Page 48 of The Crowned Queen

But they had never stopped during the middle of the day.

So when the wagon lurched to a stop well before nightfall, Araya knew something was wrong.

She lifted her head, straining her ears for any hint of what was happening outside the wagon. But this time she didn’t hear the grumbling of her guards or the familiar sounds of camp being made. There were more voices. Orders being barked. Horses snorting and stomping their hooves. The long, dragging groan of heavy timber moving.

A checkpoint, maybe. Or⁠—

The wagon jolted forward again, pitching Araya against the bars of her cage before she could brace herself. She hissed, yanking her hand back as sharp, stinging pain flared across her palm. Her restraints might be lined, but the bars weren’t. Voices rose—too many people for a roadside checkpoint.

They were here.

A cold ache spread through her chest. She’d told herself it didn’t matter where they took her. She was just as much a prisoner—no, an asset—in Elvanfal as she was in Aetheris. But to actually be here…

Everything she knew about Elvanfal was either Arcanum propaganda or the hushed whispers of fae children who’d forgotten more of their heritage than they remembered. Once, it had been a thriving fae town on the very edge of Orinfael—the vast, ancient forest that had once cradled the fae capital.

Now it was a military outpost. The Arcanum’s last foothold against the dangerous wild magic that had consumed the once-beautiful forest, driving even the fae out from beneath its sheltering branches. The Arcanum claimed the fae had released that power deliberately—cursing themselves and turning Orinfael into a place of nightmares rather than allow the humans to claim it.

But who knew what the truth was. Humans lied.

Someone ripped back the canvas, bright daylight flooding Araya’s cage. She flinched back, blinking involuntary tears from her eyes as she struggled to focus on the figure standing in front of her.

“Well,” Caylin Pryce said, “you look almost as bad as I expected.”

A key grated in the lock, the front of Araya’s cage falling open so suddenly she tumbled to the packed ground at the human woman’s feet.

“Gods.” Caylin took a half-step back, her nose wrinkling. “What are you doing? Get up.” She grabbed Araya’s chains, yanking hard. “If you think you’re going to injure yourself and blame it on me, you’re sorely mistaken. I take my assignments seriously—especially when they’re given to me by the High Inquisitor himself.”

“You mean your father?”

Caylin’s hand cracked across her cheek, whipping Araya’s head to the side.

“Mind your tongue,” Caylin hissed. “It would be a shame if you injured it again. Maybe permanently this time.”

Araya swallowed hard, tasting blood. “Jaxon won’t let you hurt me.”

“Are you sure about that?” Caylin sneered. “He got here days ago. He left you behind. Because you aren’t his precious little bond anymore. You’re a prisoner. And I’m an inquisitor. Don’t forget your place here.”

Araya shivered, suddenly all too aware of the eyes of the lookouts on her and the way her filthy dress hung off her shoulders, barely better than a nightgown. The hair on the back of her neck prickled, the sensation of being watched pressing in on her from all sides.

“Get the rest of this to Commander Shaw’s tent,” Caylin said, waving a hand at two soldiers standing nearby. “I’ll take care of her.”

She yanked the chain again, making Araya scramble to find her feet. Her ears burned as someone in the watchtower laughed, everyone turning back to their work.

Araya struggled to keep up with the pace Caylin set through the camp, the chain between her ankles not quite long enough to let her take a full step. Her feet were bare, standard protocol for transporting prisoners, and her legs ached, cramped muscles screaming in protest after spending a week folded into an iron cage.

But Caylin didn’t slow. She marched Araya through the heart of the camp, weaving through cook fires and shared barrack tents, their canvas sides thrown open to let in the spring air. Soldiers turned to watch as they passed—some curious or amused, others assessing her with open interest, like she was livestock they might get the chance to bid on.

Araya kept her eyes firmly on the ground.

Finally, they turned down another row, the tents here well-maintained and lifted out of the mud on raised wooden platforms. Caylin slowed, stopping at the only tent with two guards standing in front of it.

“You’ll spend most of your time in Jaxon’s tent,” Caylin said, pushing through the flap. “He has it all set up for you.”

The smell hit Araya first, the familiar musk of warm vanilla mingled with the tang of magic. An aetherlamp hung overhead, casting the writing desk and a weapons rack beside it in warm golden light. The wide cot shoved against the back wall was thickly padded with plush bedding. And beside it⁠—

Araya’s blood ran cold.

Someone had cleared space for a thin pallet, an iron chain coiled on top like a snake waiting to strike. The other end of the chain was already bolted to the thick post holding up the tent—waiting for her.