Wicked is the Curse.

08 | Departure.

Chapter 08 | Departure. 

Aire woke.

Metal bit into her wrists. Ice bit into her neck. She didn't open her eyes, groaning in the back of her throat as pain pulsed behind her eyeballs. The jangle of metal shredded at her eardrums. Consciousness filtered back in broken shards of darkened memories and pain.

Her tongue was thick on her tongue.

There was slick stone under her back, the chill seeping in through her clothes. Damn Aevran. This wouldn't be the first time he had left her somewhere rotten after drinking. She would always be safe, but drunken Aevran delighted in finding ways to torture hungover Aire.

"Aev...?" Her voice croaked.

She cracked an eye open, then shut it quickly. The light was harsh and the rays felt like blades being driven into her eyeballs. She could only imagine the trouble she had caused the night before to feel like this now.

Her tongue was thick and heavy in her mouth as she swallowed. She took a breath, bracing herself for the light.

Wet stone walls greeted her. Moss clung to the bricks and water leaked in through a tiny vertical window in the upper corner. The window would not even allow a child to squeeze though and the light that shone through it was un-natural.

Torch-light?

This was not right? Had Aevran thrown her into a cell as a joke?

It hurt to sit up, her body a pulsing mess of bruises. Worst was the side of her head. As she probed the side of her head, dried blood flaked off onto her fingers.

Silver eyes. A bag of coin in familiar hands.

The memories tinkled back, like fragments of a shattered pot falling onto the ground. Aire's breath caught in her throat, the blow of the betrayal driving the air from her lungs. She still wore her clothes. Her hair was still braided and dark with Rot-Wort. Was she still in Irial?

Chains weighed down her wrists. A cuff was snapped around her neck.

She pushed back against the stone wall, struggling to stand. The world swam and she bit down a curse. The Bloodbound had hit her hard enough that the world seemed tilted and watery, and her blessed blood had not saved her from the pain.

But she was not dead.

"You are awake." A woman called to her.

Aire jerked in fright and pain lanced like fire up her body. She steadied herself, eyeing the stranger sitting in the far corner. She was lean and tall, with her knees tucked tight to her chest. She watched Aire with carnelian eyes framed with thick lashes that brushed, like butterfly wings, against her high cheekbones. A halo of dark, tightly coiled curls framed her strong face.

"Was I asleep long?" Aire croaked.

The woman arched a thick brow. "I watch your breathing for hours, hoping you do not die and you do not even greet me?"

Her accent was not Irialian. Nor was it Kaelarian. It was a rolling lilt, with a smooth curl at the end of her words. She had heard the accent before, from the people of Knechru in the south where the sun burned and the great cities of pale stone housed warriors to ride Drakons that once roamed the sandstone wastes.

"I am sorry." Aire inclined her chin. "I am Aire Thielan."

"Hmmm." The prisoner mused, examining her. "I am Nyeth Cathra."