Glint (Plated Prisoner Book 2)

“Ho there, Gild, that you?”

I stiffen at Keg’s loud voice and stop in my tracks. All of the soldiers standing in line for their ration of dinner look over at me.

I’m surprised Keg picked me out in the crowd. I thought I’d been doing a pretty good job of being covert. But I guess even at night, I’m like a beacon. Glowing gold in the light of the fires, while everyone else is shrouded in black.

“I know you hear me, girl. Get your arse over here!”

With a sigh of defeat, I turn and make my way toward the fire. As I walk, the soldiers move out of my way, giving me a wide berth. Maybe talk of Osrik teaching a lesson to those two soldiers has spread throughout the camp.

Keg slops out spoonfuls of food to waiting soldiers as I stop in front of him. Just like at breakfast, he’s stirring something in a massive pot, except it’s soup instead of porridge.

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you at my fire the last two mornings,” he says with a frown.

“I was a little under the weather.” Despite the fact that I tossed Hojat like a wad of paper, the mender has been very attentive, making sure I’m loaded up with medicines and food and extra furs.

Keg impatiently snaps his finger for another soldier to hold his bowl out, so he can dole out another serving. “Sorry to hear that,” he tells me. “You know what’s good for being under the weather?”

“What?”

Brown eyes flick over to me. “Eating my hot food that I serve at my fire.”

A snort escapes me. “Sorry. I’ll be sure to remember that for next time.”

“See that you do,” he says with an imperious nod. “You feeling better now?”

“Much.” And it’s true. My headache is gone, my throat no longer sore. I don’t even have a cough. Even my ribs, shoulder, and face are all healed up.

“Alright then, no reason not to be eating now.” He holds a hand up at the people in line to stop them from coming forward and then picks up an iron cup from the pile before shoving it at me. “You’ll get an extra portion tonight since you missed this morning.”

“Hey, your breakfast gave me the runs earlier. Can I get an extra serving too?” one of the men guffaws.

“No,” Keg snaps. “And you got the runs ’cause your uniform squeezes your fat ass belly all day,” he retorts, making some of the others bark out laughter.

“Here,” Keg says, knocking his spoon against my cup and filling it to the brim. “That’ll stick to your ribs.”

“Thanks, Keg.”

I tilt the cup back and drink the slop that vaguely resembles some kind of fishy chowder. Keg is right—it really does feel like it’s sticking to my insides, but not in a good way.

Yet I drink every drop, because despite the fact that I’ve lived and dined in a palace for the past ten years, I’m no food snob. I can thank my formative years for that, always hungry, never getting enough to eat.

I hand the cup back to him as soon as I finish. “Thanks. It was…good.” Ish. It was goodish.

Keg puffs up his chest in pride. He really loves feeding me for some reason. “You’re still my quickest eater, Gildy Locks.”

I pause, my eyes narrowing. “You’ve been talking to Lu, haven’t you?”Exclusive content from NôvelDrama.Org.

Keg grins. “I think the nickname she made for you is a good one.”

“Great,” I say dryly, though my lips twitch in amusement. It’s so strange, though, to have this—this sense of camaraderie with him. Not once has Keg made me feel like an enemy. The opposite has been true, in fact.

Maybe that’s another reason I’ve avoided him. Every time I talk to Lu, or Keg, or Hojat, I feel a little bit like a traitor.

“Hey, asshole, how long do I have to wait for dinner?” a soldier hollers.

Keg rolls his eyes. “Bunch of whiners in this army.”

I smile. “See you later, Keg.”

“Tomorrow,” he counters. “For breakfast.”

“Tomorrow,” I promise before edging away from the fire.

I stretch my legs as I walk around camp, fires dotting the ground and voices a constant low roar like the sea. It’s not snowing tonight, and the air is feeling crisp and clean, the way that only wintry temperatures can. I should take the time to go visit the saddles since I’m no longer sick, but…

The thought of facing Mist makes me nauseated.

Plus, Rissa watches me now with an almost hungry expression on her face, like I’m the answer to her prayers. Though I suppose that’s better than the loathing looks from the others.

No, I’m definitely not up to visiting the saddles tonight.

Instead, I wander around aimlessly, half-heartedly looking for signs of where the commander keeps his hawks, the other half feeling guilty.

Despite my reservations and prejudgments, I like Keg, and Lu, and Hojat. And that…that complicates things. It makes everything not so cut and dry.

It would be so much easier on my conscience if they were cruel to me. If this whole damn army was cruel and horrible. I expected that, expected to steam beneath the pile of their stark wickedness, hissing beneath crushing punishment.

Except that’s not what’s happened at all. Fourth army is no longer just a faceless enemy that I can blanket with hate.

So where do I stand, if not securely on the opposing side?

My troubled thoughts get yanked away when I hear a sudden shouting in the distance.

With a frown, I change direction and head toward the noise, my steps quickening. A collective cheer rises up just as I reach a short slope. I dig in my heels and scale the thick snow, footsteps sliding to a stop on the top of the embankment.

Below, there’s maybe two hundred soldiers gathered, lit up by a blazing fire on the flat terrain. There’s a large, crude circle drawn into the snow, and inside of it are a group of soldiers fighting.

Four-on-four, the bare chested men go at each other with a brutality that makes my breath catch. Some of them are riddled with bruises, blood splattering the snow at their feet. They circle each other, attacking with practiced moves, getting a hit in wherever and whenever they can.

Some fight with swords, some with fists, but with every strike, missed or struck, the spectators’ voices rise up in cheers or curses, faces alight with eager fervor. Every time a hit lands, they stomp their feet in the snow, a bloodthirsty drum that reverberates through the ground and travels up my spine.

When one of the fighters manages to slash a red line across the belly of another, the spray of blood makes me flinch.

A second later, someone else gets tossed on their back, snow flying up around his body. His opponent straddles him, fists pummeling his face, one after another. Even from up here, I swear I can hear bones crack. I can smell the sharp iron of blood as it bursts from his split cheek and splatters onto the snow.

Up until now, the soldiers have seemed relatively docile. Marching day after day in perfect formation and setting up camp every night.

But this is like peeking behind the curtain to witness their viciousness, as if I’m seeing what lurks behind the glass. These men are trained fighters, and the excitement of the crowd shows how strong their bloodlust and penchant for violence really is.

A sharp whistle cuts through the din, immediately ceasing the fighting. My gaze finds the source for the noise, zeroing in on Osrik.

He’s standing at the front of the crowd, just outside of the fighting circle. Legs spread wide, massive arms crossed in front of him, his face is stony and authoritative. I know instantly that he’s running this show.

He says something to the fighters, making all eight of them walk out of the circle, some limping, others bleeding. Their bare chests are riddled with the marks they’ve sustained, cheeks pink from the cold, lips swollen from punches. But they grin. Actually grin, like tearing each other apart is fun for them.

I think this army needs a new hobby.

Hojat is down there, flitting around with his satchel, eyeing the injuries. He starts applying ointments and bandages to the wounds while the men clap each other on the backs and trade insults, the crowd tossing over taunts and applause.

I’m about to turn away, since I have no desire to watch people get hurt for entertainment, but right as my foot lifts, I see Osrik point to the crowd, picking new fighters.

My mouth drops open when the young serving boy, Twig, gets picked. Floppy brown hair, brown leathers that don’t quite fit him, he looks lanky and small, a stick amidst all the rough and gruff men. That’s probably how he earned his moniker.

Twig walks into the fighting circle and strips off his leather coat and shirt, tossing them in the snow. His bare, skinny chest makes him stand out even more than before. My hands curl into fists as the crowd cheers, while Twig shifts nervously on his feet.

Osrik seems to debate for a moment, and then chooses another fighter from the crowd. The man has blond hair that’s as yellow as a mustard plant and sticks out like a sore thumb. Nothing that bright and colorful belongs in this barbaric display.

His body is lithe and tall, but his slim build doesn’t matter. He’s still a grown ass man with muscles, age, and experience. He has no business fighting a child.

Before I know it, my legs are carrying me down the slope of the snowy bank. Then I’m slipping past tightly packed bodies, shoving, ducking, using my smaller stature to my advantage in order to squeeze through the crowd.

I reach the front just in time to see the yellow-haired man toss an elbow into the boy’s belly. The force of it takes the breath out of Twig, making him bend in half like…well, like a snapped twig.

Anger floods my vision until I’m submerged in a sea of red.

Twig brings his arms up to protect his head, trying to block a set of sharp, quick jabs. The mustard-haired man grins, like this amuses him. The air is tight with thrill from the crowd as they shout, their voices indistinguishable.

My ears burn with every violent encouragement.

Before Mustard can land another hit, I stalk forward and enter the fighting circle. Without hesitation, I implant myself in front of Twig, facing down the soldier with a furious glare.