Page 14 of Blood Fist

“So why…?” his fingers dug into the wood railing until splinters threatened to lance his skin. “I don’t have any money?—”

“A boy needs a good pony,” she answered simply, as if it was obvious. As if she wasn’t offering him a horse worth more than most families made in alifetime.

When he finally looked up, he found her watching him, shrewd eyes assessing. He quaked under her gaze, trying to find the right words to say.

“I will pay you back. It might take a while but I’m learning to trap, and I will—” a hand on his chin silenced him, Restrina pinched the skin and forced him to meet her unrelenting stare.

“You will pay me back,” she said, voice firm. “But the price will be greater than you know.” He swallowed and something in her eyes softened. “You’ll pay me back in strength.”

The weight of the swords on his hip was suddenly greater than it had been a moment before.

“Grow up strong, Corric. Find happiness. Become the man you want to be. That is how you’ll pay me back.”

With a final pass of her wrist, she was gone. Walking off as if she hadn’t just changed his life. Again.

Reeling, Corric stared after her. He watched as she wound her way through the throng of people, stopping to chat or just to drop a hand on someone’s shoulder.She met up with Ridan just before she disappeared from view, dropping a heavy hand onto his head, ignoring the way he tried to squirm out of her grip. Laughing when she dragged him into a forced scenting.

I’ll pay you back,he promised to himself.

And later, when he was riding alongside Ridan and Jonen, he made another promise. One he wouldn’t repeat, not just yet. One he was going to keep in his heart so he could feed it. Slowly. Build it up until it was as large as the mountains in the distance.

“I can’t believe you got such a fine horse,” Ridan groused. “Only to name herStrawberry!”

Jonen defended his name choice, only to be told by Ridan that he has no say in naming things. They bickered until Jonen challenged Ridan and him to a race.

Gathering his reins, he leaned over his pony’s neck and let her bi-colored mane tickle his cheeks in the wind.

CHAPTER FOUR

GUTTER GUT

Seven Years Later

Watery sunlight chased away the last remnants of his dream. As the light flooded behind his closed lids, he shifted, tucking his head under the pillow in a desperate attempt to chase the dream. Faded fragments lingered—a word here, a sensation there, but they were disappearing faster than he could cling to them.

It was pleasant. Brune could remember that, at least. The specifics were lost to the morning sun, but the feeling remained. It probably had something to do with food. All his best dreams did. Maybe he was thinking of that roasting meat from the corner mage, the one who used his magic to toast the spices before marinating. It was so tender he hadn’t even had to chew. Or those sugar balls that?—

The pillow was jerked off his head, and he was poked with a stiff finger. “Get up or you’ll miss muster.”

Normally Brune found Niklas’s monotone voice soothing, but today he could snap at him. It didn’tmatter that he was right. Groaning, Brune rolled on his thin cot and kicked off the tattered quilt. It was threadbare—as most things the military issued were—but it was a welcome treat on winter nights.

Pulling himself up, he realized just how late he was. All his fellow soldiers were already moving. Early morning sunlight was flooding the small room from the single arched window on the East wall.

Like most things in the Kaledonean army, the barracks were bland. The walls were made of stone. Someone once said the mortar between the slate was magically imbued, but Brune thought that was probably something the builders had done, back when magic was abundant enough to waste on such frivolous things. Either way, the magic was long since gone. The small room was hot in summers and cold in winters. When it rained, water plinked down the uneven walls maddeningly. It would keep them all up if they weren’t so exhausted.

Cots lined the walls, with barely any room to stand between. Flimsy things, most had been hastily repaired by their owners. Brune’s was held together with the twine Niklas found two years ago. The strands were fraying, slowly failing under his not inconsiderable size. It had been fine when he first joined up—a twig of a boy who had never known a full stomach. But now that he’d been regularly fed and trained, the twine was struggling.

He admired its tenacity.

Patting the strands, he silently thanked them for another night, ignoring the tittering from his battalion mates. They could laugh from the floor when their own cot failed. If gratitude kept him off the hard ground, he’d fall to his knees in thanks. Brune had had enough of sleeping on the ground for a lifetime.

“Hurry up,” Niklas hissed anxiously, glancing at the heavy wooden door at the end of the dorm.

Brune huffed and got to his feet, quickly making his cot. It didn’t take long to get ready, not when all his worldly possessions were stuffed into a small trunk. The army gave most of it to him—more than he’d ever owned in his life. Looking down at the trunk, he couldn’t help but feel pride in it.Things.Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it was silly. A man should care more about what filled his heart, not his trunk.

But that was easy to say when you had things. Brune grew up with nothing. There was a time when even the clothes on his back were temporary. His until someone stronger wanted them, then all he could do was put up enough of a fight to keep himself warm for another night. Food was whatever you could put in your mouth. He’d never even seen a pair of shoes until the army thrust a thin pair of ill-fitting boots into his skinny arms.

Ignoring the contents of his trunk, he dressed quickly. His uniform was the same as every other low-ranking soldier—linen shirt and pants, with thin leather armor buckled over the top. Brune was no armorer, but he wasn’t sure what they gave him could even be considered armor. So thin it was rubbing through in some areas, it would hardly stand against anything sharper than a fingernail. Still, it was better than nothing. Probably.