Seralyth Ashcroft

The brinks make everything feel like it’s happening half a second too late.

My thoughts are still sharp—too sharp, almost—but my body lags, like I’m moving through water with weights strapped to my bones. Every breath tastes like cold metal. Every pulse feels stolen.

The van smells like disinfectant and rubber mats. There’s no rattle in the panels. No loose bolts. Whoever runs this operation doesn’t do sloppy.

That’s information.

I shift my wrists again, testing the plastic tie and the cuffs, not because I expect to break them, but because I want to map the pain. Pain is data. Pain tells you what you can still do.

The tie bites. The brinks drain.

And the two men sitting across from me watch like I’m entertainment.

They’re not in uniforms. They’re in black tactical with no insignia, gloves, boots. Clean. Too clean. Like they scrubbed their identities off on purpose.

One has a scar that splits his eyebrow. The other has a soft face that doesn’t match his hands—thick fingers, blunt knuckles, calluses like he’s done this kind of work long enough to stop thinking about it.

They aren’t the leader. The leader didn’t ride with me. He stood in the alley like a man who never has to get his own hands dirty.

That’s also information.

I swallow the metallic taste in my mouth and force my breathing to steady.

Rhevan’s voice, in my head: If you can’t fight, you watch. If you can’t run, you learn.

Caelric’s voice: Names matter. Paper trails matter. If you can’t get a name, get a detail that leads to one.

Tavian’s voice: Look for the human crack. Everyone has one. Find it and wedge.

And then there are the other lessons—harder, quieter—learned in glances and corrections and the moments I was sure I was alone but wasn’t.

Vaelor’s stern hand on my shoulder in a training yard when I was sixteen, guiding my stance without speaking. Soryn’s gaze on the back of my neck when I tried to lie about where I’d gone at eighteen, the silent warning that he’d known before I’d even decided. Bramrik’s big palm bracing my elbow when I practiced knife work, his voice like stone: “Again.” Elowen’s cool correction when I got cocky with strategy: “Confidence is not competence.”

All of it sits inside me now, steadying the panic that wants to climb my throat.

The van turns. My body slides an inch on the bench seat and the brinks pull at my wrists, reminding me I’m restrained.

The scar-brow man grins. “You done squirming yet?”

“Depends,” I say, voice rough but even. “Are you done acting like you’ve never seen a girl fight back before?”

The soft-faced one laughs under his breath. “She’s got mouth.”

“Fox,” scar-brow says, like it’s an insult and a compliment at once. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “What’s it like? Being so… special?”

I keep my expression flat. “What’s it like being so… replaceable?”

His grin tightens. There it is. The crack. The ego.

He shifts like he wants to hit me, but he doesn’t. They were careful in the stairwell—shoves and rough handling, nothing that looked like torture. Not because they’re kind. Because their orders are specific.

Keep her intact.

Asset.

Delivery.

I need to know where.

I need to know who.

But the brinks make my instincts quiet, and that’s the scariest part—how much easier it is to be transported when your body isn’t screaming.

I shift my gaze past them to the van’s interior. No windows. The door seams are sealed. There’s a latch mechanism near the floor, industrial grade. There’s a small vent high near the ceiling, too narrow for anything but air. The floor mats are new.

My tongue runs over my teeth once, tasting blood from where I bit that first hand.

“Who’s paying you?” I ask casually, like we’re having a conversation in a bar instead of a moving cage.

The soft-faced one snorts. “Not your business.”

“It is if I’m the product,” I say.

Scar-brow tilts his head. “Product,” he repeats, amused. “Listen to you.”

I make myself breathe through my nose. Slow. Controlled. “You’re not independent,” I continue. “Independent crews don’t use brinks. They cost money. They require authorization. Whoever you answer to has access.”

A flicker crosses scar-brow’s face. It’s tiny. But it’s there.

The soft-faced one shoots him a look, like shut up.

Good. I found a line.

I lean back against the van wall, not slumping—never slumping. “So you’re either working for someone inside a Crown office…” I let the thought hang, then add softly, “…or you stole those brinks from someone who’d skin you alive for touching their inventory.”

The soft-faced one’s jaw clenches.

Scar-brow’s grin comes back, bigger, forced. “You talk like you know things.”

“I do,” I say.

And for a second, my mind betrays me with something stupidly tender: the memory of Elowen sitting across from me at a chess table, candlelight glinting on his rings, saying, Never reveal the whole board. Only reveal what you want them to think you see.

I don’t know who trained me more—my brothers, with their love wrapped in fear, or the four men who taught me to survive like I would one day need it.

Maybe they always knew this day would come.

The brinks hum faintly, draining, draining, draining.

I shift my wrists again, trying to buy time for my circulation. My fingers are cold and slightly numb. I hate it. I hate feeling muted.

The van hits a bump. The benches creak.

Scar-brow watches me, his gaze lingering on my cuffs. “You’re quieter now,” he says.

“Brinks will do that,” I reply.

He leans in a little. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” I say honestly. “It’s worse.”

His eyes narrow. “How?”

“It makes you think you’re safe,” I say, voice low. “Because you’re tired.”

He laughs. “You’re not safe.”

“I know.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “Neither are you.”

That lands. I can see it. People like him live on borrowed confidence. They need to believe they’re on the winning side. They need it like air.

The soft-faced one shifts, irritated. “Stop feeding her, Dax.”

So scar-brow is Dax.

Not a full name. But a handle. A crumb.

I file it away.

“Dax,” I repeat lightly, tasting it. “Cute.”

His face darkens. “Don’t—”

The van swerves slightly, and he braces a hand on the seat. His balance is better than mine. His instincts aren’t muzzled.

I refuse to let that matter.

I look at the soft-faced one next, calm. “And you?”

He scoffs. “You don’t get names.”

“Sure I do,” I say. “I get everything eventually. That’s the part you don’t understand about people like me.”

His eyes flick to my cuffs again. “People like you.”

“Foxes,” I correct. “We survive. We remember. We come back.”

The soft-faced one’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. He hates that it’s true.

Another bump. The van’s suspension absorbs it smoothly.

We’ve left the city roads. This is a longer route. Back roads or private access lanes.

My stomach knots, but my mind stays busy.

I need a landmark. A sound. A scent.

The disinfectant smell is still strong, but underneath it there’s something else now—damp earth, pine, exhaust. The road noise changes too, softer, less echo. Trees. Open stretches.

We’re heading out of the border district.

Toward what? A holding facility? A private estate? Somewhere off-record?

If it’s official, they’ll want clean transfer. If it’s not, they’ll want isolation.

I glance toward the door seam again. It’s tight. No light leak. This vehicle was built for transport.

The soft-faced man leans back, bored. “You think your brothers are coming?”

The word hits like a bruise, because it’s meant to. It’s meant to make me flinch.

I don’t.

“They always come,” I say.

Dax snorts. “Not this time.”

I keep my voice steady. “You don’t know them.”

He leans closer again, eyes bright with cruelty that thinks it’s playful. “We know enough. We know they hid you. We know they’ve been afraid since the war.”

My pulse stutters. My throat tightens.

But I don’t let the fear show. I let it sharpen instead.

“You’ve been watching,” I say softly.

Dax’s smile falters.

The soft-faced man shifts, like he regrets the line they just gave me.

Good.

“Who’s been watching?” I press. “How long?”

Dax’s jaw ticks. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” I snap, anger breaking through my control, hot and real. “Who decided I was an asset? Who signed off on brinks? Who—”

A hand clamps onto my shoulder—harder than necessary—pushing me back against the van wall.

Dax’s voice drops. “You ask too many questions.”

I inhale sharply. The brinks pull at my wrists. The cold gnaws deeper.

But the contact—his hand, his grip—lights something inside me anyway.

Touch means someone is close enough to hurt.

Touch also means someone is close enough to be hurt.

My breath comes a little faster. My skin prickles.

Devotion flashes in my chest like a flare—my brothers’ faces, the four men’s restraint, the way Vaelor’s gaze would go steel-hard whenever he thought I was threatened even in training.

They taught me to survive.

They taught me to endure.

And they also taught me something else, something I didn’t understand until now.

How to wait.

How to hold still in a trap without going limp.

How to look weak when you’re planning.

I force my shoulders to relax under Dax’s hand. I let my head tilt slightly like I’m tired.

Dax eases back, satisfied, thinking he won.

The soft-faced man watches me carefully. He’s the smarter one. Or the more cautious. Either way, he’s paying attention.

So I give him what he’s looking for.

I let my voice soften. “You don’t have to do this,” I say quietly.

Dax laughs. “Oh, here we go.”

I ignore him. I focus on the soft-faced one, keeping my eyes steady. “You can still walk away.”

His brows knit. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you’re not the one in charge,” I say. “And I know the kind of man who is in charge doesn’t share blame. He uses people. He discards them.”

The soft-faced man’s throat works, swallowing.

There. Another crack.

I press gently. “What’s his title?” I ask. “Not his name. Just his title.”

Dax shifts, irritation flaring. “Shut up.”

The soft-faced man’s eyes flick toward the front of the van, like he’s checking the driver can’t hear.

Which tells me two things:

1 There are more of them.

2 The driver matters.

I lean forward a fraction, voice low. “If you tell me now, I can make sure you’re not the one they punish when this goes wrong.”

His lips part.

Dax’s hand shoots out and grabs my jaw, squeezing just hard enough to hurt. “I said shut up.”

Pain sparks along my cheekbone. My eyes water from the pressure. Rage rises like a tide.

But I don’t bite this time.

I let myself look at him with cold, quiet promise.

“You touched me,” I say through clenched teeth. “That was stupid.”

Dax’s grin is mean. “What are you gonna do about it, fox?”

Before I can answer, the van lurches.

Hard.

The sound changes—tires on gravel to tires skidding on something slick. The whole vehicle yaws sideways, throwing us. My shoulder slams into the wall. Dax curses as he loses his grip. The soft-faced man grabs the bench, eyes wide.

“What the—” someone shouts from the front.

The van swerves again, worse. The brinks make my arms slow, but adrenaline spikes anyway, cutting through the drain like a knife through cloth.

My breath catches. My heart kicks.

We’re going too fast.

The world tilts.

The sound of tires screaming fills the van, sharp and terrifying. I feel the weight shift, the whole vehicle leaning like it’s about to tip.

Dax grabs for me instinctively—like I’m a problem he needs to control even as the world breaks.

The soft-faced man slams into the opposite bench, teeth cracking together.

The van hits something—maybe a rut, maybe a rock—and suddenly we’re airborne for a fraction of a second.

Time slows in that horrifying way it does when your body knows it’s about to die.

My stomach drops.

My brinks-cuffed wrists jerk upward as I try to brace. My spine goes rigid.

And then the van rolls.

Metal shrieks.

Glass explodes.

Bodies slam into walls.

The world flips—up becomes sideways becomes down—

And my last coherent thought, sharp as a prayer and just as desperate, is this:

They found me.