The sun's barely up when he drags me out of the tent.
No cuffs.
No rope.
No guards.
Just him. Walking one step ahead, expecting me to follow. Like I'm not supposed to be a prisoner. Like I'm just some… guest in his private murder circus.
I don't like it.
It's unnerving.
"This doesn't make sense," I mutter under my breath.
He glances back.
"What doesn't?"
"You're not treating me like a prisoner."
"Do you want me to?" he asks, arching a brow. "Should I be rougher?"
God, please—NO.
God, please—YES.
What the hell is wrong with me.
I clear my throat, fixing my expression. "I mean! You haven't tied me up. You haven't assigned a guard. You even let me sleep in your tent."
"You were barely conscious. I didn't want you dying in your own vomit."
"Aw. Romance."
He doesn't smile. But his eyes crinkle just a little. Barely enough to notice, but it's there. That twitch of amusement he keeps buried under a hundred layers of "I-don't-care."
We walk in silence for a bit. The camp is waking up around us. Soldiers sparring, mess tents clattering, the occasional shout and bark of orders. He moves through it like he owns it.
Like no one would dare stop him.
And they don't.
People stare though. At me. At us. Whispers follow in our wake like vines tugging at my ankles.
"That's the prisoner—"
"Why is he with the Commander?"
"Is he a concubine or a spy?"
"Why's he not bound?"
I keep my chin up. But I'm starting to feel like maybe the ropes would've been more comfortable than all these stares.
"So," I mutter, catching up to him again, "You've got an entire camp wondering why you're parading your prisoner around like a date."
He doesn't even blink. "They can wonder all they want."
"I might be a threat, you know."
"You're not."
"I could be."
"Then be one."
I stop walking.
He stops too. Turns, slowly, facing me fully.
"What?"
I look up at him. Really look.
Because here's the thing: I've been on edge this whole time. Every move is calculated. Every glance, every word, every breath under surveillance. And yet… he hasn't flinched.
Not once.
Not even when I tried to sass him into oblivion.
Not even when I tried to escape.
He hasn't hurt me.
Hasn't punished me.
Hasn't even yelled.
He just watches. Always watching. Like I'm some puzzle he can't quite solve.
"…Why aren't you treating me like an enemy?" I ask, quietly this time.
He tilts his head. Something flickers across his face.
"I don't know what you are yet," he admits. "But you're not my enemy."
"But I- "
"You interest me."
He says it with the same tone he'd use for a strange bug or a rare wine. Detached. Focused. Inescapable.
I exhale. "That's not comforting."
He steps forward.
And suddenly too close. The same way he always does. His presence is like heat and cold all at once, like the eye of a storm.
"You should be glad I don't treat you like my enemies," he says softly. "They don't last long."
...
"Is this how you treat people who interest you, then?" I ask, folding my arms and lifting my chin.
His lips twitch. Just the ghost of a smirk.
"You've seen nothing yet."
Before I can recover from the heat crawling up my spine, he adds:
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm nosy. Sue me."
He hums. "Then maybe I should give you one answer."
I blink. "Just one?"
"Choose wisely."
...
I glance at him, weighing my options, then say:
"…What's your name?"
There's a pause.
A long one.
And then, he answers:
"Kael."
Kael.
Short. Sharp. A name that cuts like a knife but somehow fits. Of course his name would sound like the back half of a battle cry.
Kael.
Kael.
I say it in my head three times, like if I think it too much, it'll be real.
"Kael," I repeat out loud, letting it sit on my tongue like a secret I shouldn't know.
He looks at me.
And for a moment. Just a sliver of time, something in his eyes softens.
"Don't use it too freely," he says. "Names have power."
"So do prisoners," I whisper.
"You're not a prisoner," he murmurs.
...
[SYSTEM 707: ??? Excuse me what now? I DID NOT AUTHORIZE THIS BONDING.]
[SYSTEM 707: Host, please stop emotionally seducing your potential captor. This is a war zone, not a dating sim. (…Actually, maybe it's both.)]
He turns away before I can ask what he meant. Again.
But my brain is stuck on the repetition, like a stuck record.
Kael. Kael. Kael.
And the question I can't shake:
If I'm not a prisoner…
…then what the hell am I?