"I wonder what Count Martissant would be willing to pay for your return," Arven continued, a cold smile on his lips. "Or perhaps he would prefer we keep you. You might have much to teach us about your... particular methods."
Maggie raised her head, gathering what pride she had left. "You will get nothing from me."
Arven's smile widened. "We'll see."
———
Alka's POV
Night had swallowed the Pilaf camp.
Between the command tents, torches sizzled in a wind laden with ash and burnt flesh. The air reeked of victory—that nauseating mix of sweat, iron, and smoke that Alka knew all too well.
Sitting on a crate of weapons, hands clasped, she watched the soldiers bustle around the central fire. The cries of the wounded formed a continuous bassline behind the clatter of hammers repairing lances. She could have felt at home here, in this encampment that breathed order and power. But something bothered her—a tension under her skin, a vibration in the air.
