Amid the chaos, Calder barely noticed the halfbreeds around him—the shouting, the chains, the cries. But he felt it: a pair of eyes on him.
Adva.
Her gaze was steady, sharp, but there was something else there—worry. A crack in her usual armor of survival. She had seen enough of this place to know how to endure, to keep moving, to survive by sheer force of will. But even she could not erase the horror of what just happened. She knew the sting of loss, the impossibility of keeping composure when someone you love was taken before your eyes.
She shifted closer, chains jingling softly. "Calder…" Her voice was low, careful, almost a whisper against the din. She didn't reach for him; she knew this was something he had to feel himself, but her presence was deliberate, grounding. A reminder that he wasn't completely alone.
He didn't respond. He couldn't. The chains still held him, blocking his powers, blocking the surge of anger and grief that threatened to consume him. His chest burned with a weight that made it hard to breathe. He wanted to scream, to break free, to strike down the Winged who dared touch him after what they had done…but the chains and the air and the impossible stillness of his mind held him fast.
Adva's eyes lingered on him, assessing, waiting. She knew enough about survival to understand: right now, action was impossible. Right now, the only thing he could do was live through this moment. And maybe, when the first shock faded, when the world stopped spinning for a heartbeat, he would find a way forward.
Her hand brushed against her own chain, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. A silent message. You're not alone. Not completely.
Calder's gaze stayed fixed on the stone where Citrine had fallen. Rage, and the barest thread of hope that Adva's presence reminded him of.
Even chained. Even powerless, he would survive. And someday, somehow…he would make them pay.
The guards began herding them back toward the inner corridors, shouting for order as the courtyard emptied itself. Calder moved when pushed, his feet carrying him without thought, the world still smudged at the edges. But somewhere beneath the grief, the numbness, and the fury, his uncle's voice surfaced.
"Survival starts with knowing the shape of the cage, Calder."
Calder drew a slow breath. His uncle had drilled those words into him since he was a child, half in jest, half in preparation for a life that seemed impossible even then. Back then, Calder had laughed, not realizing how much he'd need those lessons one day.
Now, they were all he had.
As they were marched down the sloping stone corridor, Calder forced himself to look.
The path turned sharply left after the courtyard.
Three guards at the bend—one older, slower, favoring his right leg.
Two more were stationed at the iron gate that led toward the dungeon levels.
He cataloged it all automatically.
Left turn. Weak guard. Checkpoint.
He watched the torches on the wall. Short intervals—too short for natural rotation. Meaning: enchanted torches. Meaning, constant light. No shadows to hide in.
Adva walked beside him, silent, but her eyes flicked toward him once. Noticing. She knew that stare, the one where your body moved but your mind worked like a blade.
The group descended deeper. The air changed, colder now, damp, carrying the faint echo of dripping water. Calder felt the weight of the chains again, humming faintly with the same magic that had smothered his powers earlier. They seemed heavier down here.
Two more guards at the base of the stairs.
Another door, runes carved along its edges. Blinding runes. He memorized the shape of each one, the way they glowed, the cadence of their pulse.
"Count the guards. Count the steps. Count the breath between patrols."
His uncle's voice again.
When they were led up toward the work hall for the noon labor, Calder's eyes flicked upward—barred windows, too narrow to climb. The smell of rusted tools. The rhythm of guard boots moving along their usual route.
He charted it in his mind, a map drawn over grief: Two guards at the east entrance, one rotating between north and south halls every seven minutes, the dungeon overseer rarely moved from his table unless there was a fight, the keys—not on belts, but kept in a box on the west wall. Runes around it. Dangerous, but reachable if—
He paused. A breath hitched in his throat.
If he had powers.
The chains pulsed again at the thought, cold and mocking.
Adva leaned slightly closer as they were shoved into the work line. "You're thinking too loud," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Calder blinked at her. She wasn't warning him to stop; she was warning him to hide it. He swallowed hard. "I…" His voice cracked. "I can't do anything. Not with these." He lifted his bound wrists just enough for her to see the faint shimmer.
Adva's expression stayed neutral, practiced—but her eyes softened.
"No one escapes with their powers, Calder," she said quietly. "If anyone gets out…they do it the old way."
Calder stared at her, perplexed. "The old way…?" he asked, voice low.
"Yes." Her smile never reached her eyes, and seeing it there, thin and bitter on her dirt-smudged face, made something cold settle in his stomach. Adva didn't seem like someone who smiled without reason, certainly not like that.
"For now," she added, tilting her head as a guard walked past, "keep thinking."
Calder narrowed his eyes, studying her, then her wings.
He hadn't taken a real look at them before. In the dimness of the dungeon, colors blurred into silhouettes. But now, with torchlight catching feathers, he saw them properly: a deep seagreen, caught between ocean blue and forest green. Beautiful, even dulled by grime and neglect.
But beauty meant nothing here. Not when covered in dirt. Not when chained. Not when bent under the weight of survival.
He tore his gaze away. He didn't have the luxury to marvel at anything. Not now.
He swept his eyes across the work hall, committing everything to memory before the guards barked orders and stole the chance from him.
The key box hung against the west wall, carved out of stone and reinforced with metal bands. Runes pulsed along its surface, glowing, almost rhythmic. Definitely enchanted.
Two guards were stationed close to it. Neither looked the type to be bribed or distracted easily. Their eyes tracked every movement of the halfbreeds, hands near their weapons.
Calder grimaced. Definitely trouble. Not a chance, not with his chains humming like a curse around his wrists.
His gaze slid to the floor. The pattern of stones, the drains, the slope of the room. His mind clocked it in, trying to piece together something, anything that resembled an escape route.
Behind him, Adva shifted, stretching her wings subtly as though easing a cramp. But he felt her watching him.
"You're cataloging everything?" she asked softly.
"Obviously." His tone was tinged with sourness at the question.
She noticed his sudden mood; she didn't seem to care. "Good." Her voice remained low, careful. "You won't get another chance."
"Thank you for stating the obvious, Adva." They rotated them to stop escape attempts. It was deliberate. Calculated. "I need to learn everything now, while I still have time," he muttered.
The guard shouted for their muttering to stop, striking Calder on the back of his head as the other halfbreeds flinched out of the way.
Calder winced and obeyed—outwardly.
If there was a way out, old, dangerous, costly, he would learn it. He'd save his kind, his people. And if it meant carving that path with his own blood, then so be it.
He glanced once more at the glowing rune-etched box. Not today. Not like this. But soon.
Calder kept scanning the room, letting his eyes drift without lingering too long on any one point. The guards were quick to punish. They wanted halfbreeds obedient, not observant.
But from the corner of his vision, he caught Adva watching him again. It wasn't the watchful concern she'd shown earlier. Something else. Measured. Calculating.
The moment she realized he'd noticed, she dropped her gaze, a little too quickly.
Why hide that? Most prisoners clung to any spark of camaraderie they could find. Adva, though…she flickered between support and distance like someone trained to manage perceptions.
His uncle's voice whispered in the back of his mind. "Trust is a blade, boy. Hold it wrong, and it'll cut you first."
Calder tightened his jaw, but didn't let himself jump to conclusions. He didn't have the luxury to distrust the only person offering him information, not yet. Still, he tucked the moment away, marking it like another detail on his mental map.
Adva shifted again, her wings brushing the filthy floor. This time, he noticed something else: the slightest flinch when the guard cursed at the line behind them. Not fear.
No. Annoyance. A strange thing for a prisoner to feel. At least…a prisoner who felt powerless. He narrowed his eyes again.
Her reaction was brief, buried under the practiced blankness of someone who'd long ago learned to hide their emotions. He should know, his uncle taught him. Not to perfection, but enough to track things without raising too much suspicion. He spent long enough watching the Winged around him in town and in Asterhold to understand expression through their feathers, through the subtle movements of wings.
Hers seemed to be too controlled. Too aware. As though she wasn't afraid of the guards, only irritated by them.
But before he could dwell on it, she leaned slightly toward him, her voice barely a breath: "Don't glare like that. You'll draw attention."
Calder forced his expression to smooth out, though suspicion prickled the back of his neck.
"I'm thinking," he grumbled.
"I know." She paused, just long enough. Then, "but not everything you think needs to be worn on your face."
He stiffened. Was that advice or a warning, lady?
He couldn't tell. And he hated that he couldn't.
Still, she's right. He forced himself to look away, toward the glowing box again. Toward the guards. Toward anything but her.
But even as he continued mapping the hall, even as he committed the rhythms and routes and runes to memory, something about Adva lodged itself in his mind like a splinter…
The too-fast smile. The calculating stare. The annoyance at the guards, not fear. The subtle way she watched him watching them.
None of it was enough to call her untrustworthy. But none of it was nothing, either.
Calder swallowed hard.
He didn't know what the "old way" cost. He didn't know what Adva truly wanted. And he didn't know whether she was helping him…or positioning him.
But for now, she was the only one who seemed willing to speak to him; the other halfbreeds spoke, but not like Adva. He needed her.
And he hoped, quietly, desperately, on the Wind himself, that his instincts prickling under his skin were wrong because he didn't have room for another betrayal. Not after losing Citrine.
Calder got thrown into his cell after Adva. He hit the ground hard, the stone biting into his palms, and the guard slammed the bars shut with a clang that echoed through the corridor.
He rubbed his wrists where the chain had yanked tightly. "Assholes," he muttered under his breath. The word tasted bitter, useless. Insults meant nothing down here. Pain meant nothing. Everything was swallowed by stone.
He stayed where he was, lowering himself into a resting squat, elbows draped over his knees. The position grounded him. Balanced, alert, but deceptively relaxed. His uncle taught him that, too.
"Never look like prey," he used to say. "Not even when you're bleeding, alright, boy?"
Calder pressed his back to the wall, feeling the cold seep through his fur-lined tunic. The faint hum of the enchanted chains pulsed at his wrists, dulling his strength, casting a shadow where his power should've been.
His wings, all six of them, shifted restlessly behind him—like a cluster of massive, unsettled shadows. The narrow cell wasn't built for someone like him. Every small movement made feathers rasp against stone. One wingtip scraped the floor, another brushed the ceiling, and the cramped pressure made them puff out in agitation before he forced them tight again. Even folded, they felt like coiled metal beams strapped to his back.
Adva dusted off her palms, stepping further into the cramped space. Her wings were folded neatly, practiced. She studied Calder with an intensity that wasn't quite concerned and wasn't quite calculation, hovering in some sharp place in between.
"You're making noise," she said softly.
"I'm trying not to," Calder hissed through his teeth as another wing smacked the bars with a thud. Had he chosen to stand, his head would've smacked the ceiling of the cell; luckily, the halls weren't as short. Most likely made to fit the towering height of the royal bloodline. "This place is made for pigeons. Not—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching. He didn't want to give the guards the satisfaction of hearing him complain.
Adva's gaze dropped briefly to his wings, then to the chains at his wrists. "Six wings is…difficult here," she murmured, tone unreadable. "They don't make it easier for you."
"Not kidding."
She shifted closer, lowering her voice even more. "You should be careful. They like to watch those who can't hide their discomfort. Those are the ones they break first."
Calder lifted a brow. "Speaking from experience?"
Adva's expression flickered, something like a smile, but thin, strained, wrong around the edges. "I've been here longer than you."
He didn't like the way she said that. Or the way her eyes didn't match the smile. Something cold slithered beneath her tone, a note so faint he almost missed it. If he didn't have the mind to be watchful, to listen. "Listen to the things people try not to say."
Calder said nothing. He shifted again, trying to fold his wings flatter, but they bristled in irritation instead, feathers flaring out before settling in an uneven, unsettled sprawl. The stone walls pressed their shape into them, making his muscles ache.
Adva watched every movement. Finally, she spoke, voice barely above breath. "Get used to discomfort," she said. "It keeps you alert. And you'll need that."
Calder narrowed his eyes. "Why?" What aren't you saying?
Her gaze snapped away, wings tightening in a subtle defensive curl. "Just…keep thinking. Like I told you earlier." Her fingers tapped at her knee in an anxious rhythm that didn't match her calm face. "You'll need every idea you can get."
Calder's distrust pricked again. A whisper of something off. But he let it go. For now, Adva…for now. He pulled his wings in as best as he could, trying to make room for air.
"Fine," he muttered. "Guess I'll start with figuring out how not to knock the whole damned cell down when I breathe." Quieter, he added, "By Aelir's breath, I hate this place."
Adva didn't laugh. She only watched him, too quietly.
And Calder added that to the growing list of things he would not forget in a hurry. He shifted around until he found a position where the tips of his lower wings weren't digging into the floor. It wasn't comfortable—nothing in this pit ever was—but at least he wasn't scraping stone with every breath.
Adva glanced up at the sound of feathers rustling. "You move like someone fighting himself."
Calder snorted. "I'm fighting the décor."
"Mm. Yes. The stones are terrifying opponents." Her voice carried a dry amusement that could have been teasing…or mocking. It was impossible to tell.
Calder shot her a look. "You got a problem with me?"
"Only when you ask questions like that." She tilted her head, eyes flicking briefly to his wings again. "But you do make it entertaining."
One of Calder's middle wings twitched sharply—like it was annoyed for him. "Glad I can be your entertainment down here." His tone was sharp, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest curl. "Maybe next I'll juggle."
Adva leaned her head back against the wall, watching him with an expression he couldn't read. She had too many layers, like she wanted him to trust her, but also kept a blade behind her back just in case.
"You could," she said lightly. "But I think you'd drop something."
His brow lifted. "Is that a challenge?"
"Would you like it to be?" she countered immediately.
He couldn't help it; a laugh slipped out. "You're strange, Adva."
"Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you, Calder."
Their eyes met. Not soft. Not hostile. Something in between, suspended and volatile. Calder felt it in the way his wings tightened inward, an instinctual protective curl that came when he wasn't sure about something.
Adva noticed. Of course she did. Her gaze softened. Or sharpened. He genuinely couldn't tell.
"You don't trust me," she said bluntly.
Calder blinked. "I'm in a dungeon with enchanted chains on my wrists. I don't trust anyone."
"And yet," she murmured, leaning closer, "you don't look away from me."
He didn't. He should have. Something about her pulled him in, a calm voice in a storm, yet every calm came with a shadow.
"Maybe I'm keeping an eye on you," he said.
Her lips quirked. "Maybe I'm letting you."
Calder's wings flared in irritation, just a little, just enough for feathers to push against her arm before he snapped them back. "Sorry—there's not—there's no space in here—"
"It's fine," she cut off his fumble for words, though her voice was suddenly softer than before. "They're…warm."
"Warm," he echoed, unsure how that word could unsettle him more than any insult ever thrown at him.
"Mm." She pushed a stray feather off her shoulder. "You really don't know what to do with someone who isn't trying to attack you, do you?"
He huffed. "You sure about the 'isn't' part?"
Adva smiled, dangerous, or maybe fond. "Wouldn't you like to find out?"
Calder wasn't sure if she wanted to kiss him or kill him. Yet he hoped for the latter—the first would be awkward.
Adva raised an eyebrow as if she could hear the thought anyway. "You're making a face," she said.
"What face?"
"The one that says you'd rather be stabbed than flirted with."
He snorted. "You say that like it's strange."
"It is," she countered, shrugging lightly. "Most men enjoy attention."
"Not from you," he muttered.
Her grin was quick, sharp. "Oh, don't lie. You enjoy something."
One of his wings twitched violently in irritation, feathers rustling against the stone. "You're insufferable."
"And you," she said, tapping her chained wrist against the wall with a soft clink, "are terrible at pretending you dislike me."
Calder looked at her and felt that familiar discomfort sweep through him. Not romantic, not even close…just proximity. Intensity. A person who pushed and pushed until she didn't know what version of him she'd meet next.
His wings folded tighter around him, a shield, a blanket. "I don't dislike you," he admitted. "I just don't understand you."
Adva's smile softened, or darkened—again, he couldn't tell. "Good," she murmured. "Understanding makes things boring."
Their gazes held for a beat too long, tension taut enough to snap—not tender, but something sharp-edged and uncertain.
Finally, Calder looked away. "I should sleep."
"You won't," she said.
He didn't answer.
Adva settled back, wings rustling faintly. "It's fine," she added.
Calder's jaw tightened. What's fine? He didn't know if that promise comforted him…or made him a fool for trusting it.