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And he wasn't sure he could forgive it.

Astrid watched him disappear; her face unreadable. After a long moment, she turned back to Draken.

"Give him time," she said quietly. "He has had a shock."

Draken exhaled slowly, staring at the flickering flames in the fire pit.

Time...

He wasn't sure time would make this any easier.

It would only make the coming storm harder to face.

Chapter 17

Seren

Seren wiped the sweat from her brow, her limbs aching. "You're never satisfied, are you?" she panted, glaring at Rheon.

Rheon folded his arms, his expression impassive. "Not when you're still dropping your left side. Again."

She groaned but reset her stance, lifting her fists. "You know, for someone who grumbles all the time, I am not surprised that you love making me suffer."

"If you have the energy to talk, you have the energy to fight," he shot back. "Now, strike."

Seren lunged, her fist shooting forward. Rheon deflected it with ease, shaking his head. "Sloppy. Tighter movements. Keep your feet grounded. Again."

She exhaled sharply but obeyed, moving through the drill over and over. When she finally dropped her arms, exhausted, Rheon grunted. "Better. But not good enough, pipsqueak."

"Of course not," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

He ignored her and shifted the lesson. "Wolven-tongue. Speak."

Seren scowled. "You want me to fight and talk at the same time?"

"You think your enemies will wait while you find the right words? The tribe will be watching you, waiting for an opening. Predators are like that. "

She huffed but forced herself to focus. The words felt clumsy in her mouth at first, twisting and foreign, but she repeated them, again and again, under his watchful eye.

"Keep going," he commanded. "It will come. It must come."

Seren clenched her fists. "One day, I'm going to be better than you."

Rheon actually smirked. "Then you'll have to work twice as hard. Again."

Evenings belonged to the Crone. The scent of crushed leaves and the bitter tang of boiled roots filled the air as Seren sat cross-legged by the fire, listening, absorbing.

The first time she truly understood the power of her hands was when a wounded hare stumbled into their hut. Its flank was torn, the fur matted with blood. Animals somehow found their way to Seren. The Crone had been grinding herbs, but she simply watched as Seren knelt beside it.

"Close your eyes," the Crone murmured.

Seren hesitated but obeyed. Her palms hovered over the trembling creature, and warmth bloomed from her fingertips, tingling up her arms. When she opened her eyes, the wound had begun to knit itself together, the hare's ragged breathing slowing. It darted away the moment she lifted her hands, leaving Seren staring at her fingers in shock.

The Crone only chuckled. "You will learn."

Another night, as they crushed bitterroots into paste, the wind howled outside, restless. Seren glanced up, her chest tightening with unease.

"Something's wrong," she whispered.