Despite her situation, she felt a lurch of sadness at his question. His empathy was a bottomless well. As miserable as she felt, she knew he felt it in equal proportion at his inability to help her. He’d go to the ends of the earth to save the ones he loved, yet he was rendered powerless while he watched her, bound and gagged behind iron, separated from them. This seemed a somewhat more tragic fate. She carried the powerlessness of her own scenario, while he shouldered the burden of everyone’s destitution.

Amaris nodded, though she had no idea if it was true. Was she all right? She was bound, gagged, and in what was most definitely a prison separated from her brothers.

She channeled her senses, focusing on what she had to do to get out. For now, she’d ignore Malik and pour her attention into her bindings.

Amaris pressed her face into the cold iron bar, searching for something jagged or rough to rub on her gag. She ran her cheek along the bar, but there was nothing. Though it chafed her skin, the cloth of her gag stayed securely in her mouth, choking her lips in an open position as it remained tied tightly at the back of her head. While she searched for something—anything—to snag against the fabric, she saw Malik gently kicking Ash to a waking state. It took the groggy faeling a few moments to take in his surroundings, but he rolled to his side in a fashion similar to Amaris and was able to get on his feet.

“What happened?” Malik asked, knowing Amaris could not answer.

Drool was the only answer she could offer beyond her grunts. She waited as they tried to untie one another but realized that, though rope bit into her wrists, her companions had the irons of chains around theirs. Their bindings were different, and she didn’t know why. At least the men had been spared the cruelty of gags.

They left her to her fruitless wriggles as they worked their way through their own bindings.

Malik lowered himself to the ground, rolling into a sitting position as he squirmed his bound hands over his backside, down the length of his legs, and managed to maneuver the shackles to his front. He helped Ash do the same until their still-shackled hands were in front of them.

Ash gripped the bar, staring helplessly at her.

She could feel the grime smudged across her face and knew she looked exceptionally pathetic. Not only was she filthy, but she still wore flat shoes, black tights, and the puffy, silver-sleeved jacket of the court juggler. If she hadn’t felt humiliated before, the furious burn in Ash’s eyes told her everything she needed to know.