Page 4 of The Demon’s Collar (The Bard’s Demon #1)

Ero: Marked and Fated

“The illusion of choice is addicting. But as addictions go, there are far worse.” - a fragment of correspondence from a Temple Mother, preserved in the journal of Eroithiel von Dua

I woke up rocking to the beat of hooves beneath me. My entire body hurt. Probably because I was tied to a horse’s ass like a saddlebag—and had been for gods and devils only knew how long.

I groaned. Although B?k stiffened momentarily, he made no move to stop.

When I realized my situation wouldn’t improve anytime soon, I closed my eyes and wrote a song in my mind to the horrid beat.

The ride thudded on and on, and so did my song.

By the time we slowed, I’d mastered the thing and almost wished I could try it in a drum circle.

But I had greater concerns, obviously. Among them was how the bet—if you could call it that—would resolve.

How was B?k’s wound? The question filled me with dread as the beast below me finally stilled.

Of one thing, I was absolutely certain. If any part of Fl?r entered my mouth, I would bite it off. Consequences be damned.

B?k leapt from the horseback and hauled me unceremoniously to my feet.

“What do they call you?” he demanded without looking at me as he relieved the actual saddlebags of their contents and loaded them into his many pockets.

“E-Ero,” I gritted out through muscle spasms.

“Arrow?” He lifted a brow, musing, probably the same as I had when I’d heard him called “book.” I, an arrow that couldn’t shoot. He, a book I couldn’t read.

“With an E,” I groused.

He snorted softly and adjusted the pack that covered his wound. My gaze fell to it nervously.

I’d never been a fan of mystery or anticipation, so I simply asked, “Is it better?”

He stepped toward me, and I stepped back—which placed me dangerously close to the tired horse’s hind legs. B?k didn’t smile or even smirk, but I caught a glint of amusement in his gaze.

“A bit,” he said.

I swallowed. What did that mean for his threat? Based on his expression, my anxiety was the point. The fucker was toying with me.

I dropped my gaze. Fine. If he wanted to draw it out, I would wait.

He made an approving noise. Clearly, he liked my deference. After a moment, he slid my lute out of his cloak and held it out to me .

“I’m not carrying this,” he said. “Put it on. And do not play it unless I give you express permission. Do you understand?”

I took it, barely stopping myself from running my fingers over every inch of the polished wood. Gods. I’d missed it. I wanted to wax the wood and flick the strings and scream all at once.

Get it together, Ero.

The air chilled, and I looked up to find him still waiting for my answer to what had apparently not been a rhetorical question. His onyx eyes glittered with warning.

“I understand,” I said, before he could reconsider and pluck the instrument from my hands.

It was only then that I realized he’d given me a direct order, and I’d felt no compulsion from the collar.

Not that I knew exactly what that would feel like, but I supposed it would feel like something .

I’d made a choice not to run my fingers over the lute.

That wouldn’t have been necessary if he’d compelled me.

So…did that mean he was honoring my request?

My heart beat faster. Stupid heart, in its quick search for hope.

It’d always been my least reliable organ.

My gut— that I could rely on. My gut told me the lack of compulsion didn’t mean anything.

At best, it meant I would have a little bit longer with my mind intact—assuming I did everything he asked willingly—and didn’t bore him enough to make him seek a new form of entertainment at my expense.

“Come on, better to do the branding tonight than just before a ride,” he said.

I turned to follow for a beat before his words sank in.

“Wait. The branding ?—?”

A scream rang out from the fire pit. Haloed in the evening gloom, a short line of prisoners in various states of ravishment lined up, eyes trained on the front of their line where the screamer stood held in place by two men as a third pressed a red-hot metal brand to his forearm. The blood drained from my face.

“In line,” B?k said.

He watched me curiously. I did not move.

The air thickened with his anticipation.

“Why?” I hissed. “I have the collar. I—you’ve already?—”

“The collar is mine ,” he pointed out. “You cannot stay in a Fated camp without belonging to the Fated.”

I scanned our surroundings, desperate for something I could use to get out of this. Of the many forms of torture, burning was second only to madness on the grand list of Things Ero Avoids.

The factionites in the camp largely ignored the screamers.

Likely, they were commonplace after a day of raids.

These must have been prisoners someone had opted to keep rather than sell to the mines.

At a glance, I could guess what some were being saved for.

There were those with obvious brute strength who would do good work keeping the animals and carts moving.

A few pretty ones whose fates I didn’t want to think about.

Still others who looked wary but intelligent.

Perhaps they’d begrudgingly leveraged their healing or magic talents to keep themselves above ground.

One creature with horns looked rather like he might have secret plans to burn the whole place down. Best of luck to horn guy.

Around us, people settled and set up tents, made smaller fires, and arranged makeshift tables for their dinner. On the far side of the main fire pit, I spotted another line. A woman straddled a bench, inking initiate lines on a young man’s arm while two others waited.

“If I have to—” B?k started, and I tasted his lazy growl.

“Ink me,” I blurted. “I’ll speak the oaths. I’ll join properly. ”

What did it matter to me? I’d pretended to join the Huntress faction before only because doing so in truth would have rooted me for too long in one place.

But I had neither loyalty nor aversion to any particular faction.

Unless the alleged “great war” doomsayers liked to wax on about actually materialized—which seemed unlikely—being faction might have its perks.

Anyhow, if I would belong to the Fated by evening’s end one way or the other, why shouldn’t I join willingly rather than allowing them to brand me as a slave?

B?k stepped toward me. He seemed to quite enjoy using his size and proximity to intimidate. This time I didn’t step back. I just looked up at him. I even tried to do the doe-eyed thing softer, prettier girls used on adventurers in the pubs. Just for a little pizzazz.

I softened my voice considerably. “Please?”

“I suppose you did heal me,” he said. “However inexpertly.”

It wasn’t a yes. And I wasn’t stupid enough to think anything was guaranteed. I held the demure pose.

He took my wrist and turned it over. His thumb traced the outline of Haz’s mark. I shivered.

The air grew heavy and almost warm just for a moment. Was that a sign of his pleasure? Of acceptance?

“Alright then,” he said. “Get in that line. Find me after you’re marked.”

It turned out I was supposed to know the vows stepping up to that line. Lucky for me, the man ahead of me was a Nervous Nester and mumbled them under his breath over and over for a good ten minutes before it was his turn to speak them.

When the woman stood ready to accept my vow, she stared with obvious interest at my collar first. She looked back in B?k’s general direction and then to me again—but she did not ask whatever was on her mind, and I did not volunteer information. I simply spoke my vows.

Death to the old ways.

Death to the life before.

Live will I in the light of wartime.

Live will I under the Fated’s gaze forevermore.

They were stupid vows.

But then, to my mind, most vows were stupid. Vows were promises uttered in the heat of a moment, meant to last for some alleged “ever after” when in reality people changed all the time, minute by minute. Desires changed. Nothing was ever more than temporary.

“Careful,” the woman murmured, even as she pricked my skin with the first drop of ink. “Your mind is unguarded, and your face might as well have writing across it.”

Warmth flooded my cheeks. It wasn’t the first time I’d been accused of lacking even the most basic gambling face.

I could lie , of course, when I wished to.

Yes, with effort I could put on a good show.

But most of the time, I knew my face spoke my thoughts.

I just hadn’t expected their meaning in this moment to be so obvious.

“You belong to B?k,” she stated—not a question. “Interesting.”

I hissed when her needle struck a sensitive patch. I hoped that obscured whatever my face might have had to say about my “belonging” to B?k.

The tattooist finished the outline and looked up at me. Scars marred one side of her face. That wasn’t uncommon across our war-torn continent, but the dark curved pattern of these scars made me uneasy .

“Free advice,” she said so quietly that I knew the man behind me could not hear. “Don’t underestimate him. Lord Austvix’s wrath is fearsome. B?k’s is deadly.”

I stepped back. Whereas my face showed all, hers was a perfect mask. Had he done this to her? The bitterness in her tone suggested so.

I had so many questions, but the woman turned to the man behind me and motioned him forward into a space that he could only occupy if I stepped aside. She’d intended to end a conversation, not begin one.

I turned back toward the camp with a renewed sense of unease.

Run , both my heart and gut said. It was so rare to find them in agreement that I faltered.

B?k was nowhere in sight. No one was watching me. He had not compelled me to stay. I wouldn’t be able to remove the collar—but how far could it reach? Surely he couldn’t bid me return from just anywhere.

My heart galloped as I moved through the crowd.

I walked fast, but I didn’t run. I flowed with the others, allowing their momentum to push me deeper into the encampment.

I wasn’t sure when I crossed the line from considering to doing, but at some point I knew I’d already made my choice.

Once I realized that, I drew my lute into my hands and strummed.

Under my breath, I sang a song imbued with luck. Its familiar flutter lightened my heels and pushed me on, occasionally guiding my step away from something as small as a puddle of muck or as treacherous (presumably) as a wrong path.

The tents lined the sprawling field right up to the edge of a dark wood. I stepped into the trees without hesitation, trusting my song to guide me true. Toward freedom, away from wolves and demons and worse.

My mind skipped three steps ahead as I ran.

I could deal with the new ink on my wrist later.

It was fresh and would take time to fade—but it would fade.

My skin did not hold ink well. I’d gotten Haz’s gauntlet refreshed on my wrist every single year at the temple, and even so, by my next birthday I knew it would be as pale as a normal person’s decades-old tattoo.

The deeper I got in the woods, the louder I played. It seems counterintuitive, I know, but luck told me the way—and I had to trust in her.

After all, luck had never yet betrayed me so deeply as she would that night.