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False Hope

Idris

I dris feared the worst: that one of Heris’s subordinates would already be standing above Anya’s limp body, her life already spent. But when he broke through the trees, he found her seated by the fire, warming her hands contentedly.

Her eyebrows darted together at the sight of him. “Are you all right, Idris? You look like you saw a monster.”

I did , he thought wretchedly, but refrained from revealing any more than he already had. She already knows too much , Heris had said, and he didn’t dole out empty threats.

Idris sank onto the fallen log beside her, almost sick with relief that Anya was alright. “It was nothing.”

She stared at him, clearly trying to decide whether to challenge his answer or accept it—then she sagged and rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed the side of her forehead. The smell of her hair, the weight of her head, the closeness—another jolt of protectiveness shot through him.

But how could he protect her when his nearness was what jeopardized her wellbeing? If Heris and his subordinates had already taken note of her, how long would it be before they saw her as a problem worth dispatching? How long would she be willing to put up with Idris’s secrecy, before succumbing to the draw of the unknown and digging into his treacherous truths, just as Idris had done with Grinnick?

This was the exact outcome he’d been trying to avoid. By allowing himself to get close to her, he’d put her directly in harm’s way. It seemed that simply to care about her—to want her—was to endanger her.

Then again, to push her away now would be to forfeit her protection, too—because without him, she’d be on her own in the capital. He had the power to vouch for her during her trial; it would be cruel to withhold his sway. As nominal as his status was, he was Oath-bound to speak honorably in the presence of the Lord, and that had to count for something—it could, in fact, mean everything for Anya, and therefore he had to try.

Besides, it was his duty to escort a prisoner of Fenrir to the capital for trial. There was no getting out of that.

But say she was absolved—then what? For the past few nights, he’d been imagining a future with Anya. A life with a purpose not solely rooted in his Oath.

It was the first time since Grinnick’s death that Idris had pictured a brighter future. And yet…there was a reason the vast majority of Valiant Knights lived in complete isolation. It was too painful, too dangerous, too lonesome for their loved ones to endure the reality of their charge. Idris himself knew the agony of loving a Valiant Knight, counting the days between visits, worrying he might not return. Anya deserved someone who could be there for her. Commit fully.

The easiest way forward, of course, was to see her through the trial, then set her free—just as he had with the little bird in the mountains. He could monitor the wilds outside Waldron for a while, just to make sure Heris didn’t pose a lasting threat, then Idris could return to serving Grinnick’s memory, sequestered far away from Anya and the risk of her safety.

Idris tipped his head against hers, knowing he was kidding himself. Now that he’d experienced something better, there’d be no returning peacefully to his old ways.

There was another option, though. The thought shuddered through him like a cold wind howling down a forbidden path. A dark path.

Due to the effect of monsters on his Fate, Idris had long-ago discounted what he’d seen in his Mirrors. A different death every time, but always the same disturbing Fortune: shallow blue-green water, and his own two hands pushing someone under. In the vision, the reflection of the sky on the water’s surface had obscured his victim’s face, but the filthy fabric swirling around his arms had suggested a dress. A woman.

How could his greatest Fortune be the death of someone else? The Oath had spared him of fearing his Fate, and he’d long-since put it out of his mind.

So, it had startled him to hear that in Anya’s vision, he drowned her. That first night he’d held her, he’d resolved not to tell her of his own Mirror’s vision—not out of treachery, but because he couldn’t bear to frighten her. Though the Mirrors suggested their tangled futures, his role as a Knight of the Order of the Valiant meant that he operated outside the bounds of Fate. As long as he actively served his Oath, there was a chance he could avoid the Mirror of Fortune’s vision.

The problem was: Idris was no longer sentence-bound to the Order.

He’d taken up his brother’s charge, yes, but he’d earned out of his sentence three years ago. Idris now bore the Oath of his own free will. He had stayed because the Order was all he’d ever known—the only way he’d ever felt useful, purposeful. He had stayed because he felt he deserved to stay, after Grinnick. He had stayed out of fear of finding love and losing it—he couldn’t experience attachment or loss when he lived far, far away from civilization, hunting monsters.

But then Anya had come along and changed everything.

Idris could retire from knighthood and be with Anya fully, if he so chose. Be happy and watch over her. But if he retired, he’d lose control of his Fate, and put her at risk.

He’d never, within his power, do her harm. But without the Fate-defying nature of his Oath, he didn’t trust himself. How could he, when so much of his life was ruled by his past mistakes? Besides, there was no sentence long enough to assuage Idris of the guilt for what he’d done. To forsake his Oath would be to forsake Grinnick, too.

A tearing sensation pulled through his chest, an inner conflict he didn’t know how to solve. It seemed that all paths led to Anya in danger, whether she faced it at the hands of the Order, her trial, or Idris himself. Idris despised Heris, but there was one thing the other knight got right: Idris was a clumsy, hopeless fuckup. Responsible for his brother’s death and disgrace. No-doubt Idris was the reason their mother left after their father died, too. And now Anya.

Warped Fate or no, Idris seemed destined to fail those he loved.

And he couldn’t even tell her the majority of his predicament.

Which brought him back to this: as soon as he saw her well in the capital, Idris had to let her go. It would hurt her, perhaps, but not nearly as much as him sticking around. The decision juddered through him like a physical blow, because it hurt him, too.

“Do I dare ask what plagues you?” Anya asked, lifting her head.

Pulled out of his dark thoughts, Idris stiffened. “Better you not.”

“Could you tell me if you wanted to?”

He didn’t answer.

She made a small humph , then stood, wandering over to her pack. She procured the two remaining bottles of Hattie’s concoctails and handed him one.

He tried a sip, then—at the delectable taste of whiskey and honey—drank deeper. When he lowered his bottle, she was still watching him.

“Why do I feel like you’re trying to get me drunk enough to spill my secrets?” he asked, forcing levity into his tone. It was their last night on the road together, after all, and he wanted it to be… nice . For both their sakes.

She clinked the base of her bottle against his, feigning casualness. “I’m trying to get you drunk enough to bed me again.”

“You think I’d need convincing?”

Her playful facade faltered, then fell completely. “Something’s wrong,” she said, brows creasing again. “Something you’re not telling me.”

“There’s a lot I can’t tell you.”

“I heard a man, in the woods. Someone you knew and didn’t like,” she said. “Then I lost the thread.”

Idris lifted his face to the wind and breathed deeply. He scented nothing but the soil and trees, a doe upwind. Still, he had the feeling of being watched. Of Heris and his goons lurking just beyond the reach of his magic, waiting for Idris to reveal too much to her.

He stared into her fire-bright eyes again, ashamed of his powerlessness.

After a few seconds, Anya pursed her lips and nodded. “Can you at least tell me it’ll be all right? Can you tell me I’ll return to Waldron-on-Wend?”

Of course, she was thinking about the trial. What she wanted most wasn’t him , but to return home.

He smiled at her. “You’ll return to Waldron-on-Wend.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

“Anya.” He set down his bottle and reached for her, brushing his knuckles over her soft cheek before taking her face in his hands. “I’ll do everything in my power to make it so.”

When he kissed her, she met his mouth with openness, her tongue sliding against his. She tasted of honey, and he deepened the kiss, chasing the sweetness like it was something he could capture.

Like it wasn’t fleeting and already half-gone.