Veils of Storm

30. The Wolf Himself

For a moment, Cage couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away from his brother's face, from the empty sockets which used to hold sky-blue eyes. He'd been so pleasant, so handsome, his eyes twinkling with mischief every time he broke stuffy protocol.

And yet, in his cynicism, all Cage could think of was one thing. How was Ferdinand supposed to rule over anyone when he was blind? How was he supposed to lead an army against Endir if the need arose?

"How did this happen?" he whispered.

Ferdinand's laughter was bitter. "Wolfbane became bored, impatient. Angry. Because you weren't coming."

"I was dead," Cage whispered.

"Were you? Then how come you're here?" His brother's tone was merciless, filled with a contempt only torture and imprisonment could instill in someone as kind as he used to be.

Cage's mouth was too dry to speak, but through the terror, the guilt, and the regret, a new feeling was starting to rise. Rage. At Wolfbane for doing this, and at Fherras for allowing it to happen to begin with.

"They should've kept you safe," he said between his teeth.

Ferdinand laughed again. "Now you sound more like Kale, whoever you are."

"Call me Cage," he growled.

"Why should I, Kale? Cage was the admiral of the Royal Navy. You're obviously not."

He had a fucking point, but he'd had it with this. So he moved to the back of the room to verify the cuffs around Ferdinand's wrists. The quality of the metal was poor, and he would have been able to easily break them, but his brother was just a man, not a monster like him.

"I'm getting you out of here," he mumbled, slipping two knives off his bracers.

"Are you now?"

"You didn't use to be so snarky."

He only got a bitter laugh in return as he stuck the tips of the knives inside the lock. It was too small for both tips to fit in a way which would allow him to move them as needed. Cursing under his breath, he replaced the knives, grabbed the flimsy chain, and tore it apart.

"Come on." He snaked an arm under Ferdinand's and hoisted him off the floor. 

He was light as a feather, and a yelp escaped him as Cage tried to place him on his feet. That's when he noticed, and the temperature in the already musty and cold room seemed to drop even more.

"Fer, your legs..."

They were at odd angles, facing towards the sides, his ankles unnaturally swollen. As if they'd been broken and then the bones mended of their own accord, without being secured in the proper place.

"Yes, walking is a bit difficult."

"Difficult? Can you even walk?"

How could he lead a country on the brink of war if he couldn't stand, couldn't ride, couldn't fight? Cage's eyes went to his hands, but they seemed fine, at least in the darkness of the holding cell. He hated himself for these thoughts, but for men like them, it was inevitable. They were only as useful as their ability to defend their people.

"I haven't really tried," Ferdinand conceded. "The chain was too short for me to stand."

The bit of panic and worry inside Cage fueled the rage already building inside him. The magic bubbled underneath his skin like the monstrous waves of an unruly sea. A tiny bit of hope nestled within his chest at the thought of maybe healing Fer with magic. But he was fairly certain that he couldn't make eyes grow back.