I wake to a sharp pain shoved into my abdomen. It ebbs after a moment, distant and slippery as the swirling scraps of a winter forest that surround it, but still I gasp with the force of it, clapping my hands over my ribs. My chest heaves beneath them. My eyes snap open, staring blankly at the blurred wooden panes of the wall.

My skin is sticky, coated in sweat and rolling with chills. I lie there, dizzy, aimless alarm tumbling into my tangled thoughts and shooting through my veins, scrambling for some attempt to ground myself.

"Your mind is a tortured place."

I freeze. Harlow's voice cracks through all of it, a thick layer of frost gathering around my pounding heart. Clamping my teeth together to seal in a fresh wave of panic, I stare determinedly at the wall, as if denying his presence will make him go away.

"You dream so darkly and so vividly," he continues, so close behind, impossible to block out. I hear the catch in his breath as he sighs. "I wish I could have found you earlier."

False care stains his tone, splashed haphazardly over the words and drying into their corners, a grating itch that seeps into the air. It curls my toes, my skin sitting uncomfortably over my bones. I pull my knees in to my chest. "Go away." My voice barely breaks above a murmured whimper.

"I'm trying to protect you, Nathaniel."

The temptation snags me like a hook, tugging me in his direction. Rolling to my other side, I snap half-upright, my hand sinking into something soft as it flies out to keep me steady. A pillow. My nails dig into it. "I don't want your protection."

The sheets draped over me crinkle in the wake of my movement, sliding down my torso. Surprise trickles through as reality drains into place. I'm laid in a bed. There are no chains to bind me, no bars to trap me in. This is a simple tavern room, identical to many I've stayed in with the regiment, furnished only with the bed, the bedstand by its side, and the wooden chair that Harlow sits rigid on. The door behind him is closed. My gaze pounces on it regardless, wandering past him and over his shoulder. Chains or not, this is a cage, and my skin tightens with the sensation of it closing in. I suddenly feel light-headed.

"You're safe here," he says, too stiff to be any real comfort.

Gingerly, I ease myself into a sitting position, shaking with the effort. Each thudding pulse embeds itself in my skull. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I keep them shoved back, desperate to hide my fear from him. Once again, he has caught me, and I'm too weak to escape. How much time has passed? Are Sarielle and Fiesi still searching for me?

"Where am I?" I manage.

"A tavern in Kavas." His hands are folded in his lap, the picture of civility, though his eyes are calculating as they study me.

Kavas. We passed through this town on our journey south. It sits on the fringe of the mountains, teetering on the border between Oscensi and Akurin. It's the perfect place for him to build a base. There could be a whole army guarding this tavern. The cage shrinks, stifling my breathing as it presses up against my ribs. "How long was I asleep?" The question rushes from my tongue.

"Only a few hours. We haven't long since arrived." He leans back a little, the chair creaking as his back rests against it. "I thought it best we have this discussion somewhere comfortable."

He could easily be lying, yet his plain, matter-of-fact tone gives no suggestion of the possibility, smoothed by simple logic. He has no real reason to lie to me about any of this. No matter where I am or how long I've been here, I can't escape.

I swallow hard, and as I do so I'm suddenly aware of the collar tight against my neck. I'm sure it rises higher than I remember. I touch a hand to it, catching its soft, smooth material between my fingers, as my gaze drops to scan the rest of my tunic. My throat closes up. It's dyed a rich midnight-black, a silver band wrapped snug around my waist, the tunic's seams edged with sickeningly familiar thread of the same colour. Its sleeves end just before my elbows. I grip the collar harder, the roaring desire to tear every inch of it to shreds coursing through me. My blood is sharp in my veins. "Let me go."

"This isn't a prison, Nathaniel."

"Yes, it is," I snap, whirling on him. "It always is. But--" Snatching at the bottom of the tunic, I yank it upwards, wrestling my arms through the sleeves. "But I'm not going to let you--"

"Alright, alright." Harlow grabs my hand, dragging it away before I can fully free myself. He chuckles, the gentle sound like claws in my spine. "There's no need to be so dramatic."

My bare chest heaves, skin cold as the air hits it. I summon the fire necessary to glare at him regardless. "You don't own me."

He holds my gaze. "I never claimed to."

With calm, steady hands, he takes hold of the tunic, trying to ease my arm back into its sleeve. I jerk away, squirming uselessly against his grip. My bare heels drag over the bedsheet. My boots are gone. The air's chill seeps in further, tightening my chest, yet still I wish his warm fingers didn't so firmly curl over my arm. Discomfort rocks so fiercely through me that my vision pales, my skin clammy with sweat. My ears ring.

Perhaps he notices, for he releases me, allowing me to wrap my hand around the sheet instead to steady myself. His voice is low and quiet when he speaks again. "Your previous clothes were looking a little worse for wear. It was not my intention to display any kind of ownership. This was the only fabric I had to hand."

"Liar." The word falls apart on my tongue. Squeezing my eyes shut, I inhale sharply through my nose, willing the lump in my throat to recede.

"Put it back on properly. You'll get cold."

"I don't care." I steal a hard glance at him, though I sound far more feeble than I'd like. I dig my nails into the bed, my gloves pressed up into the joints of my fingers.

He sighs. "And yet I do care, and I don't have time for you to be stubborn." He gives a lazy flick of his hand, and a flash of unusually bright light passes through his gaze. I barely have time to stiffen before soft material brushes over my skin, the tunic's sleeve splitting at the seam and then reattaching over my arm, the rest of it sliding back over my chest seemingly of its own volition. The silver band is tugged tight, pinning the fabric in place. I stare down at it, a brief, wandering spark of amazement swallowed by the pit opening in my stomach.

The rough, bitter edge of his magic lingers in the wake of its display. A dizzying ache burrows into my middle. I bite down hard on my tongue, helplessness a void large enough to fall into.

"You have no right to care," I mutter, grateful at least that my voice doesn't break. "I know you're not my father."

"That's right."

I snap to look at him. There's no shift in his expression, no change at all in his relaxed posture. It stirs the ashes of fury buried in my chest. "You lied," I add, the words scraping together. "My father's name is Rishi Katasko. You're just the one who cursed him."

"Rishi's choices were his own." Harlow's voice takes on a sterner note. I hate how it ducks my head, fear clogging my throat. "I knew very little of the Tía. I had no way of knowing how such things would affect him." He folds his arms over his chest. "And I played no part in his decision to inflict you with his consequences. If I had been allowed anywhere near you, I would have taken you away before he could do so."

"Because you want to protect me." The concept tastes sour, unreal. Gritting my teeth, I reach for the false flames flickering inside, letting them blaze up and drown the persistent grate of pain. "Stop lying."

"I have no reason to lie to you."

"Then just..." I hiss in a breath, my pulse thudding in my temples. "Just stop. I don't care what you did or what my parents did. Let me go."

He unfolds his arms, letting them drop back into his lap. His mouth forms a flat line. "I'm not your enemy, Nathaniel."

"Then let me go," I growl, an itch skittering over my fingertips.

"So you can run back to your so-called friends in Aorila?" A darkened flicker races through his eyes, the first sign of some deeper, less passive emotion, faded within the instant. "The Tía are cowards. They will never accept you."

"Fiesi does," I bite back. "He's my brother." I regret the words as soon as they slip from my tongue. They're raw, cringing back from the open air.

What might be pity shines in Harlow's eyes. "Fiesi Kynig is lonely. He has latched onto you because you're kind to him, not because he cares about you."

A spear wrestles in amongst my ribs, piercing my heart. Biting down on my lip, I edge my knees a little closer, trying to shut out the echo of those words. Harlow is a liar. Fiesi is a good friend now. I shouldn't let truth ring from such a concept, yet the thought of it hurts nonetheless.

"Then Sarielle," I counter, though my voice is quieter than it should be. "The Cormé. They accept me." It sounds wrong even as I speak it. The regiment has taken care of me, shielded me from danger, but that has never been acceptance. I was an outsider even before I shed my disguise.

But Sarielle. Her I can't doubt.

"The Diraldi girl's intentions are honourable," Harlow says, grating at my senses as I twist my head away. "But she will never understand you." He hums. "And I suspect it's only a matter of time before she begins to see you as a tool."

The spear twists. Swallowing hard, I glare at him. "You're wrong."

He studies me. "I'm the only one who truly knows how to protect you."

Again and again, he speaks of protection, as if the cage he moulds is somehow safer than the one I spent so many years inside in Polevis's castle basement. Perhaps it is, but I can't bring myself to care. I thrust out my wrists, letting my metal shackles glint in the lantern light, the creases of my gloves as they're pressed beneath the binds highlighted in paled black. "If you were protecting me," I say, feeling a chilled, empty prickle of pain lance through my gut, "you would remove these."

With a sigh, he leans forward, his hand stretching out. His thumb brushes the surface of my right bind, running up and down every silver-grey indent. My breath hitches. For a single, boundless moment, I'm convinced he'll do as I wish. I wait for the click as they release, for that beautiful rush of relief that I long for so desperately.

Instead his touch retracts, and the pain remains, a duller ache in the wake of such short-lived hope. "I'm sorry." Flat, insincere. "I didn't want--"

"To have to do this, I know." My fists curl as I draw my arms back to my sides. Restrained heat coils in my muscles. "You've said before."

His head bows. "It's a necessary measure."

The word necessary carries the hiss of a serpent, cold and unfeeling, serrated as it winds around my throat. I press my knuckles to my stomach, shoving them deeper to combat the ache. "So you're content to let me die now?"

"I hope it won't come to that." Blurred thought flickers through his eyes. "Yet I expect you would prefer death to the alternative, given your... nature."

"My nature," I echo, nails digging into my palms.

"Yes." His gaze seems to pierce right through me, impaling every drifting thought. The promise I forced Fiesi to make slides into view. I shove it back, focusing on the faint pricks of pain my nails create, the hard press of the mattress beneath me.

"My life is mine." My voice is low, shaking, but I push it out anyway, meeting his eyes as evenly as I can. "I'll decide whether or not to keep it. You have no right to make that decision for me."

With a long exhale, he stands, edging the chair back an inch. "I wish I could explain it all to you, but I fear you aren't in the right state to hear it." He looks truly apologetic when he looks my way again. "I will not remove the binds, Nathaniel. Not until you're ready."

"Ready for what?" I press into the silence he leaves.

I receive no answer. He takes a pace towards the door, then another, emptiness filtering in around me in his absence. The air closes in. Itch spreading over my skin, I swing my legs off the bed and snap to my feet, curling my fists tighter as the floor rocks. "I'm going to kill you for this." Anger snaps greedily at my tongue, its teeth sinking into my flesh. It's an anchor. I hate its taste, but need its power, the easy way it thrums through my bones.

He pauses, casting me a glance over his shoulder. "Will you?"

Despite myself, I flinch at the darkness in his eyes. It vanishes as he turns fully back to face the light, but I still stand frozen and rigid, battling with fear to keep my sharp gaze on him. "I will," I manage, finding the notion doesn't falter. Blood already taints my hands. Why not add his to the mix? Sarielle would want it.

Harlow's soft hum fills the quiet. A glint of silver emerges from his sleeve, and I really do freeze. A knife's hilt slides into his palm.

My hands roam to grip the edge of the bed behind, bracing myself for the pain. Perhaps the emotion I can't read in his expression is fury in return. Perhaps he's decided to hurt me after all.

And yet the knife glides past me and away, carefully lowered until it clinks against the surface of the bedstand. He releases it with a gentle flourish. I can do nothing but stare at it, feeling all the more dizzy for how much my whirling thoughts reel.

The blade's tip shines, wickedly sharp. My fingers twitch. Is this a test? Does he want me to prove my word?

He takes a step back. His eyes stab right through me, watching, waiting. Another step. He'll leave me alone if I don't act.

I don't have time to hesitate. Test or not, I know my choice.

Instinct crests a singing wave through my veins as I lunge forward, fingers scrambling over the rough wooden surface until they close around the cool leather of the knife's hilt. The blade cuts a wild arc through the air as I spin to face him. Heart pounding, blood roaring in my ears, I draw back my arm and thrust the blade upwards at Harlow's chest.

And then I falter.

As if sinking into some hard, immovable substance, the knife halts, hovering the barest distance from the navy cloth that covers his torso. If I moved it any more, the tunic would crease. The skin beneath would break. The concept shivers and darkens as it clouds my mind, swarming with doubt. My lungs hardly inflate with the breath I suck in. My legs tremble beneath me.

Shifting my grip, I dig for the certainty I felt only a second earlier, that desperate desire to see his blood spilled and his life withered to nothing. It sounds almost ridiculous.

This can't be right.

I snatch at that misty doubt, turning it over in an effort to examine its texture, and a dark, bitter itch ekes under my skin. It's hollow, dissipating when I break into its centre. My brows draw down.

"You're doing something to me." My gaze wanders up to meet his.

His eyes have never looked brighter, painted in a viridescent glaze that twists the light they reflect into a sharp, pointed shine. I fight to hold my ground against them. "Your wills are strong," he says.

The knife's hilt bites into my palm, harsh as the cold stab of ice despite the glove's barrier. It hurts to hold it, hurts to haul it upward to jab in the direction of his throat, my arm straining. The coils of bitter darkness wrap tighter around my weakened muscles, and I gasp. Realisation forms a cold lump of fear in my stomach.

"You're controlling me," I breathe.

"Not quite," he says, entirely unfazed. "You're not an easy person to control."

I jerk the knife back to my side, although I keep my gaze on him, hatred pouring into my blood. I know what it is to be controlled, to be trapped in strings and chains. There's nothing I despise more, and nothing else that could fill me with such blinding terror. I wish I could stop myself from shaking.

"Is this Adeía for you?" I manage. More images tumble into my head, slotting together in a perfect puzzle. "Is this why the Neyaibet soldiers listen to you? Because you control them?"

"Of sorts. I suppose you have the right to know." He blinks, and the warped light in his eyes settles to its usual dull emptiness, though I can still taste the aftermath of his influence in my mouth. "I have a talent for... exploring the minds of others, you could say. Sometimes, I am able to latch onto a specific thought and amplify it. But it isn't control." He sounds almost stern, as if this is a lecture. "I merely draw on what already exists. You don't want to kill me."

The knife is heavy in my hand. Chewing at my lip, I glance down, roaming over his words. Perhaps he's right. I know it now my thoughts have settled, disentangling to reveal the true belief that resides within them. Of course I don't want that. It's never right to kill. The vision of blood pouring from a wound, dripping from a blade, should fill me with only horror and repulsion.

Yet that doesn't change how good it felt to want him dead. Or how hollow I now feel in the absence of the desire.

"And you don't want to die, either." Again he looks at me with that awful, faked pity. Every inch of me cringes away from it. "I will keep you safe, Nathaniel. But you need to learn to trust me first."

His steps thud as he makes his way towards the door. They seem to strum through me, low, echoing notes that vanish into the pit in my chest. I watch the dust drift over the floorboards. "I'll never trust you."

The only reply is the soft click of the door shutting behind him. The twist of a lock follows. I stumble back, sitting heavily on the bed, the knife still trapped in my hand.

I don't know what to think, what to feel. And yet the tears flow of their own accord, sudden and all-consuming, heavy with the burden of hopelessness.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

I kinda hate writing Harlow sometimes but also he's fun. Even if he makes Nathan ouch :/

Oh yeah and he can read/control minds!! Sort of!!! I explored it a little in the Ligari bonus oneshot I wrote but if you didn't read that, then tada :D An extra reason for him to be creepy. What joy.

- Pup