Page 55 of Captive
Thornmaker's expression showed conflict beneath ritual scars. "I cannot oppose this mission in good conscience. Not when the opportunity may never come again."
"A vote then," Moonsinger declared. "As tradition demands."
She produced a worn leather pouch from her robes, opening it to reveal white and black stones within. One by one, the eleven council members approached, each selecting their choice. White stones for approval, black for rejection. Each vote carried the weight of not just mission approval, but judgment on their warchief's fitness to lead.
Oakspear voted last, his stone dropping into Moonsinger's cupped palm with finality that echoed through the chamber's silence. His eyes remained fixed on Boarstaff throughout the process, something unreadable in his expression.
Moonsinger sorted the stones with practiced movements. "Six white stones. Five black." She looked up, meeting Boarstaff's eyes. "The mission is approved."
The narrow margin spoke volumes. Nearly half the council had essentially declared they lacked confidence in Boarstaff's judgment. The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of a communitydivided.
"Choose your team carefully, Warchief," Rockbreaker cautioned. "This mission balances on the edge of a blade between opportunity and disaster."
"Take these," Moonsinger pressed small bundles of herbs into his hand. "For protection. For clarity."
As the council dispersed, Oakspear lingered, his gaze moving once more between Boarstaff and Sebastian. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable now; not just concern for the mission, but something more personal. Something that spoke of watching the man he cared for show the same tenderness to another that he had once received.
"Be careful," Oakspear said finally, his voice barely audible. "Some traps are baited with exactly what we most want to believe."
The weight of responsibility settled on Boarstaff heavier than ever before. Twelve warriors. Their lives in his hands, guided by intelligence from a prisoner whose very existence challenged everything he thought he knew about duty and desire.
His feet carried him back toward Sebastian as the last council member departed, toward whatever waited beyond dawn's uncertain light.
When they were alone, Sebastian shifted against his bindings, preparing to speak. "Boarstaff, I—"
"Don't," Boarstaff said quietly, settling beside the binding circle. "Not now. Enough has been said."
The weight of the divided vote pressed down on him. Nearly half his council had declared they didn't trust his judgment. The next day he would lead warriors into vampire territory based on the word of their sworn enemy, and if he was wrong...
Sebastian seemed to understand. Instead of speaking, he simply looked at Boarstaff with those transformed eyes that held depths his father's improvements had never intended.
Without ceremony, Boarstaff extended his wrist across the binding circle's edge. Sebastian took it with infinite care, his fangs finding their mark with a gentleness that spoke of gratitude rather than hunger.
In the crystal-lit silence of the sacred chamber, as Sebastian fed with careful restraint, Boarstaff closed his eyes and tried not to think about dawn.
Chapter Twenty-Two
As he lay bound within the Heart Tree's depths, Sebastian found himself wondering what would happen when Boarstaff returned. It had been hours since the warchief had left in silence after their last feeding, and the uncertainty gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
Perhaps he had pushed too hard during the council meeting. The way he'd lashed out at the council, spoken of orc children rotting at borders, the memory made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. A sensation he couldn't quite name, foreign and unwelcome. Yes, he'd been defending Boarstaff, but his words had been deliberately cruel. Calculated to wound where it would hurt most.
Was he feeling guilt? Sebastian had heard the word, of course, but his father's improvements had always processed such inconvenient emotions away. Without those filters, the feeling sat heavy and strange inside him. He had spoken the truth, the orcs would continue to lose people if they ignored his intelligence, but he had wielded that truth like a blade aimed at their deepest wounds.
Had Boarstaff seen that flash of what he used to be? The old Sebastian, all noble arrogance and vampiric contempt, using pain as a weapon to get his way?
The guards, Murkub and Koric, had been discussing him again when they thought he wasn't listening. Their voices carried in the chamber's acoustics, every whispered debate about whether he should be killed reaching his enhanced hearing with perfect clarity.
"The vampires set an ambush at the eastern ridge," Murkub’s aged voice was heavy with loss. "Nearly killed Silverflank. We lost three good scouts already this season."
"Which is exactly why we should end this now," the old guard’seyes narrowed as he glanced at Sebastian. "Before the warchief's fascination with him dooms us all."
"Zarek." Sebastian spoke without meaning to, the name escaping him as he recognized the pattern. "My brother always favored that approach. Dividing your scouts, then striking from both sides."
Both guards turned, startled by his interruption.
"He plans his ambushes by watching patrol patterns," Sebastian continued, his voice steadier than he expected. "Three cycles minimum before setting the trap. The positions are predictable if you know what he's looking for."
Murkub's expression hardened. "You expect us to believe you'd betray your own brother? Your own kind?"
