Chapter Text
A Flower in Darkness is still a Flower.
“We’ve heard you have a mage.”
Jaime flinched at the sound of the rough, deep voice and several heavy boots entering Ronda’s tent. It was a spacious tent, made from thickly woven linen. The scent of freshly grounded lavender and antiseptic potions lingered in the warm air. Draped fabrics sectioned off the back area for treatment and preparations and hid Jaime from the view of Ronda’s new customers. The outside summer sun cast soft shadows across a cot and a low table in front of him.
There was no reason for goosebumps to litter his skin, hair standing on end as cold shivers ran down his spine. Nobody was watching him. No reason for his discomfort but the clear undercurrent of hostility in the speaker’s voice.
“I might,” Ronda’s rusty voice answered from the other side of the curtain. She was clearly sceptical. “Are you able to pay?
They must have shown her some form of payment, as she hummed shortly after in approval. “Very well, that can get you a quick healing, though I don’t see any wounded with you?” She made it sound like a question.
“We don’t need healing.”
Jaime was staring down at his own hands. They were shaking. The pestle was clinking against the mortar.
The lavender had given easily under the pestle, leaving tiny specks of purple dust on his fingers. The color reminded him of cornflowers. Sure, they were softer, smaller, had that almost stubborn shade of blue—something useless and beautiful that grew even where it shouldn’t.
He didn’t want to hear what they wanted.
It didn’t matter. Wanting was for free people.
He quickly put mortar and pestle down before the clinking gave him away.
“Well, what do you need?” Ronda was getting annoyed. Her voice was still pleasant, but to Jaime the slight strain was audible, the way she exhaled harder on every word with her rising displeasure.
Ronda always kept her tent pristine, and herself even more so: Tidy braids, sleeves rolled just so, apron clean enough to signal control, but stained enough to suggest use. She smiled with the kind of confidence that came from knowing that everyone who came to her would soon owe her something.
Jaime had once seen her reset a dislocated shoulder while flirting with a merchant.
He just wished those strangers would try to be better customers. Not that it mattered how rude they were. Ronda loved her coin too much to risk a sale. She’d just take it out of Jaime’s hide later.
“A reversal of a spell. Can the mage here do that?”
“Let’s ask him ourselves, shall we?”
Her tone shifted. Sweet as syrup now.
“Petal,” Ronda called, all sugar and shine. “Come be useful for our guests.”
Jaime knew better than to hesitate. He fussed with the collar of his shirt, pulling it up high. His gaze fixed to the floor. His bare feet treaded over the worn carpet that filled the tent.
This was better, he tried to remind himself. Better than what he had to do three weeks ago by far. Healing people, doing other small magics—that was paradise compared to what the hunters used him for.
The moment Jaime stepped out of the shadow of the curtain, the air shifted.
The hair on his neck and arms rose in alarm. A low growl cut through the air. Jaime’s gaze trailed up.
Five people stood in front of Ronda, cloaked in rough furs and worn leathers. The growl came from the man closest to her. Tall and lean, frame packed with muscles. Both strong and fast. That was bad.
Light brown skin with a few scars visible. Strong fingers curled around the hilt of a shortsword in a tight grip. Shaggy brown hair and—
Eyes like amber-gold, burning with fury.
Wolves’ eyes.
And Jaime’s mind was immediately hauled back to that one night. Three weeks ago. Back with the hunters.
He’d been startled awake by the sounds of shouting, the sounds of fighting just outside. Jaime scrambled from his threatbare cot on the ground, heart hammering.
There they were, he’d thought with vicious satisfaction. He’d been picking at his own wards for weeks, weakening them enough for the wolf pack in the area to finally catch their scent —to find them. To rescue their packmates.
A quick glance revealed that Eskender was not in his tent. Neither were any other hunters. They must have all been fighting. Jaime quickly put on his sorry excuse of some clothes.
This was it. His chance to escape.
His trembling fingers traced the black leather around his neck, raw against his skin. He had no way to get rid of it, and his magic would remain bound, but anything was better than staying.
Jaime had almost reached the tent flap, when a body rushed inside. Jaime stumbled back on instinct, even before he recognised Eskender’s looming figure. His master was only half way dressed in his armour. The right sleeve of his shirt was shredded, dropping red with blood. So much blood. Jaime first didn’t comprehend what he was seeing. The limb didn’t have the shape of a hand anymore. The flesh was torn open, layers on the outside that should be on the inside, a piece of bone sticking out.
Jaime couldn’t turn his eyes away.
His own right arm throbbed in response, and he cradled it close to his chest. Sympathy. Empathy. A curse, as always.
“Mage!” Eskender barked, and Jaime’s gaze jerked to his face. Twisted in pain. Drenched in fury. He looked ready to kill.
He knows. He knows what I did!
Jaime stumbled back, before he caught himself. Trying to run only makes it worse. He stilled, tears burning in his eyes, and he blinked, trying to will them away.
“HIDE—”
Eskender never finished the command. A brown wolf lunged through the flap, slamming him to the ground. A part of the tent’s fabric got ripped from the impact, Jaime noticed absently, his gaze caught—oddly—on the frayed edge of fabric curling in the air.
Somewhere below it, Eskender's screams turned wet, then gurgled.
Jaime didn’t move. Couldn’t.
His feet were rooted. His eyes unseeing.
This wasn’t real.
It couldn’t be. This was just a nightmare his mind conjured, feeling guilt for trying to betray the hunters.
He tasted bile on his tongue. His fingertips were tingling, as his body was shutting down.
No… this was not what shutting down felt like. That was a tiny thread of his magic. Eskender’s command had probably been meant to be “hide us” or maybe just “hide me.” Unfinished as it was, it still allowed Jaime a limited access to his core.
Hide.
The wolf lifted his bloodied muzzle. Their eyes met.
Hide!
Jaime’s shook deep in his bones from the low growl the wolf made. The wolf’s muscles flexed, readying themselves for the pounce.
HIDE!
And Jaime drew on his magic, weaved it around himself. It vanished him from sight, from smell, from hearing. Same as the wards around camp used to do.
The wolf’s eyes burned with anger, with insatiable hatred, not leaving Jaime’s, even as he was vanishing.
The same amber-golden eyes.
Wolves’ eyes.
Still staring at him now.
Jaime took a small step back, swallowing a whimper before it escaped. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking, fingers tingling with numbness. At the edge of his vision, a strip of sunlight pierced the tent from the flap, mockingly warm.
He could—
There were five of them. Six, counting Ronda. Probably all wolf shifters. He’d never make it to that sunlight.
A sword had been drawn. Jaime hadn’t seen when. It was pointed straight at him.
One of the wolves had a hand on the swordman’s shoulder, gently holding him back, though she looking just as ready to act.
“What’s it, Dimitri?” she asked, voice leveled.
“It’s him,” Dimitri growled, as if that explained anything.
It did, to Jaime, told him he’d been recognized as well.
Didn’t mean anything to the wolf next to Dimitri though. She frowned. And she was a wolf, same amber eyes as Dimitri, just a few shades darker. Her blond hair was pulled up into a lose bun that would have made her look soft if not for the armour and the grim line of her mouth.
Jaime’s skin crawled under their stares. His heart beat like a drum in his chest, pulse roaring in his ears. The urge to flee throbbed through him, primal and useless.
Bare feet, rooted to worn rugs.
No way to outrun them. Nowhere to run towards.
How wonderful, he thought, to have a name for his executioner. Dimitri. The hysterical laugh that rose in his throat tasted like bile. Oh, the foolishness of the magically inept. Death did not break a spell. Eskender’s death hadn’t broken the spell on Jaime’s collar. Killing Jaime wouldn’t help the shifters still trapped in their wolf forms either.
Jaime couldn’t wrench his eyes away, couldn’t stop tracking Dimitri’s movement. Every flare of breath. The slight shaking of his hand, the barely restrained aggression.
“Killing me won’t break the spell,” Jaime said, surprised to hear his own voice. Thin. Brittle. Cracking at the edge.
He flinched before Dimitri even moved.
The howl that tore from the man’s throat was inhuman. He lunged—but was stopped mid surge by three of his companions, reacting just as quick and grappling him back before he could reach Jaime. He was twisting in their grip, close to fighting them.
And oh, Jaime could see it now, the resemblance to the last wolf Eskender had caught. She had fought like this, just… more desperate, more violent, but with the same righteous fury in her eyes. Shifting between forms, all claws and teeth. Grasping for any advantage she could get. It hadn’t been enough. A broken leg hindering her fight, and eventually Jaime had bound her in wolfskin for good.
Eskender had laughed, breathless, gleeful. “Looks like we got ourselves an alpha bitch!”
Family.
That’s what they were. Her and the furious man in front of Jaime.
“Now, now,” Ronda’s voice cut in, stepping halfway between them. Her voice was clipped and irritatated. “If you can’t be civil, you’d better leave.”
Dimitri stilled. His companions loosened their grip but didn’t fully relax. Jaime didn’t miss the way they eyed him now, wary. Him, and Ronda both.
“You’d better step away from him,” Dimitri said. His voice was low, tightly controlled, but his eyes were still wild. “He’s dangerous.”
Ronda snorted. “He is perfectly under control.”
“How?” It was more of a threat than a question.
She tilted her head. Jaime couldn’t see her face but he could easily imagine the amused twitch of her lips, as she considered them. Then she seemed to make up her mind. Without looking at Jaime, she crooked a finger in his direction.
“Come here.”
Jaime’s stomach clenched. Stepping toward her meant stepping closer to five angry wolves.
He stayed where he was.
“Don’t be a fool now, petal,” she cooed, voice sweet as syrup, slick with sugar, but the iron was there too. Jaime heard it in the hard edge beneath the soft syllables, in the practiced cadence of control. “Come here.”
His mouth was dry, tongue thick as sand. He swallowed, tried again.
Spine straight. Shoulders back. Chin up.
Don’t show you’re scared. Don’t look like prey.
It wouldn’t help.
It didn’t matter how straight his spine was. Ronda didn’t realize it yet, but he wasn’t hers anymore. Wouldn’t be hers by the end of this conversation. Even if she told him to attack the wolves, he didn’t know if he could. Not again. He’d hurt so many wolves in his live already. It had to end somewhere.
He moved. One step after the other. Bare feet silent on the rug. The wolves watched his every move, their stares a pressure on his skin, like heat from too close a fire.
When he stopped in front of Ronda, she tugged the collar of his shirt aside, revealing the thick leather band at his throat. Jaime tried not to flinch as her fingers brushed his skin, cool and deliberate.
Dimitri’s face twisted in confusion.
“Why are you showing me his choker?” he said. “I’ve already seen that ugly thing at the hunters’ camp.”
His choker.
As if he’d chosen it. As if it belonged to him.
Jaime felt a scream bubbling in his chest, raw and sharp and awful, but all that came out was a shallow breath. He didn’t even know anymore if he wanted to cry or laugh or tear the tent down around them.
Ronda gave a low, rough laugh. “That’s a mage collar, young wolf. Makes him do whatever I tell him to.” She turned to Jaime, patted his cheek with mock affection. “Doesn’t it, my sweet boy?”
Her hand was warm. Her touch light.
It made his skin crawl.
Jaime held himself very still.
There had been another shift in the air again, pressing down on him. Suffocating.
Dimitri leaned forward, gaze boring into him. Jaime could feel the storm settling behind the man’s eyes, slow and building, anger darker than before. His skin prickled in response. Ronda, of course, didn’t noticed any of it.
But Jaime knew anger like that. He knew the silence before the hit. The way it gathered weight.
He dropped his gaze. Braced. No need to watch it coming.
I’m sorry wasn’t enough.
I didn’t mean to would warm nobody’s heart.
Please. Forgive me. I should’ve fought harder. I wanted to.
A tear slid down his cheek, pooling at his chin before it dripped. His vision swam.
Dimitri stepped back. “How much?”
Ronda clapped her hands, too loud. Jaime flinched. Stupid. His shoulders curled forward, instinctive, trying to disappear. If only magic would vanish him now.
“If it’s cursebreaking you’re after,” she said briskly, “the price depends on the complexity. Far more risk than a simple healing. Those few coins—”
“I’m not asking for a spell.” Dimitri’s voice was flat. “How much for the mage?”
And there it was.
Jaime curled tighter. He was breathing too fast. He knew he was breathing too fast.
Ronda choked. Then snapped, loud and indignant, “Excuse you! Why would I ever part with him? He’s not for sale!”
Jaime risked a glance.
Dimitri looked utterly unmoved. His fury had shifted, grown colder. Sharper.
The others still didn’t seem to understand what was happening.
The woman to his right finally spoke again, uncertain. “Dimitri, what is this? We don’t need a mage. Hells, I don’t want a mage in our home.”
“He was with the hunters that caught Lada,” he said. Calm. Factual. But Jaime saw the flicker behind his amber eyes, the pain he tried to hide beneath the words.
That pain would make the rage worse.
Jaime’s gaze drifted to the sunlight again. A slim golden line.
Maybe he should try and make a run after all. Maybe… if he finally slowed his breathing, got enough air into his lungs.
The thought felt almost distant. Detached. He was swaying.
“He’s the one who spelled her.” The woman sounded faint now.
“Yes,” Dimitri said. “He’s the one who bound my sister.”
His voice had changed again. Quieter. Deadlier. And Jaime didn‘t even twitch.
“I’m not leaving him here.”
That was good. Wasn’t it? That he didn’t twitch at the words. That he stayed still.
Don‘t show any fear. That was important. He didn’t really remember why…. It… something… it was important. Flinching always made it worse.
“I said, he’s not for sale!”
A growl rose. Low. Deep.
Not human. Not at all.
There should be fear, Jaime thought vaguely. Somewhere inside him.
He couldn’t find it.
“He is now. How much?”
The growl shook through the ground, like thunder deep below. Jaime latched onto the sound more than the words. The words didn’t matter.
“Why do you ask, if you’re gonna take him anyway?” Ronda barked. “Bloody thieves—”
The words kept flowing. Flowing flowing flowing, like a river. Slipping past him. He couldn’t follow them anymore. Couldn’t grasp them as they drifted by.
It didn’t matter what they said. He couldn’t change it either way. His thoughts were slowing.
He swayed again.
It was out of his hands.
He really wanted to sit down. But a part of him still knew: no big or sudden movements.
The rug on the floor looked soft. Dirty, but soft. Two weeks of sleeping on a rug, and he’d already gotten used to the scratch of rough fabric beneath his cheek.
Then… a new sensation. A light pressure, a hand on his left upper arm.
“Mage, can you hear me?”
Jaime blinked. Yes, he could hear the voice.
There was a sigh.
That was a bad sign. Wasn’t it?
But the touch on his arm didn’t turn painful, only strengthened a bit and began leading him… somewhere.
The light got brighter and his skin warmed. That was nice.
“Mage?” The voice again, he felt like he should know it. “Petal?”
That name—that he knew.
It hit something low in his gut. His body jolted, startled, and the world rushed back all at once. Light. Heat. Movement.
He was outside. They were outside. The wolves were standing in a lose circle around him—well, one true wolf and four that wore human skin.
Dimitri held his left arm in a firm but painless grip. A grip that could become bone-breaking in an instant.
Where had the wolf come from? He hadn’t seen them shift.
The woman with the blond hair spoke, again. “I don’t think that’s his name.”
Jaime still didn’t have a name for her face.
Dimitri looked… Jaime didn’t know what to make of that look and decided he didn’t want to find out.
He cast his gaze to the ground.
“It’s what the hag called him,” Dimitri said.
“I still don’t think it’s his name. I believe it’s a human term of endearment or something.” She sounded unsure.
“Well, I won’t be using it again after that reaction. What’s your name then?”
Silence grew around them, like a cornflower on the field.
Oh, that was addressed at him, wasn’t it?
Jaime tried to get his jaw moving, but his mouth was dry and his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. There was no way to get a sound out of his thin throat.
He was shaking against the strong hold on his arm and even that felt like disobedience.
There was another heavy sigh. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell us.”
You don’t have to bind the wolf. You just have to live with the consequences.
Please, he wanted to beg. Or, I’m sorry. But no sound would leave his throat.
He was trembling so hard that he would have crashed to the ground if not for the hold on his arm that kept leading him forward.