In the dark, damp cell, the air reeked of mud and rusted chains that bit into his ankles like tiny, impatient insects. The cold stone pressed against his back as he sat on the ground, staring at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded.
"It's dirty," he murmured with a yawn, brushing away the lone tear that clung stubbornly to his lashes. Red surrounded his eyes. He had cried to the point they had swollen.
This morning, when he had stepped into General Zayden's mansion during his absence, the guards had seized him without hesitation.
The general's orders had been clear—strict action, no exceptions—and the staff had been warned. James wasn't surprised. He'd expected this. He had earned it.
But then… the smell of the soil pulled him back to another day—another place.
Cael's body had been just as cold, the weight of him still etched into James's fingers as if he'd been carrying him only yesterday. When he last held him, clinging onto him, screaming for it to be a mere nightmare.
