Chapter 11 · Standoff in the Void

The hand on my ankle doesn’t let go.

I kick with my free leg. My heel lands somewhere soft, but the grip just tightens. Bonesin my foot grind together. I get a mouthful of river mud, spit it out, and try to thrash again.

"Stop." The voice is bored. "Stop, and I won’t break it."

I freeze.

Water drips off me in icy sheets. My hair is plastered to my mouth. There’s mud shoveddeep in my ear, turning my own pulse into a dull, wrong thrum—and under it, the other one. Small. Fast. Like a frantic bird trapped in a box.

Four days ago, that sound didn’t exist.Now it’s the loudest thing on earth. And I’m the only one who can hear it.

Boots crunch down the bank. Four pairs. They form a semi-circle, just out of kicking range.Pros. They’ve done this before.

The one holding my ankle crouches. Gray at the temples. A mouthset in a permanent, miserable frown. A patrol captain, probably. The others watch him like he’s holding theirleashes.

"Not a rogue," one guy says. "Rogues don't swim."

"She’s not anything yet." The captain hauls me up by the wrist like a sack of feed.