Page 118 of Dragon Gods

He moved quickly, ignoring the stares from the other prisoners he recognized. He saw the older man who had saved him from Sofia back in the cenote and the dark-haired woman who had helped capture him.

Sofia was at the end, lying on her stomach, slightly curled as best she could. Her hair was fanned out around her and for only a second, his fingers twitched to touch it.

“You,” a voice said from the cell next to hers. “What are you doing back here?”

It was more accusation than question. Her red hair was barely visible under the grime and blood, and he combed through his memories for her name.

“Flor,” he said after a beat.

She sneered and looked away.

“Ocon.” He was immediately distracted by Sofia’s voice.

His name—hislastname—on her lips burned like acid against his skin. Especially when he could still see the dried blood staining her clothes and the bruise peeking out from the torn collar of her shirt. He knew worse scars lurked beneath and it made his empty stomach churn. But he couldn’t throw up here or now.

“You should leave,” she said, looking away from him.

“Not until you take these.” He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the vials and balm, passing them through the bars.

She didn’t move and Flor hissed out another few words in dragon-tongue he refused to acknowledge.

“Take them.” His voice was firm.

Sofia moved carefully to sit up and he watched, face blank, to stop himself from screaming. She reached out and carefully took the medicine from him, sniffing the balm first and then the vials before looking up at him once more.

He expected rage, hatred, or maybe some gratefulness, but instead all he saw was exhaustion.

“It won’t fix anything, but it should lessen the pain.” He spoke the words softly, but he knew Flor heard them from the snort that followed.

“Fixing her up so your father can tear her apart again tomorrow?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“You can help by unlocking the doors,” Flor growled back.

“Perfect,” he said. “You look ready for a fight. I’m sure you’ll make it out of the city before they kill all of you.”

“Well, then. What’s your plan?” she said.

“I don’t have one yet!”

“You marked the cenote,” Sofia’s voice was soft, but both Fox and Flor stopped arguing immediately.

Fox turned back to her, his stomach twisted. He needed to meet her eyes in this moment, even if he hated everything he saw there—raw pain, betrayal, anger, and acceptance.

“When I first escaped—before everything. I...” He stopped. He didn’t have an excuse. There was none.

“Do you regret it? I heard you got promoted for your work.” Her face was carefully blank now, too.

Fox didn’t let his gaze falter. “I regret a lot of who I’ve been and what I’ve done these past few cycles.”

“Why should we trust you?”

The question was so genuine, he didn’t hesitate. “I joined the military to follow in my brother’s footsteps and avenge him. He’d hate who I’ve become.”

Sofia nodded, not taking her eyes off of him as she reached for the small tincture he’d brought her and took a sip from it. His shoulders slumped in something akin to relief.

“We have a plan,” Sofia said.

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