Page 9 of Dynasty of the Wicked

She had heard stories of what happened to female prisoners of war, and they never ended well.

The Kadian soldier snapped his fingers, his expression darkening. “Up. Now.”

She remained frozen where she was. If she moved further into the cell, she’d be too close to her cellmate, and if she moved more to the left, the old man would grab her. She wasn’t sure which of these men was worse. Fear locked her muscles in place.

The man cursed in his language—a tongue she had been forced to learn at a young age; the shock of hearing the words spoke out loud, and realizing that it was actually useful to her now, sent another shiver down her spine.

He stepped forward and stuck his arm out through the bars. Snatching her already bruised arm, he yanked her forward. ZhiRuo cried out as she was forcefully jerked up her feet and slammed into the bars of the cell. Her forehead smacked straight into one of the rods, and she could already feel the wound welting. It all happened so fast. She tried pulling away, he jerked her harder, and then, something blurred beside her and all at once, the soldier released his grip.

Her cellmate shot forward, grasped the soldier’s tunic and yanked him forward until he slammed into the bars himself. He grunted in response, hands going up to his face, but her cellmate was faster and punched him through the slats. Blood sprayed immediately and the crunch of the man’s nose beneath his fist sounded loudly in the room. Zhi Ruo stumbled back, wide-eyed.

Her cellmate punched the man again, and again, and again, intermittently ramming the man’s skull against the bars of the cell until the man’s face was completely bloodied and unrecognizable.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

Zhi Ruo’s stomach turned and she fell back on trembling legs as the man’s face was bashed into the bar again.

Splat.

She covered her ears and breathed through her nose to keep the nausea at bay.

Crack.

The soldier tried speaking, the words wet and his mouth gurgling, but nothing came out. Zhi Ruo squeezed her eyes shut.

Crack.

Her stomach heaved and she vomited on the floor, her body lurching forward and her neck straining. Bitter bile steamed from her mouth. She wiped her face with shaking fingers.

The broken, mangled man went limp in her cellmate’s hand. By the odd angle the soldier’s neck was bent at, she presumed he was dead. White bone poked through flesh and blood and broken skin. Waves of nausea hit her again.

Her cellmate was large, dwarfing her in the suddenly tiny cell. Long hair streamed down his back, and even in the dim lighting she could make out its shocking white color. He was dressed in a military uniform stripped of its armor; black leather hugged his muscular frame, and dark military robes covered his broad back.

He released the soldier with a thud, and then knelt down and pulled at the body until it was flush against the bars. Slowly, he began fishing through the man’s pockets, before finally producing a handful of dried meat and a thin knife. He twisted the weapon in his hand for a moment, his fingers brushing against the simple handle. He yanked it free from its leather scabbard, touched the flat side of the blade, snapped it back inside its sheath, and then slipped it into the gap between his boot and his leg.

“What about his sword?” Zhi Ruo found herself saying. She swallowed down the thickening apprehension clogging her throat. She didn’t want to see the man’s crumpled, twisted body, but she couldn’t tear her attention away either. “We can escape. You’ve proven yourself adept at …” She breathed out shakily at the dead man.Killing, she wanted to say, orviolence, but she settled on, “Fighting. We stand a chance.”

“With just a sword?” He scoffed, not bothering to turn around as he chewed on one of the pieces of dried meat. He continued pilfering the man’s corpse once more. “Good luck with that, Princess. We’re in the midst of an entire army, and you want me to defeat them all with a single fucking sword?”

She cringed at his crude language; she wasn’t accustomed to such harsh words in the palace. “Surely, it is better to have a sword than none.”

“And what do you think will happen when a soldier comes down here to look for his missing brethren, finds his corpse, and then sees me with his sword? Do you think he will smile andlaugh at me, or do you think he will draw his own weapon and filet me through these bars?”

She didn’t realize he was being sarcastic until she spoke, “I don’t wish for you to be prodded with the sword, but perhaps?—”

“Prodded.” He laughed, short and cruel. “You make it sound so innocent. They’ll kill me. Painfully.”

Zhi Ruo didn’t know what to say. “I … Forgive me if I’ve offended you, but?—”

“Princess, I can’t hide the sword anywhere here without notice.” He waved at the cell, and then finally turned toward her. She inhaled sharply as two moon-like silver eyes stared in her direction. She had expected him to be an older man, due to his white hair, but he was young—incredibly so. Early twenties. Maybe even her age. And he was ethereally beautiful—a sharp jawline, defined cheeks, full lips.

Her breath caught in her throat and she found it hard to speak. She had never seen someone so devastatingly handsome, so … violent.

Because marring his otherworldly beauty were the blood splatters across his face. The twist of his lips. And the flash of annoyance over his features.

“So in case you can shove a sword somewhere up that dress of yours, I highly, highly doubt we’d survive a beating from those bastards.”

Color bloomed on her cheeks.How rude.

---