The Iron Crown

6: Florin

He was moving. He was dimly aware of arms around him, holding him inplace, and someone breathing behind him. Florin forced his eyes open, and immediately wished he hadn't. The light was blinding. His head swam. Still, he sat up, fighting to keep his balance as the world swayed beneath him.

He was on the back of an unfamiliar horse – a chestnut stallion with a silvery mane – and in the arms of an unfamiliar man. Florin frowned, twisting his neck around. The dwarf barely paid him any mind, only adjusting his grip on the reins, and helping him to sit up properly in the saddle. Saoirse was on Noctis, Willow led by the rein behind them. They were back on the main road, unlit lanterns swinging as the wind blustered and moaned. This wasn't an area he had passed through on his way in, either; the road was lined with thick shrubs and large, black pine trees. How had he gotten here? He remembered tethering the horses in the stable...there had been an elf, he thought – Estel, he'd introduced himself as, as he'd led his own mare into the stall. They were travellers, passing through. He'd wanted to know what had happened, and then had asked if perhaps he could join them until night had passed. He'd agreed, readily. Meeting with Saoirse had stirred something deep inside him. He hadn't thought he'd missed other people. Other people had turned on him, had hunted him like a dog. But now, after a month? He had craved that interaction.

Florin remembered little else after that, though. He must have made it back to Saoirse. He ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing at his face. Every movement felt strange, as though this body wasn't his own. He could barely even feel his legs. With trembling hands, he reached beneath the neck of his shirt, running his fingers over his compass.

"Who are you?" He asked, surprised to find his voice barely a gasped whisper.

"Griga," came the dwarf's rely.

"Where are we going?" With every word, he could feel his resolve draining a little more. Like water, gurgling away down a drain while he desperately tried to find the plug. He tried to sit up a little more, and without Griga's arm around him, was certain he would have overbalanced.

"The Star Tower, we're almost there," he said, "now, stay quiet and sit still or I'll let you fall off." That, Florin thought, seemed fair. He doubted he had the energy to hold a conversation, let alone argue his position. And so, he settled back, watching the path ahead as the trees fell away. The steady sway of the horse and the rhythmic tapping of its hooves was like a mother's lullaby, beckoning him back into sleep's embrace. He didn't dare shut his eyes. The last month had taught him that sleeping was dangerous, and was something he should never, never do unless he was certain he was safe. He didn't know this man – he didn't really know any of them.

Perhaps this was Fennon's answer, to all his prayers. A cruel joke – sanctuary, protection he couldn't trust. Wasn't that what the clerics had always said? That the fox god loved to play tricks and games with those who asked for his help?

"Look sharp!" Came Estel's voice from behind him. A second later, and the elf was riding past on the most beautiful golden mare he'd ever seen. He caught Florin's gaze and winked, before motioning to the road ahead.

Florin had never seen such a stunning building. In the early morning sunshine, the central tower's spire glittered a brilliant silver. It was tall enough to rival even those in the city. When Griga has said tower, he's assumed it would be a single building, but this was more of a compound. Florin could make out a dozen or so gilded roofs above the outer wall. Griga clicked his tongue, urging his horse forwards to keep pace with Estel.

"You are to explain to Nihil why we have returned empty handed," he snapped, "and why we have brought these strangers with us." Estel simply waved him off.

"No good deed goes unpunished. You are more than free to run off and sulk, I will handle the fallout from this," the elf replied. They were approaching a set of wrought iron gates, two armoured figures stationed on either side. Each raised their heads together, levelling spears in their direction. Something moved atop the wall, and Estel snorted.

"Open the damn gates, Valance, before I open them myself!" He called out. He wasn't slowing down, either; Estel flicked the reins, and his horse broke into a gallop. Griga followed his lead, their own horse lurching beneath him. Florin could barely stifle the yelp as it escaped his lips. The gates were approaching, faster than he could process. In less than thirty seconds, they would be barrelling headfirst into the black metal. Panic gripped his throat. Despite Griga's warnings, Florin jerked forwards, making a desperate grab for the reins. But his head was still fuzzy, his movements too sluggish. A rough hand grabbed the back of his collar, wrapping around his throat to hold him in place.

"I mean it, boy," the dwarf snarled. "You best behave, or you'll be finding yourself dead at my hands long before we let those dogs at you."

In that moment, the world slowed down. There, there was the catch. They weren't here to rescue him. They were just going to hold him here, until the hounds and the guards caught up. Hand him over on a silver platter. The gates were beginning to open, a figure hurrying to pull them open. Maybe they would make it, maybe they wouldn't. It didn't matter. Florin tried again, clenching his jaw as the grip around his throat tightened. He managed to wrap the toughened leather around his fingers, yanking the reins back as hard as his trembling muscles could muster.

The horse screamed as its head was forced to one side, moving to the right. There was a flash of grey, of black, and then white. The impact sent his ears ringing, and he felt something dislodge in his mouth as the side of his head hit ground. Only the adrenaline had him rolling onto his stomach, spitting the tooth into the snow, reaching to his waist for a sword that wasn't there. Instead, he raised his fists, fighting to keep his balance.

There was a scream, and shouting. The horse was on its side, trying to right itself. Griga was half in the saddle, the reins wrapped around an arm bent horrifically out of shape. One of the armoured figures had crouched over the dwarf, attempting to free him from beneath the struggling horse. The other had a spear in its hand and was advancing in Florin's direction. More people were moving out of the gates, drawn by the commotion. Florin was vaguely away of Estel, urging Saoirse and the other horses into the compound. Bright, golden eyes met his own.

And then the armoured figure was all he could see.

This close, and he could truly appreciate the intricacy of the thing; the metal was polished bronze, sparkling. It was engraved with strange symbols, each leaking a faint silver glow as it loomed over him. Their helmet covered their entire face; even their eyes were nothing but dark pits.

"We do not welcome criminals, here," the figure hissed. Florin froze. It was his father's voice, coming from behind that helmet. But his father was in the city, wasn't he? Had he known that Florin was headed north, and come here to cut him off? Confusion had him wavering, for a heartbeat.

"Pa?" He whispered. The armoured figure did not respond. It raised its spear, and in a single, fluid motion, brought it around. The pain was unlike anything Florin had experienced as the wood slammed into his bad leg. Warmth flooded across his skin. He was back on the ground, scrambling away as the heavy footsteps of the guard advanced.

"What a pathetic excuse for a son," it hissed. "Curl up, cry. Beg." Tears prickled Florin's eyes. He was right, he was a pathetic excuse for a son. He couldn't even defend himself from a hunting dog, let alone his own father. He'd had to depend on strangers to keep him safe. He couldn't stop the tears as they escaped. A sob wracked his body as he did what he was told and curled into a tight ball. And then-