I am thankful my hands are now free and able to balance me as I stumble back, or I most likely would have fallen into the side of the tent. "Suppress? You mean to remove my flame?"

Tendrils of fire snake their way up through my ribcage, reaching for my throat, seeking to snatch the notion away. My heart thrashes uselessly against them. Black flickers are curling around the base of my fingers. I pray the lantern doesn't reveal them to Finlay, but I can't force them down. My hands are shaking.

"Hey, no!" Finlay's whisper merges into a soft hiss, accented with panic. My voice must have been louder than he wished, or perhaps my pulse for the way it thunders. "Not remove. Just... control."

"Control," I echo, focusing hard on the emerging flame, the shove of pressing it down. It's like peeling back a heavy sheet, but once it is gone, the rest of my thoughts can finally breathe.

They recoil instantly at the realisation of my initial reaction. What must Finlay think of me? The loss of my cursed flame, capable of claiming lives with ease, shouldn't be something to dread. It should be positive. Instead, my skin grows cold with fear woven into the idea.

I swallow back the foul taste that tips my tongue, trying to calm the race of my heart. If there's anything I do desperately need, it is control.

I want it, too, don't I? True control would mean I could touch people without causing harm. I wouldn't need this distance, this constant churning terror lapping at the edges of every interaction I share with another. I might not be quite such a curse anymore. Is that what Finlay hints at? Is such a thing really possible?

Yet before I can voice the rising questions, Finlay's head jerks sideways. His entire body stiffens. His eyes dart around the tent before settling on the flap, watching as the wind tugs at it weakly.

"We have to go," he murmurs, deliberate and commanding. "Now."

There is no need to ask why. Although I can detect nothing more than the rustle of the trees, he must have heard movement. He seems possessed by some nervous prey animal in the way he backs up to the far tent side, his steps light, his ears almost pricked with the intensity of his focus.

It is now or never. I can feel his gaze flitting to me, sharp, waiting with little patience for me to follow. He promises control. He has what I need.

My feet make the decision for me. My hands fall to my sides as I travel the few paces over to him. It is more than control he offers -- it is freedom, however uncertain, and that above all is what I need. Each of these cells I find myself in is solely a trap for my power. Without its danger, I can be free.

Finlay nods, flashing a smile, before taking a step towards the entrance. Metal clangs, quiet but sharp. The handcuffs. He mouths something unreadable to empty air, then bends, carefully setting them down on the grass. I can't help but wince with him at its noise as it settles. Everything feels so heightened now I'm so aware of the secrecy of our actions.

The sight, however, does bring back a sudden memory. I dash back to my previous corner, scooping up an item left in the dirt. Camdyn's dagger, catching a slice of lantern light. Finlay meets my eyes and I give him a nod, sliding the weapon into the right side of my belt, just behind the feather. Finlay's feather. Now probably isn't the time to return it to him. It brushes the side of my finger, gentle reassurance that I am making the right choice.

He leads me to the flap, holding its edge delicately as he prises it open and dances to the side to let me through. His eyes are never still. They roam the camp with fevered awareness, passing every tent in the space of a moment.

Nothing moves outside but the shadows and the trees. At his gesture, I hurry through, barely dodging the flap as he releases it.

We pause as he surveys the area again, thoughts whirring behind his darkened gaze. I take the opportunity to take my own picture of the area. Much of the camp is too shrouded in the fabric of night to make out, but I can more closely examine the pool the lantern creates, and it is there I find the bodies.

My heart stutters at the sight of them, and instantly I don't care about staying silent. I crouch beside the man. It is Leofric, his swords trapped in their places at his hips, blades slivers of dulled moonlight. Unused. He went without a fight.

"They're fine," Finlay snaps in his hissing whisper. I look up to search for the truth in his eyes, but he doesn't spare me a glance.

Listening closely, I search for it myself. In the quiet beneath the thin breeze, there is breath, shallow but steady. Life still holds strength. I turn to check the other, an unfamiliar armoured shape, and the sound is mirrored.

Relief stretches through me like the soar of a bird. This has to be more proof Finlay can be trusted. He doesn't hurt them like Harlow did back in my cell.

I look at them again, the unmoving forms. They could easily be curled up in sleep. There is no sign of struggle.

"What did you do to them?" I ask, my voice barely leaving my lips. Finlay's lack of response I first attribute to that quiet, and think of asking again, before I notice the twitch of his hand as he waves the question away.

His quick glance contains one word. Later.

Right, first we must escape. I straighten just in time to follow him as he darts sideways. This time, even I can't fail to miss the patter of footsteps, reverberating from between the two tents furthest from the river, the opposite direction to the one we run in. He swings himself around where a cluster of trees gather and crouches, obscured by the lower branches, shaking the lantern with frantic vigour.

Glancing back to the tents, I see the growing flood of light advancing from behind them and throw myself in beside Finlay just as he extinguishes his own flame. In the resulting shadow, we wait.

I'm too close to him. That I am aware of nearly as much as the sound of my own breathing, heaving pants that seem to rasp with the air, but I cannot change either. The tree's bony tangle pushes into my knees. If I even lean the slightest amount to the left, I will enter the path of the approaching lantern, but Finlay's splayed cloak bunches against my other side, his skin only a twig's length beneath. I'm trapped.

Pale light touches the grass ahead, the faintest imprint of gold diminished by moonlight. Then the figure emerges.

Even from this distance, I recognise him as Harlow. The broad way he carries himself, the stillness of the lantern in his grip, his piercing eyes as he scans the camp with frightening intensity. He knows something is amiss. He is searching for us.

A gnarled branch digs into my chest. Beneath it, my skin burns. I thank whatever cursed deity resides above the sky that my fire holds no light of its own.

A frozen beat, and then a second figure dashes out to join Harlow, head twitching to and fro as she shakes off her hood. General Velez. She skips a few paces past Harlow, close enough that the firelight picks out the twisted smile weaved into her expression.

Finlay's cloak shifts. I flinch around to face him, pressing harder into the tree. His eyes are hard, deepened with shade, as he rocks back silently on his heels. For the first time, I notice the heap rounding his back, a crumpled shape that must be a bag.

He catches my gaze. Slowly, he jabs a finger behind us, towards the darkened rush of the river. Following it as precisely as I can, I see the dip and rise of something solid pinned at the edge of the moonlit waters, a broad crescent of wood. A boat? Does he plan to take me to Neyaibet himself, in something so small?

"Go," Finlay says. The word barely reaches my ear, formed of the barest breeze. "Wait on the other side."

He pulls away before I can meet his eyes. I cast one final glance at Harlow and the general just in time to catch her draw her sword, the soft hiss squirming in my stomach, and obey.

Every step is too loud. The buckles of my boots glint, daring me to move just a touch faster and let them clink together. The river feels miles away. I notice a blade of grass twitch, dropping downwards, and hurriedly wrench my flame up to dance at my palms. Better I hide them there than let them stream out below me and leave my tracks burned in death at my feet.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Everything in me tenses at the echo of the general's voice. That bubbling tone, the scrape of rocks hidden below. I can't help but turn, just enough to make out the camp.

She paces by the tent I exited a few minutes ago, achingly close to where Finlay still crouches. Silver light twines around her blade as she twirls it past the trees. One hand to the other. The same motions she performed inside the castle, but now they are sharpened with intent, and the glitter of her eyes is deadly.

It takes every scrap of energy I have to tear myself away and dash the final few paces, no longer able to move slowly. My hand grabs for the boat, gripping it tighter as it rocks on the water, and then I'm swinging a leg over the side. I don't have time to hesitate, despite the race of my heart at how unsteady this feels. This is ten times worse than a ladder. Even after building the courage to leap a second foot into the boat, staggering into its centre in desperation to keep my balance, it doesn't stop moving.

"Come out, Anathe," General Velez adds, a quieter hiss that still reaches me with ease. I push at the boat's side, then mentally kick myself as it sways more violently. Boats don't move by themselves.

There is a broad stick resting at my feet. I pick it up and jab it into the bank of the river, feet slipping from under me as the boat lurches without moving away. It's straining against something. A rope, tied to a tree. I drop the stick and grab for the hook I spot at the end of the boat nearest the bank, fumbling for the knot that bulges there.

"Nathaniel, don't make this choice."

The rope scratches my palms as I flinch. That name suits Harlow's voice too well, and his tone slides through it like the steady flow of water beneath me, more than enough to make me stumble.

I shouldn't, but I look up, past the tree and back to the camp. He is only a few steps from the place I ran from. His sword is slack in his grip, its sheath absent. Moonbeams fail to grasp at the dark material of his tunic. Without his armour, he appears almost lost, the darkness weighing heavy on his shoulders. He stands firm, but there is a sadness about his features that dulls the green of his eyes and angles his gaze downwards. Disappointment, perhaps. Or simply hurt.

He made me an offer, favoured my life when others were glad to take it away. This is no way to repay that.

My fingers curl into the grooves of the knot. It's loosening, but I've lost the strength to pull it apart. Harlow's foot crunches on fallen leaves, edging him under the blurred shadow of twisting tree branches. "Don't be foolish," he adds, tone measured.

Movement catches my eye. Finlay, hand drawing from his side, a weapon too dark to see residing there. Pausing, he glances back, eyes widening when he sees me and hand flicking in a rushed gesture. Go.

I give the knot a harsh tug, and it comes apart, slipping from my hands and landing with a splash below. The sound floods like liquid ice through my veins.

The general freezes, head perking up. Harlow lifts his blade.

Without another thought, I snatch up the stick and plunge it into the water. As if buffeted by some unseen gust, the boat shudders forwards, barely giving me time to wrench the stick back before it is racing away from the bank. Its pointed end cuts cleanly through the water. My heart hammers as it continues to move, strong and fast, water beating without effect at its sides. It is moving by itself after all. I don't know whether to be thrilled or alarmed.

A shout slices the air. The general's voice? I don't care enough to check. Its precise nature is enough to force me down, ducking below the boat's sides. There, I curl up as tightly as possible, knees and shoulders pressed up against hardened wood. I need the feel of something solid.

My eyes squeeze shut. Nothing else is audible above the rush of the river, heaving and sinking as if it is alive and drawing in desperate breaths. The stick must be close to snapping for the way I clutch it to my chest, but I can't seem to let go of it. The same way I cannot stop the flames tearing out and cowering into the fabric of my tunic.

All I can do is pray. Pray that the boat will slow instead of speeding up and smashing into the opposite bank, that Finlay is able to escape without getting hurt, that I am making the right choice.

"Don't be foolish."

A tight smile pulls unsuccessfully at my lips. It is unfortunate Harlow doesn't know how much of a fool I am already, or he might have picked a different word. Acting foolishly seems most fitting for a boy who used to talk to a false snake in a shadowed cell, who thought that three strangers were leading him to safety rather than to a place of death.

The stick splinters. This isn't foolish. Finlay is right -- they will make a weapon out of me, and I would be a fool to let them. I would be no better than the sword in Harlow's hand, still burned into my mind along with the image of him searching, silhouetted in all but his eyes.

When he fights, it is his blade that carries the burden of the blood he sheds. His hands remain clean. The hilt allows him to control it, to point it at those he calls enemies, to withdraw only at his will. Isn't the sheath merely a cage to place the sword in when it isn't needed? And what happens when the wars are over, when weapons have done their damage and are discarded, left to rust and be forgotten?

The flames burn higher, air twisting with clammy warmth. I don't even try to pull them back, but their presence prickles over my skin, echoing with Finlay's promise. Control.

Better to blunt the blade, to leave it useless to Harlow, than place its sharp edge under his command.

Beneath me, the boat sways under the tug of the current, and I realise with a jolt that it is slowing. Water laps more gently at the side. Cautiously, I prise open my eyes, greeted first with only flickers of darkness and then the pale shapes of my hands still curled around the stick. They are almost entirely obscured by black flame.

With a constrained sigh, I release the stick and place my hands either side of me to haul myself into a sitting position just as the boat lurches to a stop. Stones grate against the wood. I give my hands a futile shake, the action doing nothing to dispel any fire.

Gritting my teeth, I stagger to my feet, gripping for the boat's side as it rocks again. Another sign I shouldn't be aiding Neyaibet. Water is clearly not my domain.

After a few moments of waiting for my head to stop spinning, I turn to the front of the boat, only to meet a startlingly bright gaze.

Finlay's hand clasps around the circular tip, identical to the hook at the other side, and yanks towards his chest. The boat scrapes roughly as it skids into the bank. He pauses, checking the boat is stable, and then releases, flashing me a crooked smile. "Nice trip?"

"Awful," I say, gratefully exiting onto dry land. I didn't think the press of earth under my boots would ever feel so welcome.

He chuckles. The wind yanks at his cloak, billowing it out around his legs while its upper section remains pinned under the straps of his bag. Beneath, the dark edges of his jacket can just be picked out. "Sorry," he says, batting half-heartedly at the cloak as it flaps again. "It's the only way I had to get you out of there fast."

I make to reply that I don't mind, to thank him for helping me escape, but the words fall away with a sudden realisation. "Then how did you get here so quickly?"

His eyes glitter with blue-tinged moonlight as he waves his hands vaguely, fingers splayed out. "Magic."

My only response is a doubtful frown.

Stepping back from the bank, he beckons. "Or I had another boat further downstream and only just got here. Now come on, we better go before they catch up."

Nodding absently, I cast a long glance along the river. It winds on to the horizon and beyond, a widening ribbon, glistening with indigo shadows. Trees shroud its edges, their roots clinging to the banks like clawed hands. Another boat could easily be hidden in the dark, but something doesn't quite slot together in my mind. I watch the only boat I can see rock gently, drifting out into the water. It seems we won't be tying it up this time.

"Come on," Finlay repeats, knocking against my side. I jolt away from him, heart skipping several beats, only to relax when I realise nothing but his bag made contact with my arm. The edge of his cloak drifts out to follow it. Dodging sideways as he sets off, I wait a moment, then drag nervously behind him.

"You should be more careful," I say, keeping my attention fixed on his shadowed form. His attire matches the deep bluish shade of the river quite well in the lacking light.

"What?" He tosses a quick glance over his shoulder, lengthening it when he catches my eye. "I pride myself on my care."

"I mean... around me." My hand finds the base of my neck.

"Oh. I see." He fiddles with the strap of his bag, thumb sliding under it, and his gaze follows the motion rather than training on me. "Do you want people to fear you?"

"No!" A flinch shudders through me, briefly halting my step. "Of course not."

"Then let them trust you." He releases the strap and looks back up. "You trust I won't come too close, and I'll trust you won't, you know, incinerate my soul or whatever."

A smile tugs at my lips, but I refuse to let it emerge. As much as I like the easy way he states it, the possibility of such an agreement, it can never be so simple. "I do trust you, Finlay." My eyes flick downwards, resting on the tendrils of flame slipping through the weave of my tunic. They are well camouflaged amongst the dark material, enough that he probably hasn't noticed them, but he will now. They had even managed to escape my awareness. Another sign I need control.

With a sigh, I pass my palm over the fire, sensing no warmth. "I'd just prefer us to keep a reasonable distance."

"Alright."

I look back up to find his eyes boring into me. Even in the dark, their intensity is harsh and bright, and his narrow frown only focuses that glow. Something sharp has taken root behind his gaze, as if he examines me the way one might analyse a detailed piece of artwork. Or perhaps something more than that, with more depth, more importance. Flames weave towards my arm, cold and piercing.

He blinks, and the expression vanishes, replaced by a far softer smile. "I get it. I'll try my best. Is this okay?"

His gesture is to the space between us, but it takes me a few moments to register it, still caught in whatever I saw the second before. I shake the unease away, pushing it into a spear of fire just beneath my sleeve. Finlay was simply lost in thought. I most likely wore a similar look when considering whether or not to follow him.

"It's fine," I reply, although I shift a little further to the left, enough that the gleam of his eyes dims slightly with distance. Still, he is closer than most would dare come. Unless they carry a sword.

I have no reason to doubt Finlay. He is here to help, and to scrutinise his intentions based on one look would truly be foolish.

"Great." He glances down, lips moving soundlessly as he traces the hem of his cloak, before he returns his gaze to me. "I trust you too, Nathan."

My breath catches. I fight to keep the responding emotion from showing on my face, channeling it instead into fire, while my tongue runs a different path. "Nathan? I thought you said it was Nathaniel."

He shrugs. "It's shortened, isn't it? A nickname. Like, you can call me Fin, if you want."

"Why not just use the full name?" Nathaniel is a false name already, as the shapeless whisper at the back of my mind continues to remind me.

His eyes gleam. "Only people who know each other use nicknames. It's a good way to show trust."

I swallow hard, straining my smile. "Okay. I like that."

The moon slips behind a cloud, leaving the stars to illuminate Finlay's grin. "Come on then, Nathan. We better pick up the pace. I want to reach the mountains by sunrise."

"Mountains?" I look over towards the horizon, and a short laugh escapes me. Dark shapes jut high enough to poke at the gathering slats of cloud, sides jagged like the torn edge of a scroll, the faintest silvery glow picking them out as more than flat shapes painted onto the velvet sky. "Ah. Those mountains."

Finlay joins with a light chuckle of his own. "Yes. The Aspid range. They feature in that pleasant story I told you." His lips quirk. "You might be going home."

He doesn't really mean it, yet I can't help but duck under the weight of that thought. The Aspid Mountains, the place of the Anathe. I recall the way that name sliced off Edita's tongue, the contempt and poison with which she spoke it, and shudder. If I find familiarity here, I might truly be the cowardly monster she saw me as.

"Hey, I'm joking," he says with another laugh. When I turn to him, his gaze is gentle, his smile sincere. "I trust you, remember?"

I shoot him a grateful glance, then focus my gaze ahead, although his image lingers in my mind. Fire coils around my wrist, flickering too close to my cuff. I wrench it back, keeping it hidden but burning strong. My skin scrapes with frost the moment it leaves my wrist. It is the same sensation I felt in the carriage in response to Finlay's smooth words, and it grows stronger with every mention of trust.

There was nothing in his tone to doubt, nothing in his eyes that betrayed anything. But as surely as the flare of my flame, as the cold of night, I feel the lie hanging between us.

───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Fun Fact: Finlay is actually the reason this book exists. When it was just my boy, I was content to leave it at a couple of oneshot scenes, but it was when I came up with Finlay's character that this world and plot really started to grow. He is best boy. Thank you, dear Fin, for dumping me into an inescapable obsession.

Speaking of, thoughts on him so far? Nathan be having a real dilemma over his trustworthiness. He seems cool though, right? We like people who help out our boy. There aren't many :/

I'm certainly looking forward to spending a little time playing about with him. Tune in next chapter for more squinting at Finlay, some actual answers, and, most shockingly, a little fluff--

- Pup