RED HORIZON (Heliocite Saga #1)

ℕ𝕀ℕ𝔼

Azariah made sure someone from the party stayed with Seri, then followed Elijah down into the underground of the sanctuaries.

The temperature in the dimly lit, winding tunnels was much cooler than above and Azariah rubbed his hands over his arms. Somewhere, the steady drip of water echoed. He had only ever been to the holding cells once before, when Elijah had given him a tour years ago. The Helis almost never took captives, and when they did, it was only for a few days until the Chamber could pick them up and deal with them as the law required. But a lot of things were changing with this rebellion.

The cells themselves were carved out of sandstone, bare except for a bench and some chains hanging from the wall if a prisoner needed to be restrained. Each of the cells belonged to their own room to keep the prisoners separate. When they arrived at the room that held the rebel's cell, a Heli guard was waiting for them, armed with a staff and a stern expression. He nodded to Elijah in acknowledgment.

The ex-fortune teller was slumped against the back wall of his cell, his arms folded and his knees bunched up to his chin. He had been stripped down to a stained wife beater and pants, the only decoration left on his person being the black and blue marks painting his weathered face.  

When he spotted Azariah, his eyes brimmed with cold rage.

Elijah motioned for the guard to leave them, then dragged a wooden chair from the wall to the bars of the cell. Azariah took a wide, dominant stance beside him, crossing his arms. Admittedly, he couldn't help but feel a bit smug as his eyes scanned over the rebel's injuries. He looked like a kicked puppy. But uglier.

For a moment, no one spoke in the silent stand-off. Then Elijah broke the tension.

"How are you doing this evening?" he asked, resting his elbows on his knees.

The rebel spat at them in response.

Elijah gave no indication he had even noticed the slight, but a low growl boiled in Azariah's chest at the disrespect. This guy didn't seem to understand that he was at their mercy now. The Chamber wouldn't care what they did to a rebel. He should be begging for forgiveness, not bating them for another fight.

"Look, I'm going to get right down to it-- We looked at those papers," Elijah began. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a stack of small, rectangular documents. "We found these money drafts. Stamped with tomorrow's date."

The rebel's nostrils flared, but he said nothing.

Elijah leaned forward on his knees, holding the documents up to the cell's bars. "Can you tell us why? Who were you planning on paying with these? It is a considerable amount of gold."

No answer.

"Why are they stamped with tomorrow's date?"

More silence. Elijah sat back in his chair, letting the drafts drop to his lap. Clearly, the man wasn't going to make any of this remotely easy. And why would they expect him to? He had already demonstrated he had the conscience of a horned viper.

Elijah tried a different tactic. "If you know something, you should tell us. If something is happening tomorrow, we have time to stop it. You have the chance to save lives-"

A loud, hoarse laugh broke off Elijah's speech before it could start. It was deep and guttural and made bile rise in the back of Azariah's throat. The laughter turned into a wheezing cough, and the rebel shook his head, lifting his fist to cover his mouth.

"Oh, you're gonna have to try harder than that," he rasped. His free hand wrapped around his chest in pain. Azariah wondered if he had broken a rib. It would serve him right.