Inked

24

Before he could even open his eyes, Farid saw Soleil, scarlet hair laced with sparks and blowing around her apologetic face. The memory ignited agony along Farid's skin. He tried to lift his arms, but, finding he couldn't, settled on getting a good look at his surroundings, careful not to alert anyone else to his consciousness. It took great effort to pry his heavy eyelids open, and each breath sent prickles of pain all throughout his weary body, but Farid eventually managed to catch a glimpse of his location -- not that there was much to see. He was enclosed in a cube of rough, black stone, the uneven surface digging into his back and his head and his legs and his arms, making his discomfort that much worse. Outside a door of metal bars was more dark stone, without a single sconce or window to let in light.

Farid tried to call the fire to him, but it did not respond. Cursing, Farid winced his way into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the wall and keeping his breaths as short as possible. As far as he could tell, he was alone, but, defenseless and in pain as he was, Farid dreaded confirmation of his suspicions -- that he was in a prison or dungeon somewhere and he would most likely be tortured for information once they knew he was awake.

Or had he already been tortured, to the point that he had no recollection of the horrors, only the residual aches? No, that can't have happened. It had to have been Soleil who did this to him, that girl with her tricks and flirtations and deceptions. She had done this to him, nearly killed him, but for what purpose?

These revelations took too much of a toll on Farid's incapacitated mind, and he let his eyes close as they had been fighting to. Before he could form another coherent thought, he slipped back into unconsciousness, a welcome reprieve from worries about what he would find the next time he awoke.

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Above, in the busy heart of the castle, Mo sat at a massive table with hundreds of scraggly but determined men eager for the lavish dinner that awaited them every evening after a day of grueling training. However, Mo was not the least bit hungry. His stomach was already full -- of worry, and nervousness, and uneasiness. He had been living in the castle for several days now, and the dark aura of the place was getting to him. His muscles were constantly tense, poised for the moment someone finally recognized him.

And to make matters worse, Dustfinger had reason to believe their mission had been compromised. 

But he said "maybe."

"Excuse me, sir?" Mo blinked and the face of a young server came into view next to him, the tiniest hint of confusion in the otherwise bored expression. The girl had paused in her pouring of his water, and the men nearest to him assessed him, either annoyed because he was holding up the process, or suspicious of his sanity. 

Embarrassed that he had let his thoughts out of his mouth in enemy territory, Mo abruptly cleared his throat and said as confidently as he could, "Pardon me, I was just going over some of the strategies we discussed earlier. Please proceed." 

The serving girl hesitated only a moment before returning to her duty, and the other men simply didn't have the attention span to wonder about their fellow soldier's mutterings when there was food to be eaten. The incident was quickly lost in the boisterous chatter and enthusiastic chewing of the men around him. However, Mo couldn't quite let go of his anxiety. 

Sure, he had been in plenty of dangerous situations before, but the events of last year plus the arrival of a new child had taken a toll on him. He was a veteran, and a father once again. Resa and Meggie couldn't take it if this new plan went wrong. They didn't even know about Mo's and Dustfinger's separate mission in the first place, and he hadn't told them for the exact purpose of not worrying them. 

But what was the alternative? Return home and spend a few joyous weeks with his family before Devondria took over Ombra and had them all enslaved or murdered? He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he just sat back and let that happen. 

But if another war broke out after he helped put a stop to this one, then what? He couldn't fight every battle, and the Inkworld seemed to churn out a nonstop supply of them. 

Calm down, dammit. He just needed to focus on beating Devondria. That's it. He couldn't back out of this fight and he couldn't even plan for the next one, so this is what he had. Just one job to do -- albeit a very big one -- and then he could return to his family and worry about the future later.

Besides, Dustfinger had said maybe. At least there was some hope in that.