Descendants of the Kings (Book 2)

Ch 32.2: My wayward friend

Cw for violence and use of weapons
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"Hands up," the assailant spit, masculine voice gruff and muffled by something.

Ella's mind spun, the coolness of the metal a sobering shock of reality. She tried to move, but the assailant tightened his hold.

"Hands up!" he repeated, digging the knife in just enough to make her hiss.

Iron, she thought dazedly. Coated with another metal, as her skin wasn't burning, but iron nonetheless, given the way it reeked and stung. So not just a run-of-the-mill robber.

Warily, she complied, dropping the nest and slowly raising her hands. There was nary an inch of space between them, and moving would only impale the edge into her throat.

"Walk," he ordered, harshly kneeing the back of her thighs, almost making her stumble. She bit back a string of profanities and shuffled forward, the intruder keeping his hold on her snug, lest she get any ideas.

Inwardly, Ella cursed herself. She'd foolishly allowed her guard to drop, and with her cloak pulled up and her scarf tightly wound around her face, she'd given this cur an advantage. Now, she couldn't even turn around to bite him.

He had a knife, she catalogued, her mind spinning as he briskly walked them through the forest. A knife, and a bandolier with weapons strapped to his chest, the shape of it palpable against her back. Perhaps an armour of sorts as well, the faint contours of something rugged brushing against her shape. So definitely not a robber, or even a hunter.

No, this man was armed to the teeth and apparently knew how to use all of it.

He also wanted something. If he'd intended to kill her, he would have done so the moment the blade of his knife made contact with her neck. Given that she was currently being escorted through the forest and not dead in a pool of blood, he needed her alive.

This much was clear when he shoved them into the clearing of the campsite, nearly sending Ella tumbling, his hold on her keeping her from face-planting.

She heard the clang of something dropping, and Gidden's low voice uttering a curse. He was up on his feet in a moment, furiously marching ahead, tan skin blotchy with rage.

"Stop," the man hissed, pressing the knife to her throat, eliciting a small gasp. "Or I gut her."

Fuming, Gidden halted, his hand slowly backing away from his own dagger. Aedion, for his part, observed the scene with an impassive sort of look.

Slowly, he stood and made his way over next to Gidden, his movements lazy and graceful, as if he were taking a leisurely stroll. He only looked at Ella once, a brief flicker of his gaze, eyes locked solely on the assailant. The only sign of his agitation was his tail—which he hadn't been able to glamour for the whole trip—restlessly flicking back and forth.

"What have we got here," he hummed, eyeing the man with condescending disinterest. "A brave little mouse."

He was all animal-like prowess, a predator coiled to pounce. The assailant was not immune to it, his arm around Ella tightening.

"I said stop," he spat, forearm bulging against Ella's neck.

"I heard you the first time," Aedion drawled lazily. "Find something else to say, or I shall think you to be a dimwit."

In response, the man damn near suffocated Ella as he squeezed his forearm against her windpipe, and the material of her scarf tightened on her face. Ella nearly doubled over, hacking as she tried to breathe, fingernails uselessly clawing at his armoured forearms. The man propped her up with his thigh, keeping her upright like a rag doll as she coughed and sputtered.