Ryan
There’s a river that runs through the Deadlands. The same river that splits Eastonia in two. On the other side, mountains hug the horizon, blurring the view of Tarsian beyond. In the Deadlands, the river is… wide, but still. A large, lumbering stretch of clear water that weaves through the plains.
Here, in the Roguelands, in what used to be a city called Twin Rivers, now nothing but a husk of what it was twenty or so years ago when Ryatt and Ella were young, that same river is angry and narrow, full of rapids and rock.
Sydney stands beside me as I watch the water–the shattered ruins of bridges running across it at several points.
And the rowboat fighting the rapids.
Sydney straightens, narrowing his eyes at the group of warriors shouting at the few men inside the boat who are shouting back for help as the rapids send the boat lurching in a circle. The women on board scream–shrill and terrified.
“There’s a child on that boat,” Sydney growls under his breath, gripping my arm for a moment before we rush toward the water’s edge, splitting through the group of Rogueland warriors.
“Throw them ropes!” I shout. “Now!”
Freezing rain pelts my face, turning the once snowy ground to slush and pockets of pure, glare ice. It’s nearly pitch black, save for the light of lanterns hung on posts, highlighting sunken pathways used by warriors taking their meal breaks along the water’s edge. My boots slip over the frosty river bank as I watch the warriors toss a rope to the boat as it passes–and miss.
Sydney and a few of the warriors rush down the bank, shouting commands at the frantic people inside the boat.
I run to Sydney, snatch the rope from one of the warriors and throw it myself.
A young man with light brown hair, wearing a black cloak, catches it. His soft blue eyes meet mine, terrified and exhausted, but he winds the rope around his forearm as the boat careens toward another set of absolutely gnarly rapids before the river takes an abrupt turn out of my sight.
It’s the middle of the night. If the boat is full of refugees from Tarsian, like we believe, we’ll lose them around that curve.
I hold the young man’s gaze as the water rips the boat away. He’s going to break his arm in half once the rope goes taunt. He knows it, too, based on the look on his face. He grimaces with determination and bites down on his scream as the rope snaps straight, and the little boat careens toward our shore.
We’ve been doing this for days… catching boats. Herding terrified, soaking wet refugees to shore. They’re coming from all over. Small pack territories in the mountains. Desert territories. Some come from as far as the southern sea surrounding Serpentia.
But most of the people rushing to the river these days are from Oasia, and this group is no exception.
A young woman with dark skin and curly black hair sobs as she tries to untangle the rope from their hero’s mangled arm. He’s pale white, biting his lip so hard blood drips down his chin. Another man stumbles onto the rocky shore, followed by six or so young women dressed in tattered uniforms. Everyone is crying. Everyone is battered and exhausted, covered in grime.
The older woman being lifted from the boat with a baby who can’t be much older than Maeve is–she’s–
“Get a healer down here, now,” I snarl to one of our warriors, giving him a shove as I step past him to the woman’s side.
She’s covered in scars. On her face, her wrists… even her fingertips. She’s wearing a hat but I can tell the scars continue into her hair. She shies away from me when I reach for the infant in her arms, the baby bundled against the cold. She clutches the baby, terror in her eyes while I physically pry the baby from her hands. “I’m not going to hurt her. You need help–”
“You’re her brother.”
I turn with the baby in my arms–who squawks in panic at being held against the chest of a stranger.
The young woman is staring at me, tears in her eyes, her dark curls sticking to her cheeks.
“Oh, my Goddess,” she sobs, trembling in the cold. “You’re one of the twins, aren’t you?”
Sydney approaches, narrowing his eyes as he scans the woman’s face.
“You’re–you’re Sydney,” she says to me, her lips parting in a sad, desperate smile. “You’re Sydney–”
“Ryan,” I correct, juggling the now screaming, absolutely terrified baby. Out of the corner of my eye I see Sarah and Aviva making their way toward us through the gloom, both wearing identical expressions of confusion. “Who are you?”
“Georgia,” Sydney says under his breath. “You’re Georgia, aren’t you?”
Tears of relief fill Georgia’s large, brown eyes. She nods, sucking in a breath. “I–I am. Misty–Misty’s still there–”
Sydney takes Georgia by the shoulder, sweeping her to the side, toward the muddy track leading to the rows of tents and open fires of the warrior camp. “I’m taking her to see Ryatt.”
Georgia curls in on herself, reduced to shuddering sobs. Behind me, the rest of the people from the boat are being tended to.
The baby slaps me in the mouth and screams.
“Goddess, let me take her,” Sarah rushes out, snatching the baby from my arms. “Where’s her mother?”
I blink, shaking my head. “I have–I have no idea.”
Aviva steps to my side as Sarah rushes away with the baby. I watch her go, my head spinning as Aviva turns, her hand gripping mine, to the rest of the people from the boat. They’re being herded away to be interviewed, warmed up, and tended to, but one of the young men is arguing with a warrior.
“I’m supposed to–”
“I don’t care what you’re supposed to do. I said, get in line!”
“I was commanded by the Alpha King of Tarsian to–”
“That makes you an enemy!”
I let go of Aviva’s hand as the warrior shoves the man, no older than nineteen, to the muddy ground. Whatever the young man was holding falls from his hands and bounces across the rocks, hurtling toward the water.
“Hey!” I shout, snarling at the warrior–one of Sydney’s warriors from Crescent Falls. I storm toward them, yanking the young Tarsian man upright while Aviva runs to the river bank to fetch his fallen object.
“Get off!” he shouts, shoving against my chest.
“Who are you? Where did this group come from?”
“Oasia,” he snarls.
“Obviously,” I bite out, dragging him toward the camp, but he digs in his heels, turning to look over his shoulder at Aviva.
“Stop–Look, I was told–I swore I’d give that to someone in the royal family!”
“Well, I’m the royal family, and so is the Alpha King of Crescent Falls, and the Alpha King of the Roguelands. They’re here, too, so it’s your lucky day–”
“Declan has a message from Cole for Misty’s dad,” the man chokes out, still fighting my hold. “It’s imperative it’s delivered!”
“Cole?” I look down at the man, letting him go.
“Alpha King Cole,” he rushes out, trying to catch his breath as he rubs his arm. “Cole. He–He has a way to get Misty out of Oasia. He sent us–he sent us away and made us promise to get the message–”
“Which man had the message?”
“The guy who just broke his fucking arm!” he shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “You have–gods, you have no idea what we had to do to get here. The tunnels–” He runs a filthy hand over his face, dragging fresh tears over his cheeks. “My dad–my dad’s still there. He wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t leave Cole.”
Aviva reaches my side carrying a muddy, oval hunk of what looks like stone at first glance.
It’s been weeks of this–this waiting. This stressing over whatever details are brought over the border. Tales of groups of refugees being caught and separated by Alpha King Cole’s warriors on his side of the border merge and distort with accounts regarding what sounds like a coup–like Tarsian is being completely overrun by an unknown enemy and what’s left of Tarsian’s ruling class is trapped inside, the king included.
All we know, based on what little intel we’ve received, is that Misty is alive, and presumably safe, but in the Alpha King’s company.
This kid makes it sound like Alpha King Cole is a fucking buddy, not a ruthless dictator who killed his own father to take over an entire kingdom… and then straight up kidnapped my baby sister.
I grab the man by the arm and start dragging him into the camp again while Aviva tries to wipe the dirt off his–whatever the hell it is.
“What’s your name?”
“Luke Abernathy,” he chokes out.
“Where is Misty right now?” I rip around a corner, dragging him through the mud, his tattered sneakers sliding as a city of canvas comes into view. Wolves and warriors mingle around fires. Generals carry out commands as I escort Luke toward the edge of the encampment.
“She’s at the castle in Oasia, under Cole’s protection.”
“Oh, is that right?” My tone is cutting and dripping with sarcasm. “The same guy who told our parents he’d be using her as a breeder, and if they made any moves to invade, he’d kill her?”
Luke squeaks in pain when my grip tightens on his upper arm. I catch up to the warrior leading the other guy, Declan, I guess, to the commanders’ tent on the far side of camp.
“Ryan!” Aviva’s voice carries in my direction at the same moment I snatch Declan out of another warrior's grasp and start dragging both men toward the tent.
I ignore her, which I rarely do. Normally, Aviva is the only thing on my mind. Actually, she’s always the only thing on my mind… until what feels like our entire world went to war. A week ago, when refugees began showing up in the Roguelands from Oasia and carrying news that Misty was there, we’d been called here. The whole fucking family–stuck here, in tents.
Enjoying my pregnant wife’s body while knee deep in mud, slush, and Goddess knows whatever filth hasn’t been on my radar since we arrived.
Aviva’s voice fades completely when I toss both men into the commander’s tent. My dad looks up from the rickety desk at its center where a map of the Roguelands is splayed before him.
“Give it to him,” I snarl, pointing at Declan. “Now.”
“Give me what?” Dad rounds the desk as Declan rises and fishes in his jacket, pulling out a crumpled letter. He gives it to Dad with a trembling hand, refusing to look him in the eye. Dad takes it, his eyes meeting mine for a moment before he turns his back to us and opens the letter.
“Up,” I say to Luke, snapping my fingers.
“Ryan–” Aviva shouts, sliding into the tent with a huff.
But Dad goes rigid. “Get Ryatt.”
Sydney follows Aviva into the tent. “Georgia’s with the healer. She can confirm Misty’s okay, and the baby belongs to–”
“Get Ryatt, now!” Dad bellows, crumpling the letter in his hand. He doesn’t look at us but motions to a trio of warriors standing near the entrance of the tent, the letter crumpled between his fingers. “Get these two something to eat, put them up in one of the tents. They’re going to Moonrise in an hour.”
Moonrise? I step out of the way as they usher Luke and Declan out, leaving just the family. Me, my mate, and my twin brother.
Sydney shoots me a look dripping with both concern and confusion as he excuses himself to find our uncle in the muddy chaos beyond the tent.
“You and Aviva will be returning to the Deadlands within the hour,” Dad says under his breath, flattening a map of Tarsian on the desk, his forefinger brushing over Oasia, then tapping. His eyes meet mine, heavy with an emotion I’ve never seen cross his face. Vengeance. Murderous, furious vengeance. “Have your army ready to invade Tarsian.”
“When?”