KARIS
The church is framing him for something.
Karis realizes through his daze that it doesn’t matter that he actually did betray the Radiant Order, that he actually did collaborate with a wanted criminal. With every step he’s dragged down below the Bright Cathedral, his certainty grows. Whatever he’s done or hasn’t done is irrelevant to the fact that the Exalted Circle wants him locked away.
Or worse.
He knew there was a prison below the Bright Cathedral, but he’s never been down here before. The jail is a broad hallway, with a table for the guards in the middle. Dull steel bars line the walls on either side, maybe two dozen cells. The ones Karis sees are empty.
“You have no right to imprison me like this,” he says loudly. He’s been talking this entire time. Unfortunately, if anyone hears him, they aren’t in a rush to his rescue. “You have no evidence for whatever the fuck you think I’ve done.”
“Shut up.” Brech shoves his shoulder hard. The world tips alarmingly around him.
They throw him into a cell farther in, where he can’t see the exit. Karis flings himself against the bars as they leave—one last chance to memorize their faces. Pressing his forehead to the cold bars, he tries to catch his breath. His entire body aches, but his face most of all. He peels away from the bars and starts a wobbling circuit of his cell.
“I have the right to send messages,” Karis calls out. “Get Captain Tanner here. Or are you afraid she’ll see what you’re doing?”
He rises up on his toes as he makes his demands, inspecting. The cell is so brightly lit that his eyes hurt. Or maybe that’s just the concussion. Three of the walls are solid pale stone, and the fourth is entirely made of vertical metal bars as thick as his arm. When he gets close enough, he can see the guards at the center table.
“I’m serious,” he demands, more loudly. “Let me talk to Captain Tanner, or you’ll regret it!”
When he closes his eyes, his surroundings overlap with another cell. A cot, a pail, a man in chains watching Karis with burning dark eyes. A moment of catalyst. But this cell contains nothing. No furniture, not even chains. Just an empty cube of space, with Karis inside. He doesn’t even get an answer from the guards.
“Fuck all of you,” he snaps finally, and drops to a seat in the middle of the cell. Even though he knows it’s unwise, he turns his back to the bars. Being snuck up on is bad. Being seen having a breakdown is worse.
Only when he stops moving, silence weighing on him like shackles, does the pain return. His head spins without something to focus on. Split skin stings above his cheekbone. He prods it, mapping out the bruises beneath the dried blood. There’s a hole in his trousers, too, and one of his knees is scraped and turning purple. He hadn’t noticed until now.
He thinks about killing the vaidkos and fucking Ronan in the barn and that entire beautiful fantasy of being in control. Of making a difference and making plans, instead of being locked up and delivered from one prison to the next. Nausea twists through his stomach. He’s sick of people pretending to care about him, when all they’re really thinking about is their own priorities. His parents wanted a simple, well-behaved son who wouldn’t interfere with their social aspirations. Neradt wanted a tool, someone to use and control until he couldn’t be supervised anymore. Ronan wanted to use him too, first as a hostage, then as a finder, and then…
I truly love you. Remember that.
Karis only wishes he could forget.
Agony wracks him, cutting from bone to soul. Eyes stinging, he silently curses Ronan Vizia as the worst of them. Karis knew he was dangerous from the beginning, but he didn’t know that Ronan’s weapon has never been a knife, or coins, or magic dice. His cruelest weapon is a gentle touch and a fragile promise.
Karis doesn’t know which is worse: the thought that Ronan never loved him, or that he did, and he threw him away anyway.
Fingernails digging into his thighs, Karis hunches over. His forehead presses against his knees. He covers his head with his arms and sobs as quietly as he can.
***
When footsteps approach hours later, Karis’s eyes are painfully dry. He levers himself to his feet and lounges against the back wall, striking a nonchalant pose just before the group of people stops in front of the bars.
“Squire Cooper, move to the center of the room.” That’s Commander Brech, with four other paladins gathered behind her. Karis recognizes a few faces, but can only name one of them—Dace, who was so afraid of Karis getting hurt that he let Ronan take him hostage. He doesn’t seem at all concerned for Karis’s wellbeing now.
To the right are three soldiers in Dravan gray. Karis doesn’t know what the insignia on their uniforms means, but the leader appears to be the one with the most metal decorating his chest, and his hair buzzed nearly to his scalp.
“Eight against one. Do you think that’s a fair fight?” Karis says, though he complies with the request to move to the center of the room. He keeps his hands open and relaxed at his sides. “I can go easy on you.”
“Neradt said you had a mouth on you,” Brech says, gesturing. Dace steps forward to unlock the cell door.
Karis obediently leaves the cell, and obediently falls in line with the cohort of soldiers. He should probably keep his mouth shut, too, he can’t help it. Talking makes him feel better. “I want to talk to Neradt. Or Captain Tanner. Take me to Captain Tanner. You don’t have any evidence.”
Brech yanks him to a halt. Her gauntlet fists in the back of his tunic, and she holds him in front of a cell. “There’s our evidence.”
Karis freezes, finally silent, because this cell isn’t empty.
A woman slumps against the far wall, her short blond hair in disarray. Her wrists are bound in gold-runed cuffs. Instead of bright tunics and a determined glare, she wears drab gray clothes and a wary look that turns to horror when she sees Karis.