to notice that Octavian is right; his once filthy, tomato stained clothes are clean. He instead focuses on the drink. It’s warm, banishing the autumn chill. The liquid is creamy and almost nutty. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand when finished.

Octavian readies his writing desk. He sets down a stack of parchment and a selection of charcoal. “Left handed,” he murmurs to himself as he does so, and Luka has to fight off a pinch of despair. These Northerners are supposed to be half-wits and barbarians – why do his captors have to be so Thought-forsaken observant?

“Now,” Octavian draws himself to his feet. “You have the day to impress me. I want a map of your city drawn to the most minute detail; all entrances, exits, secret passageways or tunnels easily marked by sundown.”

“A day… sundown may not be enough time,” Luka says.

Octavian tuts and shakes his finger.

Suddenly, Luka’s head snaps to the side, blinding white pain filling him. He gasps as he presses a hand to his cheek – blinking back into reality. Something – had something hit him?

He looks up, shaking himself, and Octavian stands before him, head cocked. “I am being kind now, Siacchian,” he says, a slight smile still frozen on his face. Only the redness on his palm betrays that he struck Luka.

Luka goes cold. Octavian was blindingly quick – how is Luka to escape such a monster?

“A day,” Octavian says. “No more. Think of this as a trial run. And remember, Evland Childes – you are infinitely replaceable. I want a map – focus on entrances that will allow us the least amount of bloodshed. We just want access to your leaders. If you do your job well, no one has to die.”

Luka’s blood pounds through him, his mind flying. He can’t think of this as real life. No, he can’t think of this as his death if he fails. He has to think of it as Cesse – as a move an enemy player has just made.

Yes, if he pictures Octavian’s strike as a piece moved there, then Luka would react like this: Luka forces a smile to his face.

“Infinitely replaceable?” he says, voice forced as smooth as a piece on the Cesse board. “You and I both know that cannot be the case.” He licks his lips, mouth painfully dry. “You chose me specifically for this role, after all. Wouldn’t a map maker be better suited?”

He was gambling on being the only Siacchian they kidnapped. They could have gone after others, but did they have the time? And surely they want to keep him hidden – too many Siacchians captured would raise too much of a stir.

“I think, Octavian,” Luka says, enjoying the bolt of satisfaction that runs through him when Octavian blinks at the sound of his name. “That you need me. There’s a reason you picked me – Evland Childes – for this task. It’s because I’m someone just high-ranking enough that my intellect is guaranteed, but not important enough that my missing will shift the tides in the war. And I’m willing to wager there aren’t many others that fit that description, are there?”

Octavian’s eyes shift, that same icy blue from before rolling across his gaze. Luka fights off a shudder. He needs to end this move softly – too harsh of a threat, and he’ll trigger his enemy’s beastly emotions.

Luka then realizes, with a shock, what Octavian must be looking for.

The tunnels. Only the old noble classes of the Abraxi District would still remember how to navigate them. No. That can’t be – how would the Kiterans have learned of their existence?

The answer comes too easily: old noble families live in the villages they ransacked.

They must have tortured those people to learn of the tunnels’ existence.

“Sunrise tomorrow,” Luka says, his face blank. “You will let me work through the day and the night, and I will produce a map for you that properly displays my skills and knowledge.” He pauses, considering, before adding, “A map of the tunnels you are looking for.” Again, he enjoys the way Octavian lifts his brows. “Should you find it lacking, I wish you the best of luck locating my replacement.”

The words feel like salt thrown across fresh wounds, but Luka sits tall as he speaks them, maintaining eye contact. He imagines his hand rising from his moved piece, the Cesse board a shield between himself and his opponent.

Octavian blinks the cold blue from his eyes away, lips curling into a smile. “Good,” he purrs, “so nobles do know about the tunnels. Keep telling us the truth.” And then, in a softer voice, he adds, “You know, you actually remind me of someone when you grow a spine like that, Childes. It’s too bad they don’t feed you enough here. Had you been given a proper diet, I might have even mistaken you for a warrior.”

“Is that a yes?” Luka asks, though he knows he has won. When his opponent sinks to degrading comments, it’s because they have no better strategy to lean on.

“Sunrise tomorrow.” Octavian brushes an invisible piece of dirt from his blue robes. “Now, I suggest you get to work.” He spins as if to leave the tent.

Luka blinks with surprise. “Wait,” he says, unthinkingly.

Octavian pauses halfway out the tent, eyes narrowing. “My patience wears thin, Siacchian.”

“Where are you going? Are you leaving me unwatched?”

Octavian offers a thin grin. “Thinking about escaping already, Siacchian? Entertain those thoughts while you can. When you’re in my tent, you are in the safest place in this entire camp. Your people fear the hopiar, don’t they?”

Hopiar? That’s their word for the beast. For impyassus.

Despite Luka’s efforts, fear must leak into his expression – or worse, his scent – for Octavian’s grin widens. “As I thought.” He bares his teeth, which have grown long and sharp, and Luka lurches away. “If you want to survive this night, you’ll stay here. Leave, and you’ll risk my people discovering you. They do not take kindly to rogue Siacchians roaming our camp, and you humans are so soft and delicate, I’m sure you won’t survive their first nibble.”

Octavian snaps his teeth to punctuate his point before leaving the tent. Luka shivers in the dirt, collecting his thoughts like a blanket.

Surrounded by wolves. Monsters are all around him. That shadow moving just beyond the tent wall? Some beast that could tear him to shreds.

Luka steadies his breathing as he settles before the writing desk. He rolls up his sleeves – the fabric is coarse and warm – wool. Kiteran blend. At least I won’t freeze to death before they find out I’m not Evland Childes.

Childes. How differently would things have gone had that coward actually met Luka for their midnight match?

These damned barbarians – they had only supplied him with parchment. Disgusting.

At least there is a small charcoal sharpener to refine the point of his writing utensil. Luka shaves a few pearls of charcoal away, hands moving mechanically.

Luka flips through the pieces of parchment. Octavian has left him seven in total; enough for Luka to start anew should he make a mistake – which should hopefully be enough, considering it will be near impossible to erase.

Carefully, Luka casts a line of charcoal. He scoffs as he starts his sketch of Cesscounthe. Charcoal. He hasn’t written with such archaic tools since he was forced to learn writing as a child. As his hand whispers across the page, tremors turning his smooth lines to zig zags, a plan forms. A plan warmed by a single realization: his captors do not know.

They do not know that I am a monster, too.

Come nightfall, Luka gathers a stray piece of parchment and sneaks from the tent for the first time that day. His stomach rumbles as he peels the entry flap open, peering out into the dim.

He knows Octavian is not far – but not too close either. He heard him, only a few hours before, scolding fellow soldiers for speaking poorly of Wolf-Born. “You must trust in your leader’s strategy,” Octavian advised, and it was only after he spoke that the other Kiterans fell silent.

The camp is made misty in twilight, oil lamps flickering as they sway from nearby tents. There are fewer soldiers now. Luka tenses as a pair of men walk past, but his shoulders relax when he realizes how unsteady their strides are and how red their faces have become – they’re drunk.

In fact, as Luka peers closer at the half a dozen Kiterans he can make out, almost all sway unsteadily. He covers a smile.

Perfect.

Luka slips from the tent like a whisper as he creeps through the camp. He moves west-ward, closer toward the Cesscounthe wall. The Kiteran’s makeshift compound is sprawling and almost completely encircled with their spiked barrier, made even larger in darkness, but it is dwarfed by the enormous gate before them.

And there, only five tents away, is an entrance in the barrier. The tiniest of holes. As he suspected, the Kiterans have created a cup-shaped camp, wrapped around Cesscounthe’s towering wall. Octavian left Luka near the center, close to the entrance of the city.

This is why Octavian left Luka so unguarded; he wouldn’t have thought Luka bold enough to try and squeeze his way toward such a well-defended exit.

But Luka has stood on this very ground before. His feet have only walked this path once, but his body could never forget it.

Because around the western bend, beyond the camp and pools of light emitted by the oil lanterns, near the man-sized rocks over the hill, lies a secret his mother shared with him the first time he emerged from the catacombs and stood beyond Cesscounthe’s walls.

Luka still remembers that night well; the vice grip of his mother’s hand on his arm, the fear sour on his tongue. Even now, the hiss of his mother’s words – be quiet! Speak a word – fail another test – and you’ll end up here, with your brother – slithers through his ears like a snake, raising goosebumps on his arms.

Luka shudders and sinks behind a tent as a group of drunken Kiterans totter back to their tents. Grateful for the distraction, Luka sneers at them; they’re within an arm’s length of the enemy. How could they feel so confident to get this drunk?

He can use this – if he gets out.

Another handful of painfully long minutes later, Luka stands a tent away from the barrier, palms damp. He drops his small ripped piece of parchment from his pocket, scattering sticks and stones in a careful pile onto the path is mother took him years ago –

Which is exactly when something slams into his side.

Took you long enoughis what Luka planned to think, but as the ground crashes up to meet him, all that runs through his head instead is ouch.

Darkness snaps across his vision, and he gasps, crumpled on the ground beneath a huge – hairy – creature. Something is crushing his chest, smashing his lungs. A terrible scent fills his nose. Animal. Blood. Rage.

It is only when something wet and warm slips down his cheek does Luka realize his eyes are closed. Breaths escaping him in ragged gasps, he forces himself to look at his attacker.

The icy blue eyes betray Octavian. If not for the color, Luka might have thought a different Kiteran tackled him; Octavian’s wolf has pale, almost white fur, a stark contrast to his dark locks. He’s also huge – easily three times the size of Luka, with teeth the length of his palm.

Octavian snarls against Luka’s cheek, and Luka flinches. “D-don’t kill me,” he says with a rush. He raises his hands, fingers shaking like leaves. “I just – I just need the b-bathroom.”

It’s a stupid excuse, but Luka came prepared. A warm wetness spreads around his trousers as his bladder releases. His cheeks warm as Octavian pulls back, curled lip turning from an expression of rage to that of disgust.

Octavian releases a sharp huff, breath smelling of meat and onion, and then withdraws. Luka inhales gratefully, though his breaths stutter in his throat as Octavian releases a low groan and a terrible crunch as he changes from animal to human.

In three terrible seconds, a horrifyingly nude Octavian stands before him, brows drawn into a sharp point. “Really?” he snarls, sounding remarkably like his wolf form. “You were looking for a bathroom?”

Luka shrugs helplessly, face still dangerously hot, lungs trying to recover from being sat on by an enormous animal. He coughs, somehow managing to push himself up to his elbows. “You were gone. I didn’t want to ask someone to walk me to the latrines.”

Octavian places his hands on his hips, completely ambivalent about his nudity. “I left you a bucket,” he says, as if this explains everything. At Luka’s terrified, quizzical expression, Octavian massages his temples. “For the Great Mother’s sake – you seriously expect for me to believe this?”

Luka’s hands adjust scattered pebbles, piling them atop each other in a miniature of how his people mark their graves. He’s already built the pile high enough that even from a distance, it could be spotted by a clever watchtower guard.

“You don’t have to,” Luka says to Octavian. “Just give me till morning. I’ll show you how much I’m worth then.”

Octavian’s face is hard to make out in the waning light, and the swinging lanterns turn his already dark scowl into a cavern. He parts his lips to speak –

“Scholar! Is that you?”

Both Octavian and Luka jump as a soldier, a man with short red hair and a bright, drunken smile, approaches. He swings free of the grip of his two comrades and stops just short of Octavian, oblivious to the man’s nudity and the tension. “I thought so! Listen – I have a plan I want you to pitch to Wolf-Born – it’s about that connection you said that you made with – Leeann. No – Lima? That woman?”

Octavian’s expression grows even more murderous. “I should have never spoken to you, Jack. The services of the Wolf’s Teeth are not needed at this time.”

“Oh,” the man, Jack, says, drawing away and looking back and forth between Luka and Octavian. He giggles. “Interrupting something?”

Octavian looks ready to draw blood, but Luka’s already moving, staggering to his feet. “As a matter of fact,” Luka says, dragging his soft shoes across the ground, concealing the area his fingers had sunk into the dirt with a sweep of his leg. “Yes, you are. Octavian, care to continue this in private?”

Octavian blinks, but his surprise is fleeting. He snatches his blue robes up from where they have puddled on the ground. “I’ll speak to you later,” he growls at Jack, before seizing Luka by the back of the elbow and dragging him away.

“I’ll speak to you later, too!” Jack says, waving. “You too, strange smelling guy – wait a minute –”

Before Jack can complete whatever drunken epiphany has struck him, Octavian and Luka vanish behind the tents. Luka stumbles trying to keep up with the other man’s rapid speed. He has to resist a sigh of relief as they speed away from the small pile of stones, parchment, and grass he has left behind. He couldn’t have asked for a better excuse to leave – now Octavian will never know. Luka shoves his dirtied fingers into his now empty pockets and clears his mind as he prepares for his next planned set of moves.

As expected, Octavian tosses Luka into his tent like one would a sack of old laundry. Luka lands poorly, scratching his hand. He presses his fingers against the wound to stem the flow of blood as he gathers himself.

“Let me see this map,” Octavian says as he shoves past Luka. He pauses before Luka’s work, blinking as his eyes dart from one edge of the drawing, first moving swiftly and then slowly, taking in the details.

Luka’s chest eases. For the second time this day, he has won against Octavian.

Octavian, as if realizing Luka’s thoughts, crosses his arms over his chest and strides across the tent with as much pomp as a nearly naked man in a fluttering open robe could possibly summon. “At sunrise, I expect it to be complete,” he says with a sniff.

“It will be ready for you then.”

“Oh, not just me,” Octavian says. “I think it’s time for you to meet Wolf-Born.”

Luka swallows.

“And if you’re extra good, we might even give you a new pair of trousers – and perhaps a bath.”

Luka cannot help to think of what that bath might entail now that Octavian trusts him less. He would be monitored of course – Octavian might even wash his back, running his slippery hands down Luka’s skin to wash away the bubbles. Luka could even use the moment to his advantage. Octavian seems to like the other male soldiers. Perhaps Luka could use the skills his tutors taught him: nibble his lip, bat his lashes, and reach for Octavian’s –

Luka shakes himself. No. He doesn’t need to seduce his way out of this. Not with the message he just dropped.

Octavian raises a finger. “But do not test me again, Siacchian. It might not be simple to find your replacement, but it’s certainly not impossible.”

“Understood,” Luka says, tucking his hands behind his back. He has no need to attempt escape now.

“Until morning then.” Octavian ducks out of the tent, leaving Luka to the darkness.

The instant the Kiteran has left, a sigh of relief escapes Luka as he sinks to his knees. I can’t believe that worked.

His message is out there. Now, it’s only a matter of his mother discovering it.

Luka forces himself back to his map, picking up the piece of charcoal. He has until morning.

I can do this.

His drawing is nearly flawless. It is close enough to perfect that as Luka looks upon it, guilt writhes in his gut. In the hands of the Kiterans, this would be such a useful tool… had Luka not shifted everything slightly. Though appearing perfectly drawn to scale, entrances are placed randomly, passageways made large enough to fit three men abreast when really they would barely fit one. It would have to be enough to keep Luka alive and to satisfy the enemy.

For Luka gave every detail he could think of – almost. He had yet to decide how to twist the secret passageway – the same that his mother used to sneak Luka – and before that, her dead son – out all those years before. Luka has always wondered why. Sometimes, he even dreams about it, imagining her saying something like I wanted to bury him outside the walls where he could be free, with a tear trickling down her cheek.

But Luka knows better than to fool himself into thinking that dream a reality.

No, practical Linne would never allow herself to fall apart in such a way. Practical Linne, who made sure Luka would never fail the Bombani Exam, with her pinches and her whispered threats. Which is why Luka knows he will need to give her something if he’s going to get a rescue. He will need to make himself worth saving.

At long last, Luka allows a slow, triumphant smile to grow across his cheeks, a smile that grows into a silent, shoulder-shaking laugh. They think I’m Evland Childes.

The Kiterans had wanted Evland Childes for his intellect, but they now have Luka instead.

He will make that mistake their downfall.

Luka will find his way out of here. He will return home to Cesscounthe and to his mother with the information he has gathered, and he will bring these Kiterans – Wolf-Born himself – to their knees.