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Fight

Idris

H unched over the bar counter of Fenrir’s Ire—a popular tavern among knights, located just outside the castle walls—Idris finished off his third ale. Twilight had come and gone, the sky turning purple as the bruise on his cheek, then black as the dread in his heart. With every breath, he thought of Anya. Alone. Hunted by monsters, only to perish on the cusp of freedom.

If you wish to break my heart and go, then go .

Her heart—broken, because of him. He should’ve never let it get that far. It didn’t matter that his heart was breaking, too. He would break his heart a thousand times to protect her. But breaking hers to keep her safe? He did not regret his decision, but seeing the pain in her eyes, hearing the desperation in her voice, knowing how they’d left things and where she was headed now…not an entire barrel of ale could drown the wretchedness he felt.

Idris waved at the barkeep, signaling for another. Lord Haron had ordered none to meddle in her quest to the pool. If Idris interfered, things would only get worse for her. Eight days , Oderin had said. Idris could drink a lot of ale in eight days. Perhaps if he stayed drunk, the waiting—the agonizing —would be easier.

With a fresh pint in front of him, Idris took a long pull, downing half in one go. He set the glass mug down with a clatter. Fizz rose in the amber liquid like sparks. It was almost the color of her eyes, and backlit by the sconces behind the bar, the drink glowed almost as fiercely. Almost.

Idris swept his thumb across the condensation of the glass. The more he drank, the harder it was to get Anya’s words out of his head. They echoed as if she herself had magicked them there. Words about Mirrors. About their future. About Grinnick.

He wouldn’t have wished you further suffering . That was true. It was Idris who wished Idris further suffering. He deserved it, for what he’d done to his brother.

What had he done to deserve his father’s death, though? His mother leaving? The scorn of the baker’s daughter? The poverty and death that followed? It seemed that just by existing, by wanting love and connection, Idris had been a burden.

After so much abandonment and loss, the fight had left him, and Idris had given in to his grim reality. At least the Oath made him useful . Avoided his dangerous Fate. What a cruel irony that his proximity to monsters was what kept him from becoming one, himself.

She’s better off without you , Idris told himself.

He downed the rest of his fourth ale and clutched the empty mug, tempted to order a fifth. His head was beginning to spin, but the buzz hadn’t lifted his misery the way he’d wanted when he sat down—it’d only dragged him lower.

With a sigh, Idris fished a few coins out of his pocket and left them on the counter. Out in the cool night, an endless spray of stars above, Idris made his way down a side street. The frigid air sobered him, reminding him of the woods. He craved the fresh scent of trees and decay: the green sharpness of pine needles, the earthy sweetness of rotting leaves. He craved— fucking Fates —he craved Anya . Lemon and rose and the indescribable scent of her skin, that sweet-smelling nook between her neck and shoulder.

Idris glanced back, half tempted to return to the Ire and drown that craving in another drink. But at the other end of the alley was a figure striding purposefully toward him. They wore a breastplate that shimmered in the starlight and the hood of their cloak shielded their eyes.

Idris squared himself to the figure, sensing immediately that he was in danger. Even so, he was still surprised when he saw the blade flash. Slowed by bemusement and ale, Idris didn’t have a chance to draw his own weapon.

He ducked, feeling the wind of the figure’s sword by his cheek as he evaded the blow. He kicked out, his boot colliding with the attacker’s leg to knock them off balance. The hood of their cloak slipped, revealing long hair and dark eyes.

The woman recovered quickly—but so did Idris. When she swung at him again, he met her sword with Halgren. Their blades clashed with a wretched clank that echoed down the alley. Pigeons roosting along the rooftops took flight, wings thwacking as they scattered into the night.

Idris had plenty of experience fighting monsters, but it’d been a long time since he’d fought another knight. He’d left his breastplate at the barracks and—drunk as he was—he felt sorely disadvantaged. But where his opponent was faster and mentally sharper, he was bigger and more muscled. He used his weight and strength to slide Halgren sideways, shoving the woman’s weapon away. His shoulder injury protested with the sudden force, but like most things that pained him, he ignored it.

His attacker let out a grunt as she rushed him again, thrusting her sword out. He parried the blow, shuffling sideways on unsteady feet. He was just about to take his own strike at her when a blunt but awful pain shot through the back of his knee. He buckled—hard—as another knight joined the fray.

Idris landed on his hands and knees, palms bloodied, head spinning with the surprising throbbing in his leg. On the ground, the scents of the alley reached his nostrils. The mineral dust of stone. The sweet reek of vomit. Idris blinked, gathering himself.

“This is a gift from Heris,” the newcomer growled, and kicked Idris in the side.

Something cracked—a rib. Idris reached for Halgren’s hilt on the ground, swinging wildly. He managed to slice the newcomer—a short, stocky man that Idris didn’t recognize—in the thigh. He wailed and toppled as Idris scrambled to his feet.

Idris found himself surprisingly steady. His leg would be bruised, but the discomfort was fading. The sting in his ribs, on the other hand, made him wheeze—but it also sobered him more than the cold ever could.

Idris turned toward the woman, who was braced in a fighting stance, sword outstretched. Gritting his teeth against the inevitable agony, Idris swung at her with a guttural groan, pain screaming through his torso. She only barely blocked his blow, eyes wide. She must’ve thought this would be easier.

Idris lunged at her again, slashing and stabbing in a fruitless onslaught until finally the woman stumbled on an uneven cobblestone and went down. Idris leveled Halgren’s tip against her throat and glanced over his shoulder. The other man was still on the ground, clutching his thigh, blood gushing between his fingers.

Idris faced the woman again, recognition forming. The years had made the catlike bones in her face stand out in stark relief, her features no longer girlish but harsh. She had a new scar across her upper lip that added to her vicious appearance, a pale streak across tawny skin. Her brown eyes, on the other hand, were just as dark and deceptively doe-like as they’d been the day Grinnick died.

“Can’t say I’m glad to see you, Mariana,” Idris said, staring down the long length of Halgren’s blade at her face.

Her eyes narrowed. A lock of black hair had fallen across her face, a dark slash bisecting her features. “Heris sends his regards.”

“So, I’ve heard,” Idris replied, tipping his head in the direction of her felled partner.

Idris had first learned Mariana’s name from Grinnick. She was a deadly thief-turned-Valiant-Knight who’d worked her way up in Heris’s ranks, and back then, the affection for which Grinnick spoke of her had worried Idris. Mariana had been yet another stone on the scale that had tipped Idris into following his brother into the Bone Mountains. She and Idris had crossed paths a few times since then. He had no real reason to hate her other than her association with Heris, but that was plenty.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t run you through,” Idris said with cool calm, pressing Halgren’s tip against her throat enough to see the skin dip.

“Because you’re a good person,” Mariana taunted. There was a hardness in her gaze that even Idris did not possess.

“Where is he?” Idris demanded.

A rustling sound on the ground behind him drew his attention. Mariana’s partner was blood-slicked and crawling toward his weapon, which rested at Idris’s feet.

He kicked the blade away and refocused on Mariana, pressing Halgren against her neck with more force. A spot of blood beaded and slid down her throat and under the collar of her shirt. She lifted her palms in surrender, panting through her teeth.

“Where. Is. He?” Idris repeated.

“On the road.” Her grin was wicked.

He knew immediately what she meant. Heris was going after Anya.

“Why?” Idris ground out.

“She knows too much.”

The caravan attack. Brine. Those were hardly secrets held only by Anya. “So do others. So do many. Why her ?”

Mariana bared her teeth.

Idris increased the pressure on her neck, twisting Halgren slightly to open her wound wider, draw more blood.

Mariana spoke through quick shallow breaths. “Most know—only one slice—of the greater scheme. She knows”—Mariana hissed in pain—“more than any other civilian. She threatens—the uprising.”

“What uprising?”

“Run me through, Idris,” Mariana said. “I’ll say no more.”

Idris lifted his sword from Mariana’s skin and sheathed it. “Don’t follow me.”

She didn’t bother wiping the blood from her neck. “I don’t take orders from you.”

“Don’t do it for me. Do it for Grinnick.”

For the briefest of moments, her face softened, the girlishness she’d once possessed sweeping over her features.

Mariana’s expression loosened something in Idris. She missed Grinnick, he realized. And yet she still worked for Heris. She had been there that day. She’d seen it. Yet she’d ran off with the rest of the party, into the woods, far away from the mess they’d made. She served Grinnick’s killer to this day.

Her actions made Idris want to despise her, to kill her, but that flash of innocence, of true grief, gave him pause. It pleased him to know that he was not the only one who missed his brother. The only one who thought of Grinnick—even if only from time to time. Grinnick’s memory bound him to Mariana in some twisted way. But he’d be damned if he made the same mistake she had.

Idris would not choose his Oath over love. Even if he was Fated to lose Anya, he wouldn’t lose her without a fight.

Clutching his aching side, he stepped over Mariana’s partner and strode down the alley, back toward Castle Might. He knew she would not follow.

Idris breathed shallowly as he returned to the barracks, doing his best to ignore the ebb and flow of pain in his ribs as he moved. He donned his breastplate and gathered his things, then crossed the moonlit yard to the royal stables. He walked the long empty corridor between stalls, searching for a familiar face.

A soft nicker of greeting rumbled from the end of the walkway. Briar’s golden head poked out of a stall window, and Idris went to him, stroking the draft’s soft forehead. Briar’s tack was heaped on the ground outside his door, and Idris gripped the pommel of the saddle and carried it inside. He swung it onto Briar’s back, tightened the cinch, and secured the saddlebags.

You are quite valiant, Idris.

He clung to Anya’s compliment as he led Briar out into the night. He didn’t believe her—not yet. But he was determined to prove to her and himself that what she’d said was true.

He would give up his Oath for her. He would risk Fate for her.

But first, he’d use Halgren’s blue glow to clear all obstacles and light her path to absolution.