Page 61 of Blood Fist

On the surface, it was a heartfelt loyalty pledge. He’d heard hundreds of them. But it wasn’t the words, it was the man who said them.

It was Brune who saved his life. Brune, who enjoyed learning how to do laundry. Brune, who found him at his lowest and didn’t ask. He didn’t put the burden on Ridan to answer, to tell him what he needed. He just gave. Brune, who took his hand and grieved with him.

Brune, who should be a stranger, but has become such a big part of Ridan’s life he could scarcely remember a time without him.

Still staring, Ridan reached down and touched the small lump in his pocket. His fingers brushed over it, like they’d done a thousand times before, and he cursed himself for being such a coward.

Osmond stiffened as Niklas stepped into the light of the fire. He had his bow on his back, confusion crossing his features as he took in the scene in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asked quietly.

With another deep breath, Osmond reached for a package at his feet, bringing it with him as he approached Niklas. It was lumpy, hastily wrapped in what looked like rabbit pelts.

The beta looked at it questioningly, hands still until Osmond prodded at him. Niklas took the gift, pulling at the cords holding it together. The pelts dropped awayto reveal a magnificent bow. The wood was stained so dark, in the firelight it nearly looked purple. A craftsman had painstakingly carved designs into the shaft, the swirls and filigree a lighter shade of the wood. It shone with lacquer; string tight.

Furs dropped to the ground, completely forgotten. Niklas stared at the bow, trembling fingers running over its curves. Eyes shining, he tore his gaze from the bow and looked at Osmond.

“I don’t understand.”

Osmond took his hand, holding it between his calloused fingers. “I agonized over this bow for weeks,” he admitted sheepishly. “I spent my nights huddled over the fire, trying to get it just right.” He huffed, a smile lighting up his face. “But then I realized…it was impossible. Because I’ve seen perfection, and it can’t be recreated.”

Niklas was speechless, chinks pink, mouth opening and closing, but words wouldn’t come.

“I can’t recreate the way the sun shines on your hair. The way your ears turn pink when you’re embarrassed. The way your shoulders flex when you pull the string. Or the gentle way you hold my sister’s hand. And I would be a fool to try.” Osmond brought Niklas’s fingers to his lips, kissing the back of his knuckles. He closed his eyes, breathing in his scent. From this far, Ridan couldn’t smell Osmond’s scent, but he suspected it would be tinged with anxiety and hope.

“So, Niklas, would you stand by my side? Allow me to bask in your perfection so that a little of it may rub off on me?”

Tears slipped down Niklas’s cheeks. His lips were trembling as he looked into Osmond’s eyes. What he saw there, Ridan couldn’t say, but it had him nodding quickly.

With a chuff, Osmond dragged him into a hug, picking him up and twirling a spluttering Niklas around the fire. Brune and Henroen whooped, grins on their faces so wide the fire sparkled off their teeth and their eyes disappeared under the force of it.

Ridan found himself smiling, too. Dropping back against the tent, he rested his head on the crate. He didn’t need to see to know what was happening—poor Niklas was probably red as a sunset, eyes watering as Osmond clung to him. Brune and Henroen were no doubt celebrating with them. At some point, Henroen would pick themallup and shake them.

He was happy for them. Their joy was infectious, and it was a reprieve from the sadness he’d been feeling. Losing his mother had been a cruel blow, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t expecting it. To pick up a blade is to know you may meet your fate at the end of one. His mother knew that better than anyone. Ridan allowed himself to grieve in the mountains, but the moment his feet kicked Stone Blade dust, he locked it away.

The clan didn’t need Ridan, grieving son. They needed Ridan, Chief of the Stone Blade. And that’s who he would give them.

He ignored the ache. Kept his eyes down to avoid anyone seeing the pain in them when he looked at his mother’s horse, or her weapon hanging in the spot his father’s sword used to be. She lingered for longer than Iylah thought she would, stubborn even in death.

But this? This happiness seemed to warm him like a fire after a long winter’s day. Slowly but surely, the thaw hurting a little as blood rushed back to frozen limbs, followed by sweet relief.

“You could have joined us, you know?”

Ridan’s eyes snapped open. Brune was hanging over the crate, leaning on his crossed arms as he looked downat him. Joy was still clinging to the curl of his lips and the twinkle in his eyes.

“How did you know I was here?”

Brune waggled his eyebrows. “You’ve been here the whole time,” he said, pushing himself off the crate to drop his shield and sit beside Ridan.

Bristling, he crossed his arms. “You smelled me.”

“Maybe,” Brune drawled, watching Ridan out of the corner of his eyes. “Or maybe I just have a Ridan sense.”

He punched him in the arm—not as hard as he’d hit Jonen—but he fell, grabbing his arm like it was broken, groaning in mock pain.

Ridan ignored him, looking away so the idiot wouldn’t see him smiling. He refused to look back at him until he pulled himself back up, body turned so he could look at Ridan head on.

“Why didn’t you come out?”