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Regrets

Idris

I f it hadn’t been for the piss-poor weather, Idris wouldn’t have held Anya so tightly.

That’s what he told himself, at least.

The problem was that he was telling himself a lie.

Sure, he’d rearranged their blankets out of necessity. Anya had been shivering uncontrollably, and it wasn’t right to leave her to suffer hypothermia for the sake of avoiding contact. The wilderness had a way of stripping away superfluous etiquette; it brought beings of all kinds into closer contact with necessity. It’d been necessary that Idris do away with propriety to help her warm up.

Unfortunately, his heart had done away with propriety, too. Even now, in the emerging dawn, he enjoyed holding her—and not just because the tasks of his Order starved him of human touch. He enjoyed holding Anya , specifically. Her body fit perfectly against him, plush against the hard angles of his own. All night, that lemon and rose scent had taken him away from their dreary camp, into lush gardens under warm sunlight.

He’d basked .

With his arm banded around her, he still did.

But physicality aside, it was her straight-shooting humor that allured him most. Her ability to make jokes even in her misery. Her desire to see the good in people, to connect . Even to him, her would-be killer.

Over the past few days, he’d found himself continually struck by her ability to weave topics and paths of thought. To appear vexed one moment, amused the next, keeping him on his toes. To befriend villagers and relish indulgence. Unapologetic in her delight (had Idris ever delighted in something guilt free?).

In short, he quite liked her company, even though he ought not to. Even though the Mirrors insisted upon their doomed future.

Monsters or no monsters, Idris wasn’t interested in tempting Fate—yet he found himself already dreading the end of their journey. Aside from the inevitable return of his regular duty, criminal trials rarely favored the tried in Fenrir; the sinking feeling in his gut made him wonder if he was marching Anya to a grim end, after all. His guilt was fighting a losing battle with his duty, but as his fondness for Anya grew, the margin between the two narrowed ever closer. Even now, his arm tightened protectively around her waist.

The rain persisted into the soft gray dawn. It was cozy inside the tent, and Idris found himself lingering, relishing Anya’s curves tucked against him, the softness of her skin. As his body roused, awakening more fully to another long day, his desire stirred, too. It was a deep curling sensation low in his stomach, the rushing of blood to his groin. It became imperative that he rise—before his erection did further—so he peeled his body away from hers and crept out into the chilly morning.

Outside the tent, the small grove was strewn with twigs. The wind had died down, leaving the air peaceful and still. Briar— who’d taken liberty with his long tether to munch on grass by the Wend, nickered to him in greeting. Idris took a moment to look over their horse, pressing a hand to his chest to test his body heat. Remarkably, Briar seemed to be in good spirits, despite last night’s miserable weather; perhaps he was relieved that the worst of it had passed.

After murmuring to Briar his due praises, Idris wandered off to relieve his bladder and collect water for their morning porridge. He then stoked a modest fire, squinting against the assault of smoke that wafted up from the wet firewood. The scent of ash permeated his senses, mingling with Briar’s wet-horse musk. Even so, such strong smells weren’t enough to overpower Anya’s sweetness still clinging to his shirt. The lingering garden scent was yet another blow to his resolve.

For months, he’d been growing weary of his task, no longer thrilled by the hunt and slaughter of the realm’s greatest threats, nor as steadfast in his devotion to his Order. The principles of his youth had faded with age and wear. He wasn’t sure exactly when cynicism and disloyalty had crept into the dark corners of his heart, but they had , infesting him with thoughts of apathy and—in his darkest moments—outright treason.

Anya—with her fun-loving lightheartedness and biting allure—had only worsened his temptation.

What he needed—he realized as he stirred their bubbling breakfast—was to remember why he took the Oath in the first place. Grinnick had sacrificed everything for Idris. Scraped and strived and worked himself to the bone. Idris’s beloved brother—his elder by barely two years—had stepped into the role of both parents when no family was left. He had done his best.

In Idris’s eyes, Grinnick’s crimes—stealing food, cheating in the gambling halls, participating in illegal fighting rings for extra coin—had been acts of honor, responsibility, and love. But in the eyes of Fenrir, his crimes were simply crimes, and warranted his sentence.

“This is your path to absolution,” the Lord of Fenrir had told the criminals arranged in the hall the fateful day Grinnick took the Oath.

Idris had scaled the outer and inner wall of Castle Might and wedged himself in one of the stained-glass windowsills, peering through a thin clear panel to witness his brother—the only person Idris had left to love—enter an Order that would guarantee his doom. The Lord’s words had sickened Idris. His brother did not need absolution; he needed money, mercy, a fucking break . They both did.

At barely sixteen, Grinnick had looked small inside the too-big shell of his black breastplate; the greataxe they’d given him had appeared cumbersome in his young hands. He’d looked—Idris had thought—like a boy playing dress-up as a knight, rather than a real one.

It had filled Idris with dread.

The memory had stuck with Idris over the years—the beginning of the end. His brother had been so strong for the both of them: through the death of their father and abandonment by their mother, through long hard years on the unforgiving streets of Fenrir, through a grim sentence with a Fates-forsaken Order, until his untimely death.

A death the Lord himself had deemed dishonorable.

Grinnick deserved honor, if only in memory. It’s why Idris still lingered in the Order of the Valiant, following in his brother’s footsteps if only to hold onto the feeling of walking beside his brother in life.

Yet here he was, wishing to cast all his principles aside after just a few nights on the road with a woman . His weakness was despicable.

Idris was still scolding himself when Anya emerged from the tent, her sunset hair rumpled with sleep, her brown eyes impossibly bright. There was not enough campfire smoke in the word to choke out the scent of her. She was beautiful to all his senses.

It made him angry with himself.

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, she plunked down on the fallen log beside their fire and regarded him with cheerful eyes. She was well-slept; had she realized that her nightmares had dissipated with Idris’s touch? She seemed unabashed in her appreciation for his company this morning. If he’d been uncertain about her reaction to his nearness last night, he knew now: she’d enjoyed it, too.

The realization sparked hope in his chest—which he promptly smothered with more self-reproach.

“I’m glad the weather’s eased,” Anya said, her pretty lips curving. “I was dreading forcing Briar to trudge through more wind and rain, but he seems revived.”

Idris merely grunted, not wanting to encourage more chit-chat.

But that had never deterred Anya before. “Thank you for not letting me freeze.” Her cheeks colored with bashfulness, pink as a spring sunrise.

Idris felt miserable with want.

“How did you sleep?” she asked politely.

“Fitfully.”

She frowned. His comment had obviously stung. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Idris lifted the pot off the fire and dished up their breakfast, hoping his gruffness might deter her from being so…pleasant. For making this harder than it needed to be.

But she kept on. “You must know that I didn’t intentionally keep you up, Idris. I—I was cold, and I thought—”

“That I’d enjoy being woken up?” Idris bit out.

Anya caught her lips between her teeth, pinching them shut. Her cheeks were fully red now. Idris’s self-hatred intensified, now for another reason. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he did want to push her away. Maintain enough distance not to get attached. He feared he was already far too attached.

Tense silence stretched between them as they packed up and moved out. Idris allowed Anya to ride Briar—not just out of kindness, but because when he walked beside the horse’s shoulder, she remained out of his immediate view.