Marrying a Warhound (Cassian) novel Chapter 30

ATASHA’S POV

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“This…” I tried to speak, but the words came out fractured, hollow. My voice barely reached above a whisper as my eyes swept across the clearing, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.

Blood stained the stone floor. Thick, dark, and drying in wide streaks that trailed toward the shadows. The stench of it clung to the air, sharp, metallic, and suffocating. But that wasn’t what made my stomach turn.

It was the cages.

Dozens of them.

Lined up in tight rows along the cave’s far walls, stacked in some areas two or three high. They were made of thick iron, welded crudely, rusted at the hinges. Inside each one was a child.

Some looked no older than five or six. Others barely into adolescence. Their clothes, if they had any, were torn, filthy, and soaked in mud, blood, or both. Several had open wounds, untreated cuts, infected gashes, bruises in shades I hadn’t known skin could take.

But what unsettled me more than their physical injuries was the expression on their faces—or rather, the complete absence of one. Their eyes were dull, lifeless, and unfocused. None of them were crying. None of them were speaking.

They just sat or lay still inside their cages, unmoving, their small fingers curled tightly around the rusted iron bars. It was as if whatever had been done to them had stripped away not only their strength, but also their will to react, to resist, or even to hope.

My heart raced, pounding hard against my chest as my mind tried to catch up with what I was looking at.

Cassian had already moved forward, his expression unreadable as he inspected the cages, one by one. He crouched near a small boy whose shoulder was wrapped in a blood–soaked bandage. The boy didn’t flinch when Cassian approached, didn’t even look up,

Is this the secret? Is this what my father was hiding all along?

Dozens of questions flooded my mind all at once, overlapping and colliding until I could no longer tell where one ended and another began.

What was this place?

Why were these children brought here, and for what purpose?

11:09 Wed, Sep 10

Chapter 30

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What was my father planning to do with them, were they being held as leverage, as test subjects, or something far worse?

Where had they come from? Were they the children of captured enemies, rogues without packs, or―my stomach turned at the thought, were they from our own people?

The idea alone was unbearable. And yet, I couldn’t dismiss it.

Children. Kept in cages like animals. Discarded like they didn’t matter.

It was too calculated to be random. Too many for coincidence.

My eyes locked onto a girl near the back. Her hands were too small to wrap fully around the bars, but she held on anyway, her knuckles white from the pressure. She had a large burn mark on her arm and a fresh cut across her cheek, but she didn’t cry. She just sat still, watching me with dull, unblinking eyes.

A wave of nausea twisted in my stomach as the full weight of what I was seeing sank in. No amount of warning, suspicion, or mental preparation could have prepared me for this. This wasn’t a display of cruelty driven by rage, nor was it punishment meant to make an example. It was far worse.

Every detail, the number of cages, the isolation of the location, the way the children were broken but still alive, pointed to something carefully organized. This wasn’t done in haste or by accident. It had been planned, structured, and executed without hesitation.

And there was no justification for it.

It was evil. Plain and simple.

“Your father,” Cassian said quietly, his voice flat as he inspected the locks on one of the cages. “Isn’t just hiding secrets from the King.”

1 slowly turned to him, my throat dry, my voice barely holding. “What… what do you think he was doing with them?”

Cassian didn’t look at me as he answered. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “But it’s not good.”

Slowly, my legs began to move, driven more by instinct than thought. I approached one of the lower cages, my steps cautious, careful not to startle the child inside. He looked to be about five or six years old, curled on his side with his back against the bars. A deep, angry gash ran across his chest, dried blood crusted over torn skin. His breathing was shallow, labored, and his brow glistened with sweat. His lips were dry and cracked, and his skin had the pallor of someone on the verge of collapse.

He didn’t respond to my approach. He didn’t even flinch when I knelt beside the bars and

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