Page 13

brITT

A room of men awaited.

No.

Soldats.

An entire pub space teeming with the most elite sailors in the Stenbergian isles standing less than a few steps away. Their elaborate braids, long hair, and natural swagger gave them away. General Helsing would have words for Britt right now, and they wouldn’t be flattering.

She’d left Tesserdress at the cottage—she’d be safest there, sleeping. Tess’s mellow personality meant she’d remain in the same spot, unbothered. Denerfen, on the other hand . . . While she didn’t want to bring him with her, she had little recourse. The impetuous dragul couldn’t be trusted alone on Stenberg.

Britt steeled herself for the evening.

She smiled, her lips fixed, and hoped she didn't look intimidated. Henrik’s hand pressed to the small of her back as he pulled her closer to his side. The minute shadow of protection sent a cold rush through her stomach, but didn't aid her frazzled mind. Such defensiveness was obligation, not desire.

Henrik gifted an approaching soldat with a sincere smile that said more than words. "Einar. Good to see you, brother. Ready to lose?"

Einar slapped a hand on Henrik’s shoulder. “I will only ever lose to you, Henrik. That’s a promise. Alas, I am not fighting tonight.” A defiant sort of sparkle filled Einar’s eyes. “I’m just hoping that you can win.”

Einar defied most soldats with brilliantly blonde hair tied into a knot at the top of his head. Darker undertones sprouted from the roots, and his green eyes reminded her of the spongy carpet of Kapurnickkian mountain moss. His casual stance and ready smile was a near-perfect antithesis to Henrik’s thoughtful intensity.

Einar reminded Britt of someone who laughed at the world, while Henrik contemplated it too deeply to find the hilarity.

Perfect dichotomies.

“You aren’t grappling tonight?” Henrik asked.

Something dark flickered through Einar’s eyes before he covered it up with a grin. “Nah. Not tonight. You’re full enough.”

Henrik lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Stacked you five high.”

“Five?” Henrik retorted. “I have five grapples?”

Einar’s neck remained taut as he nodded. His focus didn’t waver from Henrik’s momentarily astonished expression. The surprise bled away as quickly as it surfaced. Britt kept her aggregating questions to herself. Apparently, five grapples was more than usual.

“There are five soldats that want to challenge your title, but there are only two that might tire you out. Tonight is really about you and Vilhelm, which is the final fight. You remember watching him the other day?”

Einar met Henrik’s questioning stare, and an unspoken something passed between them. “You and Vilhelm,” Einar repeated firmly. “That’s it.” More sprightly, Einar added, “If you win all five, you’ll defeat Captain Oliver's title of four grapples.”

Henrik frowned.

Britt cleared her throat. With a start, Henrik’s palm landed between Britt’s shoulder blades.

"Einar, this is Britt.”

Britt broadened her smile, infusing it with sincerity. Any person that could extract a smile from Henrik deserved her time. Einar blinked, glanced to Henrik, then Britt again.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

Henrik’s smile tightened. “I’ll explain later.”

“A pleasure,” she said, arm extended.

Einar gathered his shock, shook his head to clear it, and accepted her hand. Instead of grasping her hand, he pressed a quick kiss to the top of her fingers. With sparkling eyes, he said, "Any woman worthy of Henrik's attention is someone to take notice of. Forgive my surprise.” His studious gaze flickered briefly to Henrik. “I had not heard your name before. It's good to meet you, Britt. I look forward to getting to know you better."

“I feel the same.”

Einar gripped her hand more firmly, tucked her arm under his, spun on his heel, and called over his shoulder.

“Prepare yourself, you bastid. The fights are starting soon. I’ll take care of Britt. Agnes will kill me if I don’t introduce Britt right now.”

Einar peeled her away. Britt caught a perplexed glance on Henrik’s face before a swarm of soldat’s separated them. Clearly, Henrik trusted Einar, which said quite a bit. Just as clearly, it seemed that Henrik had never brought a woman to a grappling event before.

How droll.

Einar swept her along the edge of the Old Pub, which carried a new vivacity thanks to the voracious occupants. Two separate groups congregated on either side, almost equally matched. The open windows and shifting sea air prevented it from becoming a broiling heat miasma. If they’d been in Kapurnick, arcane-infused stones might sing different types of music, or the stoneware mugs move on their own to new owners.

Stenberg.

So boring .

In the midst of at least twenty gathered men, a broad circle was drawn within an open square. Chalk lines, sketched on the ground, smudged in places where feet had clearly trod. A ring of men surrounded the square, preventing anyone from casually stepping inside.

"While it may not seem like it, there are women here, too,” Einar said with a quick smile thrown over his shoulder.

“Oh?”

“Not many,” he amended. “Soldat grappling is . . . a bit much for most.”

She silently filed that tidbit away for later. How could a group of brute force men not draw women of equal power and strength?

Einar waved aside two burly soldats who split apart, allowing her through. She had a feeling they wouldn’t have budged if Einar’s wide shoulders hadn’t been the one barreling toward them.

"You'll probably enjoy sitting with them better than us,” Einar said, but his voice had a searching note. “Unless, of course, you're a woman that loves to gamble?”

Did he tease?

Or genuinely inquire?

She assumed the latter.

“I’m not opposed to a little gamble,” she said. “If it’s Henrik we’re talking about. I can’t fathom the man that would beat him.”

Her sincerity rang in every word. Einar laughed. A rising ruckus elevated from the middle of the room, nearly washing the sound out. A cacophony of cheers erupted as two half-naked men entered the square, slapped each other on the cheek with three quick taps, and crouched. Einar slid her behind a waist-high stone partition that separated the inside from the outside.

She followed reluctantly. She did love a worthy risk.

Within three steps, the scenery changed utterly. Instead of a mass of teeming, sweaty bodies that smelled like overheated men, a floral scent filled her nose. Fresh air, a moving breeze, and the roaring ocean followed.

Still gripping her hand, Einar led her onto a wide veranda. The glorious space sprawled onto a sandy beach that belied the Old Pub’s ramshackle appearance. She hadn’t realized it sat so close to the ocean. Foamy waves hurled themselves at the sand bar, slurping. Behind them, the high, stony rills and cobblestone streets of Stenberg cast long shadows.

Women freckled seats and tables outside. Two pub workers distributed drinks amongst the women. At a quick glance, these women were prime Stenberg islanders. Broad cheeks, elegant profiles, and a shared motif of high island fashion.

Since a rather young age, General Helsing taught Britt to fear nothing. She actively explored unknown islands, put herself into situations she had to figure out through sheer cleverness, and understood that no one or anything was better than another.

Yet, everything about these women set alarm bells tolling. These were not women to trifle with. Powerful through the shoulders, they held themselves with firm confidence and attitude that, like their male counterparts, lacked no toil.

She'd really rather gamble with the men.

Einar pulled Britt forward. "Ladies, this is Britt. Britt, these are the highest quality of Stenberg citizens. Forgive my bias, but Agnes is the greatest of these.”

A woman with auburn hair beamed. She had a charming gap in between her upper teeth. Agnes, presumably.

All eyes turned to Britt. She cranked her smile to full strength and met each curious stare. None of them spoke, but their deepening curiosity said enough.

The women varied as much as the men, from short and plump to tall and willowy. Few similarities existed, except a general ambiance of affluence. A certain privileged status came to a woman who caught a soldat’s attention.

Einar released Britt’s hand. In the gesture, she thought she heard a moment of tension tightening his voice ever-so-subtly. "Make her welcome while the fights continue, will you?" His voice lowered to a teasing and conspiratorial whisper. "She came with Henrik."

He may as well have slapped her.

Curious stares widened. Two gaped. Another gasped. Littered whispers of “Henrik?” “Did he say Henrik?” “ Our Henrik?” tore through the group.

The feeling of a closing ring surrounded Britt. Curiosity morphed to fascination. Einar, chortling, abandoned her to the swelling tones of a worsening fight. The woman with overt auburn in her hair hurried forward.

“Britt, I’m Agnes. Welcome to the ladies’ lair.”

* * *

Whether Henrik understated his position in the soldat society, or he simply didn’t care, Britt realized his popularity within five minutes of Einar’s departure.

The purrs of the women's cat-like prying clued her in first. They closed in on her like predators, eyes gleaming with renewed interest. She staved off feelings of utter panic by matching their smiles. These women had a hardness about them, not unlike the soldats. To be the lover or wife of a soldat would require an entirely different sort of person.

Give her sharks, dervishes, or hissing camels any day.

But this?

"So," a woman drawled. She hadn't moved any closer, standing like a shadowed goddess from a few steps away. When she spoke up, other lips closed. "You're here with Henrik?"

“I am.”

“But . . . how?” cried another, laughing. “Henrik?”

Their inability to believe it confirmed many suspicions. Perhaps the ladies’ lair would be more beneficial than she expected.

Bless Agnes, she put an arm around her shoulder and held on. “We love Henrik,” Agnes said, her brown eyes kind, but firm. “He’s sort of the . . . silent, quiet type. We just didn’t expect him to bring a woman to the tournament, that’s all.”

“He never has,” piped up another.

Murmured agreements.

“I’m Monika,” said the luscious woman a few steps away. Her hourglass hips swayed as she studied Britt, lush lashes lowered, scrutinizing Britt with a cutting intensity. "We're a bit protective of him. He’s never spoken of an interest in a relationship.”

"He's like a brother to us," called a woman at the back. “And to our men.” She held onto a silver goblet, filled with deep ruby wine, and lifted it higher, as if in salute. Britt noted the affection. Whoever Henrik was to these women, they cared.

A flicker of amusement lingered in Monika’s gaze, but it lacked warmth. She slunk back to the couch where she’d laid before. Like Einar, Agnes grabbed Britt’s hand and pulled her along.

Deciding it was too soon to tell the difference between friend and foe, and being on her guard would make everything worse, Britt allowed Agnes to lead her to a scrolled couch with her back to the sea. When Britt sat, seven women converged, their eyes glittering, drinks already half empty.

Inside, soldats packed more tightly than ever around the fighting ring, which thudded a musical rhythm from groans and thrown fists. A quick peek revealed no signs of Henrik. The separation of soldats and women must be intentional.

"Tell us about you and Henrik," Agnes asked with a guppy-like intensity that washed Britt’s concerns to the side. She was a harmless young woman that wanted a romance story. Smugness slipped through Britt.

Ha!

Stenberg women did want to know the romantic story behind them meeting. Islanders were islanders everywhere.

Monika waited with an equally intense stare, but her lingering curiosity spoke to darker reasons. Several women clustered near Monika in an informal semicircle. Her position over the others was clear. In this group, Monika was the shark. The matriarchal power. Others flickered their eyes to her first, before agreeing to Agnes' request for a tale. To which soldat did Monika belong?

Britt said in a surprisingly clear voice, "Henrik and I met on a ship during his return voyage."

Agnes’ smiled wider with starry-eyed excitement. A suppressed shiver, and dreamy sigh, completed the innocent vixen ensemble. Somehow, with what little Britt knew about Einar, Agnes seemed just right.

“Henrik’s been the reefer for the last year,” said a woman with a glimmering blue necklace and matching eyes. “Was that how you met him?”

Britt nodded, withholding the timeline. No need for them to know she and Henrik had been acquainted for only a few days.

Two women cooed.

Most glared, eyes slitted. One of Monika's hands lowered to her abdomen, which had an obvious swell. She was pregnant. Henrik's explanation about wives and their secusos rippled through her head in a reminder . Implications about Monika and her soldat existed because of her pregnancy. Britt didn't have the mental capacity to figure them out right now, so she made a note and moved on.

"So," coaxed a different woman with lips lined black. "What happened?"

"What happened?" Britt asked.

"On the boat!" the woman cried, waving a hand. "How did you meet him? What did he say? My soldat says Henrik is always focused, always thinking. I’ve never heard him say more than a few words.”

"Was he a jerk?" asked another.

“Did he save you from someone?”

Britt softened into her most genuine smile. "No. He wasn't a jerk."

Technically, she silently added.

Sensing what they really wanted, and an opportunity to learn more, she added, “He took me by surprise. I can't recall the exact particulars of our first exchange, except that he didn't act the way I expected from a soldat.”

Agnes sighed. "The good ones always do that."

"Soldats are as predictable as the tide. Mine included," Monika added with a smirk. "But it's why I like him so much."

With a raised glass, Agnes murmured, "Here's to the good ones,” as if to dispel tension.

A woman with frizzy black hair and a wide smile handed Britt a goblet. Britt smiled her gratitude, and sipped a too-sweet dessert wine. Gems speckled the goblet in a gaudy display more humorous than serious.

Ladies’ lair, indeed.

"Are all of you here with soldats?" Britt asked, eyeing the bushy-haired woman that imparted the wine.

"All of us," she replied.

“You have to be,” Monika said with a smirk. “We don’t accept anyone else at the ladies’ lair.”

"There's not many of us left," a third commented. Sparkling earrings dripped to the tops of thin shoulders. “Women willing to be with soldats are dropping like flies. Captain Oliver works our men to the bone,” she added in a bitter mutter.

Monika sent the woman a cryptic look. “The soldats have been busy with increasing threats from the mainland,” she said in sharp reprimand. “It’s not easy being part of their world, but they’re a necessary force on the Isles. We will love and support our soldats and their commanders. ”

Her tone rang with authority.

Agnes tilted her head, scratching her hairline with a thumb, and whispered to Britt from behind her hand.

“Some of us get tired of waiting.”

Stony expressions aimed at Monika stated the same, though no one said it directly.

A woman in a turquoise dress stood. She pointed to each woman, introducing them and stating a male name after. Britt didn’t attempt to remember the individuals. With any luck, she’d never see them again after tonight. The woman, whose name Britt didn’t catch, finished with a falsely breezy, “And you met Monika. Vilhelm is her soldat.”

Vilhelm.

The soldat sparring against Henrik, who had some level of importance? Britt struggled to keep up.

A thunder of bellows and guffaws and slapping hands exploded from within. Celebrating men jumped up and down, laughing. Others frowned, spitting off to the side, muttering to themselves.

“Looks like Toby won," Agnes called with a chuckle and shook her head. "Not that anyone is surprised."

“That finishes up the recruits and ushers in the soldats,” said Edith, the woman with the long earrings to her shoulders. Her lithe neck turned to regard the inner workings of the pub with a frown. “Only five grapples tonight, all of them with Henrik.”

Britt almost choked on her wine.

Edith nodded. “Apparently, there’s some subterranean bet going around. Did you hear they stacked him five fights high? They’re the only grapplers that aren’t recruits. It’s strange. I’ve never heard of it happening before.”

Agnes sipped from her glass, eyes fluttering in brief assessment to Britt.

“Vilhelm won the last competition a few months ago.” Monika grinned with satisfaction. “I think we all remember that defeat. A precursor for tonight, I believe, when Henrik loses his attempt at Captain Oliver’s beloved title.”

Chirps of agreement followed from the women that half-surrounded Monika, poised like birds ready to fly. Whatever silent competition the women attempted to conduct on behalf of their men, Britt didn’t desire to comprehend.

Agnes asked, “Does Vilhelm still plan to fight Henrik?”

The air on the veranda changed. Agnes' question had such an obvious answer. Hadn’t Monika said as much? Agnes must have wanted something else besides the truth. A test, perhaps. Several women cast sidelong glances at each other. Two murmured from behind the couches, as if only Agnes would have the courage to break deep ice and walk on it.

Monika smiled with all her teeth. “No, he plans to win against Henrik.”

Agnes had another sip.

Britt accepted the threat for what it was. At that moment, a pair of eyes snagged hers from the broiling miasma inside.

Henrik.

He sought her through the crowd. With an elevated brow, he asked a silent question. Are you all right? Heat coiled into a knot in her belly. She smiled. It was easy to infuse it with warmth. For all his many frustrations, Henrik was a good man. Two men shoved Henrik from behind, removing him from sight. The chorus changed from cheering to a taunting chant. The bold refrain set her hair on end. It sounded like a premonition.

Monika set her other hand on her pregnant belly. "I’ve known Henrik for years now. He’s quiet, but universally respected. I admit that I’m surprised to meet a woman that caught his attention while he’s up for a promotion. For a very big promotion.”

“I’m aware.”

Britt cursed her quick response. The hasty reply left her wide open because she hadn’t known. He had a big promotion coming up? Henrik extrapolated next to nothing, and who was she to ask, anyway? But she couldn’t fathom looking like an idiot in front of this woman.

Amusement glittered in Monika’s black eyes. “You’re aware that His Glory wants Henrik to fill the role of Second Captain?”

Britt bit her tongue.

Blessed mermaids! Second Captain? The position was only a few steps below His Glory. The First Captain, Oliver, and Ingemar, the Fifth Captain but right hand to His Glory, were the only spots between Henrik and a ridiculous amount of power.

No wonder he entertained such paranoia around finding Selma.

"Are you legally bound to Vilhelm?” Britt asked instead.

Monika rolled into the topic change with no fanfare. “I am." She gestured around, encompassing all the women. "I'm the only one. There's another wife, but she rarely comes to these events.” Her lips compressed. “Bit too . . . strong willed."

Agnes stiffened.

"Anyway," Monika drawled, "back to Henrik and you. These soldats are interesting men, Britt. Unique, when you pit them against the isles at large, but oddly similar when you set them against each other. They think differently than most, which is expected, considering their lives and lines of work. Henrik?" She clucked her tongue against the top of her mouth. "He is altogether something else."

"Agreed," Agnes said quickly.

"In a good way?" Britt inquired.

Monika shrugged. "He sees the world through a broader lens than most soldats. Where they are focused on one or two possible solutions, typically physical, he thinks bigger. Finds many. It's why he's always the lord of the grappling ring. Can you blame His Glory for keeping him close?”

When Britt gave no response, Monika regarded her with an open and deep study. Her appearance of skepticism retreated every time Britt attempted to peg it down.

Denerfen nuzzled the back of Britt’s neck in a chilling reminder of his presence. The more stressed she became, the more likely he'd bite her. She regulated her heart rate and attempted to project calm. Her smell changed when she endured great anxiety, and Denerfen tracked it.

"How long have you known Henrik?" Monika asked.

“Feels like forever,” she immediately returned.

“And yet, it’s not.”

Monika waited, the air charged. Each woman listened in, eyes honed. Feeling as if she responded to a silent challenge, Britt fearlessly said, “Less than a month.”

Three women hooted. Another jaw dropped. Britt’s low, fixed smile remained. She bit the inside of her cheek to quell the details. She owed Monika nothing, and wouldn’t set a precedent of explaining herself. Something about these women set her teeth on edge, and she wouldn’t bow to it.

Not ever.

"Are you in love?" Monika asked.

Britt nearly swallowed her tongue.

"Love?"

Quietly, Agnes said, “She just arrived at the ladies’ lair, Monika. Give her a day or two to breathe and take it in.”

“I think I’ll take a walk on the beach.” Britt stood, set aside her goblet. The wine, so cloyingly sweet, burned her throat. “It’s stuffy over here.”

A smirk appeared in Monika’s gaze.

Britt left it at her back.

* * *

The sea breeze rustled Britt's hair as she gratefully stepped away from the Old Pub, drawing a pleasant hiss from Denerfen. He leaned into it, nearly toppling off her shoulder, as he peeked around her neck. Britt stopped at the edge of the water and braced into the wind as it whispered by.

“That was rough,” she breathed.

Denerfen agreed with a head butt to her jaw.

After a moment of solitude, Agnes made little sound as she stepped through the sand behind Britt, stopping shy of the tide.Britt curled her toes into the rushing water. Long moments passed in silence. Denerfen inched out of sight around her neck, breathing softly under the opposite earlobe to Agnes.

"I'm sure you noticed," Agnes said carefully, "that Monika carries a lot of weight amongst some women in the ladies' lair."

"I did."

"Her husband, Vilhelm, is young." Agnes lifted her chin into the wind. "Quite young. He joined the soldats just after Henrik left for his reefer year. Twenty one. She is twenty nine."

The designation of time was no accident.

Just after Henrik left.

Agnes continued with a succinct tone. “Monika has . . . taken Vilhelm under her metaphorical wing, I suppose you could say. They have a legalized relationship, but there’s no real affection. The two of them have societal aspirations, and the match is useful to both of them."

Not unusual in the isles, where advantage worked longer hours than love when it came to legalizing relationships, but strange in this circumstance.

"She's using him,” Britt said.

A hint of a smile graced Agnes's full cheeks. "You could call it that. I call it that.”

Britt hid a chuckle.

“One might say,” Agnes mused, “that Monika has more experience than Vilhelm in the world of soldats and politics, and she took a liking to him. Her first soldat, a man named Evert, died a year ago."

The clanging bells that Monika created rang with terrific cacophony now.

"Oh?"

Agnes laughed with fire. "Monika is a power seeker, as much as any soldat Captain or other Captain, but she’s a woman. We aren’t given many avenues to express initiative in Stenberg. The soldats give her status. When Evert died, she lost that status. She reclaimed it through Vilhelm."

“And his child?”

“If it’s a boy, she’ll give it to the soldats at five years old. The paperwork has already been signed.”

A part of Britt’s heart curled away.

How awful.

“What does she want that this life affords?” Britt asked.

“Who knows?”

"Vilhelm," Britt repeated, running the syllables over her tongue.

“Vilhelm and Monika are a sign that . . . things . . . are at work in the Stenberg navy. Politics. Unease.”

"Amongst the soldats?"

"Amongst everyone.” Agnes sighed with a chord of regret. Not quite fear, but not far off. "His Glory, the soldats, the sailors. There's restlessness.”

“Because of the mainland?”

“Yes.”

“What is the mainland doing?”

Agnes shrugged. “We don’t get details. His Glory simply says they’re making false demands and accusations.”

Britt almost laughed. She highly doubted any of that was true, but the unsettling words set the air on edge. She tilted her head to the moonlight, grateful that her thoughts cleared away from the heavy wine and deep perfumes.

"Do you fear Norr?" she asked.

A flash of a smile split Agnes lips.

"Do you?"

"No." Britt turned away. "I don't fear the Stenberg sea god. Outside of Stenberg, no one believes in him."

Agnes pointed to the foam pooling around her feet in the sand. "That’s brave, considering you stand in the water.”

"I don't fear him."

A bold statement that Agnes didn’t join or deflect.

“How did you meet Einar?”

Agnes' smile wreathed her face, brightening her eyes. “An accident, actually. I was purchasing a scarf at the market. A stall owner tried to swindle me. Einar stepped in, the man backed down, and I got the scarf for free for my trouble.”

Britt chuckled. “A perfect love story.”

“I saw him,” Agnes whispered, “and I knew my life had changed.”

Agnes’ patrician profile stood proudly in the moonlight. Set against the other Stenberg women in their fine regalia, she'd appeared diminutive, as if she made herself small in order to fit a piece of the mold.

Out here, something else appeared.

Ferocity.

Determination.

The same fire that Einar also attempted to hide through his cocky grin, but couldn't quite. It burned too brightly. Britt realized all at once that she'd fallen into the oldest trap in the book. Underestimating the sweet woman. The kind one.

Oh, yes.

Agnes deserved a soldat all right.

Agnes met her intent gaze, and a hint of a smile appeared on the sun-softened cheek, full as an apple.The rustle of Agnes' auburn hair was particularly gentle in the moonlight, glowing from the strands that surrounded her profile.

"Monika," Agnes whispered, sobering, "is an octopus in its lair, and I don’t mean the ladies’ lair. You're new, so consider it a warning. You pick your place by whom you associate with. Once chosen, grace is not extended."

Warning Britt was a calculated risk on Agnes’ part. If Monika wielded such power, and the fact that half a dozen women rushed to span Monika in a circle the moment Britt stepped onto the sand to take a breather confirmed it, then nothing stopped Britt from going right to Monika, telling her about the warning, and gaining a place amongst her acolytes.

A game existed here.

Oh, yes, it did.

Britt returned the tentative smile with a broad one of her own.

"Agnes," she whispered, "I think we shall be great friends indeed."

* * *

For being a little thing, Agnes had moxie.

She shoved Britt through the crowd of chanting, thumping, jeering soldats. Arms thick as tree limbs surrounded them, but Agnes elbowed fearlessly through the crowd. Seeing her, the soldats allowed them ample room to pass. Apparently, Henrik and Einar’s reputation sufficed.

The hard press of bodies sent Denerfen into spikes. His claws dug occasionally into Britt’s neck, and breathy, petrified protests filled her ears. The growing din drowned out his noisy distress from anyone but herself, and her jaw tightened with his heightened anxiety. She couldn’t speak to help his fears, so she sank into steady breaths and hoped he shared her calm.

With spectators ringing the room, Britt expected copious ale and sloppy drunkenness, but found only a vague smell of mead. None of the anticipated messiness manifested, reducing the ambiance to sheer brawn and raw talent. Everything felt far more intense without the blur alcohol provided.

Agnes brought Britt forward, to the powdered white ring, and touched a familiar pair of shoulders. Einar glanced over and smiled wide, wrapped an arm around Agnes, and pulled her close. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, earning a smile tinted with pure adoration. His protective nature was immediately apparent.

“There she is,” he murmured. With a knowing grin over Agnes petite head, he said a languid, "Ah ha. Lady Henrik arrives. Are you ready for the fights? They just finished resetting the circle.”

“Can I watch?”

“Of course. Stand here with me. I'll explain."

Agnes whispered something in his ear, squeezed Britt’s hand, and vanished. Britt attempted to hide her awkwardness as she stood next to Einar. She wished Agnes hadn’t deserted her. Where could she possibly go? To say Agnes fit in with Monika and the ladies’ lair would be a bald lie.

Men hemmed in on every side of Britt. With Einar standing close, nearly all of them ignored her. Her breath hitched as Henrik stepped into the square wearing a pair of tight, cut-off pants. Great god of the sea, his thighs bulged beneath the material. His arms tightened as he flexed, rippling across his chest. The man was raw brutality packed into sinew and frame. He cracked his head to one side, then the other. Concentration filled his eyes.

She pitied Vilhelm.

Another soldat, twice as thick as Henrik, stood opposite him. Henrik smirked, tilted his head. They slapped each others cheeks three times in mutual camaraderie, and split to opposite sides of the circle. The display of pure, animalistic force made her stomach tumble.

Finally, she met Henrik as a soldat .

A dynamo.

Henrik in this concentrated form put the idea of going berserk into an entirely different light.

With a shout from someone outside the ring, the grappling began. The shuffling exchange of bets passed around in murmurs and staccato words.

"Henrik is our best grappler,” Einar called over the raucous encouragement. “He's strong, but it’s his speed that stops most men. Tonight is different. Normally, a bunch of different fights are set up, and winners work through the flow. This time, five different soldats wanted to spar with him and only him. He accepted every demmed one of them, the arrogant bastid.”

Dizziness swept her at the thought. Trust a soldat to never pass up a chance for advancement.

“But . . . why?” she asked.

“Those soldats feel they have something to prove.”

Those rang through her mind. Somehow, it felt significant. A placeholder. A line splitter. Something to signify an us and them . Nearly as important as the flicker of irritation in his eyes. Einar shook his head, clearing it.

“In this match, he's grappling Ebba, who is above Henrik’s usual size.” Einar grinned like a happy child. “Which makes it more fun.”

"You grapple by size?"

"Usually. Except Henrik has been gone for a year and said he’s open to whoever, which means he’s defending his title. Soldats will take any opportunity to beat the trophy out of him. He has to accept any size in order to keep his standing.”

The ridiculousness of it wasn’t lost on her, but she bit the comment back. For soldats, it appeared to be a point of pride, and she wasn’t here to trounce on their culture.

“Do these soldats think he’s weakened because of his year away?” she asked.

Einar grinned. “Nah. No soldat would let that happen, but they are hoping he’s out of touch. His odds of taking it all the way are shite, but that’s Henrik. He’s best under pressure.”

A glaze of teeth brushed the back of her neck. Britt reached up, as if scratching her neck. Denerfen nuzzled, then nipped, her fingertips. She stroked a reassuring finger down his spine, and some of the prickling scales calmed. She hid a wince when he stepped on a hair and ripped it free. Bumbling baby dragul! Her eyes watered.

"No soldat has kept the title of best grappler after a year as the reefer," said a confident voice behind her, to no one in particular. "If Ebba doesn't win, Nils will."

Einar snorted, folded his arms over his chest.

“You’re on!”

Henrik and Ebba transitioned from tentative testing with jerky, forward movements and minute advancement to a full tangle. Arms, legs, bodies, thuds, grunts. She sought to keep her eyes on roving appendages as the match unfolded. The music of the crowd flowed with the intensity between both men.

As a girl, Pedr taught Britt to wrestle her way out of predicaments, mostly if someone attempted to subdue her or swing a fist. She sparred with Malcolm as a child, in the sand, during cooler evenings. In the summer, he would chase her through the surf, waves crashing their ankles, until he grabbed her under the arms, dragged her into the waves, and tossed her in.

The memories were a sublime reminder of why she stood here. Yet, as she watched Henrik tackle the giant soldat and win the match, she couldn't help but forget Malcolm.

This was Henrik.

The match ended with Henrik yanking Ebba off the ground and slapping his cheek with a bright smile. The defeated soldat grinned through a bloody nose as he exited the circle within a square. Boos and cheers rang simultaneously.

A second soldat with a hooded gaze and honed features entered the grappling space, his eyes dark as a midnight sea. Muscles rippled through powerful arms, with skin black as night. His fierce expression gave him a hungry appearance. He was all the more terrifying for his similarity to Henrik.

The grappling began.

“This is Nils,” Einar said, as an aside. “He’s been a soldat for twelve years. He’s good friends with Henrik. Fierce as the gods, but shite with a knife.”

She couldn’t fathom a world where one was described by prowess with a weapon. She winced as Nils brought Henrik to the ground by sheer persuasion of muscle. Henrik, seeming no worse for wear, moved with intentional but patient intent. This match had less of a back-and-forth intensity than Ebba’s and more of brutal power. It moved an inch at a time, instead of winging around, dancing.

“How does he win?” She winced as Nils’ back contorted at a strange angle while he attempted to wriggle behind Henrik.

“Pin the shoulder blades to the circle for two seconds.”

In a move so fast she reared back, Henrik hooked an arm around Nils back, lifted him off the floor with both arms, and flung his own body weight on top. Both slammed to the ground. Henrik jerked his body forward, smothering Nils upper limbs, until a soldat outside the square slammed a hand.

Shouting commenced.

The match ended.

Einar tilted his head back and laughed. He reached behind him with a hand. The grumpy soldat behind her left shoulder slapped something into it. Before she could see, it disappeared into a pocket.

Her attention locked to Henrik again. He panted as he gained his feet, but smiled. Sweat coated him in a sheen as he reached a hand down, muttering something. Nils, with a pained grimace, accepted the help.

“Figured that,” Einar cried, speaking to a nearby soldat on his left, who scowled. “You had bets on Nils? Shite. No one bets against my brother.”

The soldat responded with a rude gesture, and Einar roared with laughter.

His words echoed in Britt’s mind. My brother. She listened to the prattling bets, but couldn’t tear her eyes off Henrik as he stalked around, wiping sweat free, accepting a cup of water. His muscles rolled. Face twitched as he rearranged his concentration. Thus far, fatigue showed no signs.

“Three on a black eye with the next grapple,” the soldat countered with a bellow. “And two on blood loss from the face.”

“I’ll take that!” Einar cried.

Three of what? she wanted to ask, but the commotion had grown too loud. No wonder Agnes departed.

Another contender stepped closer to the square as Nils faded out. After Einar calmed, still shaking his head, she asked, “Is Vilhelm the final fight?”

“Yes.”

“Is he as good as Henrik?”

Einar’s eyes tapered as he pondered the question. "Vilhelm wants it," he said with a lift of one shoulder. “Whether he’s as fast? Remains to be seen.”

“Wants what?”

“Respect. He's had a hard time transitioning out of training." With flat lips, he added, "He needs it. Soldats aren't fond of his arrogance. He came out of training ready to be a hero, and he thinks he is. He’s sidled up to Captain Oliver and tried to become a favorite, too.”

"He can't be the first.”

Einar scoffed. “There's an art to arrogance. We're not interested in soldats that get it wrong.”

Get it wrong.

What a clear delineation. Britt couldn’t help but wonder if Monika had been Vilhelm’s attempt to get something right, or if she’d started Vilhelm’s problem in getting it wrong . Probably the latter.

Further study of the room revealed details she’d missed while focused solely on Henrik, such as an obvious gap in the middle of the crowd. Less than half of the soldats stood on this side, the rest on the other. An obvious separation existed once she sought it. The tense stares might be from gambling, but . . . maybe not.

She jerked a thumb to the grappling square.

“ This will buy respect for Vilhelm?”

“If he beats Henrik? Yes. It’s something to build off of, anyway. For some soldats, it would be redemptive. Amongst . . . other things.”

Other things hinted at desperation. She could almost taste Vilhelm's desire to belong. Couldn't imagine what it must be like, ripped from family at five years old, shoved into impossible situations, and forced to perform. To survive the hellish lifestyle and training that created these warriors would be winnowing enough, but pride and culture had its own breeding ground.

She felt for Vilhelm.

Even as she hated him.

The surge of protectiveness on Henrik’s behalf caught her by surprise. She had a hard time buttoning it up. Should she? If Einar saw her care about Henrik, it would help their mutual purpose.

Some time later, another thud.

A third takedown.

Henrik visibly recovered by crouching to take a deep breath. The losing soldat ignored his offer for help and stalked out, muttering. Several livid soldats followed, and she shuddered. Weren’t they supposed to be one in purpose? Could the soldats exist without mutual support from within? Other soldats scurried along the edges, trailing crushed white rock to reform the slightly marred circle.

Henrik drank deeply from a mug of water, doused himself with the rest, and shook out his arms as a fourth competitor entered the ring. Scuff marks created reddened spots over his cheeks, slashes across his back, a bruise to the side of an eye. So far, Henrik kept his back to her. Intentional? It seemed likely. She didn’t mind. The unparalleled opportunity to fade into the background and watch who Henrik truly was tempted her too greatly.

Denerfen gave a little cry. She reached for him again, and his nip was unmistakably pained. Her emotions heightened too much around Henrik’s fate in the ring. Deep breaths didn’t quell her racing heart.

A little longer, she silently begged.

The fourth opponent asked more of Henrik, requiring him to grapple for longer than the first, second, and third combined. The crowd of soldats settled in with hushed breath, painstakingly analyzing every move. She winced, watching each strategic and intentional move. As he raced into a hold, the opponent anticipated it. Henrik’s speed didn’t have the same zest and zing.

"He's tiring." Einar clucked under his breath. "See his eyes? They're drooping. He's dancing on his feet to keep his energy high, but he’s wasting it. He needs to focus.”

“Think he can do it?”

“Yes.”

“Will he?” she challenged.

Einar pursed his lips as he thought. Fresh bets, exchanges, and the smell of weak ale perfused the air, mingling with sweat and dirt and a hint of rabid hope. Soldats didn’t receive wages for their work, so what would they gamble?

She didn’t want to ask.

"Henrik'll win this round. Eventually,” Einar tacked on. “But it might cost him the win against Vilhelm.”

“Which is more important?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

Lightly, he said, “Henrik’s priorities.”

The comment stayed with her in the minutes after Einar’s response, while she attempted to put her attention to the grappling and understand it. Something else moved in the Old Pub background, swirling in the air between soldats. The same things that compelled an obvious separation and tension, perhaps.

All blurred to moving bodies and desperate faith.

Their entire profession, their lives, even the safety of their island nation, rested on a band of proven men that, from childhood, put their bodies through the rigor of pain and suffering in order to accomplish lofty goals. At some point, that breakdown would be a problem.

A big one.

Where did broken soldats go?

Who carried the lost?

The finalizing fight broke her concentration. The split in the room broke into deeper sides, betrayed with mutual groans or triumph. When Henrik's opponent took a hit, the majority moaned. When Henrik struggled, the soldats behind Britt echoed the pained refrain.

Tension built.

She had no idea why.

A cool brush against the back of her neck sent panic shivering through her. Affecting a tired yawn, she pretended to rub at a sore spot along her neck. She gripped her neck with three fingers, and probed for Denerfen with the other two. His rough tongue licked along her knuckle, and his nose nudged her finger bone in a precursor warning.

The absolute last complication she needed at this moment was invisibility.

Britt breathed deep, attempting to send waves of calm through her body. Tension bunched her shoulders, screwing her neck into a tight knot. No wonder Henrik warned her. A resounding thud drew her attention forward. The opponent’s giant body sprawled on the floor, arms wide. He panted heaving breaths.

Groans and cheers swelled. Henrik, palms pressed to his bent knees, panted on the side of the ring. Sweat and blood poured off Henrik’s shoulders. Streaks bubbled from a cut above his eyebrow that chugged over his left eye.

Britt gulped down her rising dread. If they didn't leave soon, Denerfen would bite her. He’d betray her secrets in front of a contingent of soldats. She could scuttle away, pull Denerfen from her neck, and shove him into a pocket, but then she’d miss the culminating fight.

The thrumming undertone meant this fight mattered , though she didn’t understand why.

Henrik lifted his head and looked right at her. As he did, a hush fell over the congregants. Bodies split this way and that at her back. The pressure of a moving crowd swelled, pressing into her from behind. She had it wrong.

Henrik didn’t look at her .

Someone else approached.