We keep moving, winding silently from one room to the next, then climbing a staircase far more comfortable than the ladder. Our pace is finally what the captain wishes, for I cannot bring myself to linger anywhere, not even when we reach the upper floor. We move along a bright corridor, each room we pass grander than the last, yet I cannot focus on any of them. My eyes glaze over the sparkling multitude of lanterns, the long tables, the ornate window frames and the sunlight that stabs through the glass. Whenever I look too closely, all I can see is the blood that taints them, the whisper of a battle lost in their view.

Gradually, I begin to notice other soldiers, most of them wearing identical armour to the captain and Edita save a few chinks and scrapes, emerge from doorways. All of them salute the captain, some adding a called greeting, with a few even falling into step behind him. Without fail, their attention first snaps to him before drifting to me. Every one of their glances is the same: curiosity, confusion, perhaps even concern. But whenever any try to draw closer, a muttered order from the captain maintains their distance.

One soldier, a man with a bow slung over his shoulder, slides in beside Edita. I don’t catch his question, but her answer finds me as if she had taken up one of the arrows he carries and let it fly towards my heart.

“He killed Oswin. Stay away.”

His eyes widen, and he stumbles a few steps forward. I drop my gaze, fighting back yet another rising wave of flames.

We pass another room, and I make the mistake of peering into it in my will to escape the stares. A spark breaks free, slipping between my interlocked fingers, but it is not enough to carve away my dread.

In the doorway, a crowd of people huddle together, gazes wild and desperate. They too wear armour, but it is styled differently, the helmets more pointed and chest-plates striped with grubby white. It is similar to what my guards often wore, and identical to the dead woman, the one my captain left steeped in a river of scarlet at the top of the ladder. 

They are of Oscensi, no doubt about it, yet they are captive in their own kingdom. Thick chains bind them together by the wrists, and as I watch, a soldier of Neyaibet’s darker armour seals the final prisoner’s binds with a harsh click.

The captured man glares, but his position is one of a caged animal, backed into a corner with nowhere to run. His eyes burn with the desire to defend, but he is weaponless, and the cloth tied around his arm is red from the leak of a wound beneath. Yet even amongst the pain he must feel, he yanks at his chains, his growl too low to make out but clearly sharpened with hate. 

A warning stroke of a sword passes his cheek. He falls still.

I tear my gaze away, casting a brief glance at the captain returning my focus to the floorboards. He doesn’t notice my discomfort this time, too far ahead and caught up in talking with his comrades, but the echo of his voice reaches me regardless. No more questions.

I return my focus to the floorboards. I am grateful for his help, and for that I owe him -- and by extension his kingdom -- my respectful silence. But I cannot bring myself to forgive Neyaibet for the horror that has taken place here: imprisonment, masacre, and ruin, all inflicted upon the Oscensi people. Whether they are truly my people or not, I can’t help but think of them that way.

A sudden thought strikes me, sending me staggering to a stop. I whirl, frantically searching the faces of the captive people. My racing heart gradually calms as I do not find the hair like ribbons of sunshine, or the pale blue eyes I search for. She is not among them.

A Neyaibet soldier’s stare finds me, forcing me to continue moving. I hurry to catch up to Edita, though I throw a second glance at the prisoners over my shoulder. No, she is definitely not there, for I would recognise her in a heartbeat. The faces are unfamiliar, the eyes passing blankly over me, and while their chains weigh on me I do feel the gust of light hope that thought brings.

In the next room, an armoured man holds a pair of miniature swords aloft, slowly lowering them over a limp, bloodstained body. My hope sinks. Her absence in one crowd still allows for the possibility that she accompanies the dead.