Page 14

HENRIK

S oldats ringed Britt in a thrumming cluster. Strain lined their faces, underlying rigid arms and jerky movements. The crackling tension hit a fever pitch now that Vilhelm entered the room, and Britt stood at the cusp.

Henrik didn't like it.

Not one bit.

None of them would intentionally hurt Britt, but in a crowd this size their overpowering presence and sheer force might push her into the square. They could press too close, knock her over, trample Denerfen, any number of things.

He really didn't like it.

Britt didn't strike him as the type of woman to blanch at the brutality of grappling, so her quick note of fear probably had more to do with Denerfen than her own safety. He didn't understand why she held some innate trust in him.

Not a lot, but enough.

As Vilhelm shoved through the crowd, the chaos swelled to a deafening surge. Britt had a look of overwhelm, not quite panic, as she struggled against the inevitable swell. Maybe he should have warned her. Einar shoved his body between her and a soldat named Tonio with a shout, preventing her from falling, but it didn’t quell the sudden aggression in the room.

Henrik started forward, ready to yank her into the relative safety of the ring, though no one would welcome a woman entering the sacred circle.

Who cared?

They could jump off a cliff. If she?—

A split formed in the crowd, right down the middle. Taking advantage of the relative calm, Einar clasped an arm around Britt's elbow and spirited her away. She stumbled, broke eye contact with Henrik, and righted herself as Henrik tore his focus away.

Vilhelm birthed free from the parted soldats with a ferocious scowl, his upper lip curled into a half-snarl.

Norr’s breath.

Was Vilhelm a child? Yes, but a large one.

Vilhelm strode arrogantly into the square. Soldats peeled from side to side, making way. Vilhelm’s nickname killer had whispered through a few conversations before the grappling started. It failed to frighten him.

Puffed up with youth and folly, Vilhelm eyed Henrik.

"Will you fight?"

He had a tight voice, like a man barely restrained. Young, eager. Ready to prove all those years of torturous training with the freedom they unleash on new recruits. Like jumping into deep water the first time. He thought he was ready, but almost drowned. Henrik had been just like that not too many years ago.

Vilhelm's question held more than the promise of the biggest match of the year. The match was an opportunity for Henrik to keep his position, less an opportunity for Vilhelm to make a name for himself, though it could provide that. If Henrik won five levels of competition, with the youngest, freshest, and toughest at the end, he'd keep his soldat position of honor and break Oliver’s record of four.

And for what? whispered a deep question.

One he'd never asked before. There was no answer. Soldat pride was all, though soldat pride never once filled a hungry belly.

He couldn’t deny the ringing silence in his mind after the question. The subcurrent that flowed beneath it. Clearly, Vilhelm represented something else to the soldats, because half the room thundered at the sight of him. The rest lay silent, including Einar.

Henrik knew only that he wanted to grapple against Vilhelm, because soldat was all. Stenberg was all. He had something to prove.

That was it.

Henrik inclined his head once.

"I'll fight."

Henrik turned his back to Vilhelm, grabbed an offered towel and glass of water. He chugged, drenched himself with it, and wiped the blood free. Einar materialized at his side.

"You have to win, Henrik."

"Or what?"

"Prove you’re more powerful than Oliver and prove you’re more powerful than Vilhelm.” Einar gripped Henrik on the shoulder and leaned in, so close only Henrik could hear. “Do this, and then I can tell you everything. I’ll explain all of it. Tonight, we have to undermine Vilhelm’s power in the sight of the other soldats. All right?”

The vague and mysterious promise dissipated out in the growing calls, demands for a fight, and foot stamping. As quickly as he came, Einar vanished. The floor trembled with demanding stomps.

Henrik spun around, ignoring his groaning body. He didn't acknowledge the pain yet, because that came later. A box hummed deep in his gut. The box of agonies. The box of pain. It formed the moment Selma screamed for him and his life, as he’d known it, funneled into that box. Henrik shoved all of it. Down, down deep. Adjacent to Selma.

To questions.

The soldats long trained him to stave it off. Later, the pain would barrel over him in an agonizing pulse, when the requirement of proving oneself didn’t demand her due. But not now. Right now, he grappled.

Vilhelm met his gaze as Henrik clenched his bruised knuckles, probably one broken. He ignored that, too.

Time to focus on the grapple.

* * *

Vilhelm had all the predictable energy of youth, coupled with speed, tenacity, and fresh motivation. His desire to prove himself would eventually become a weakness. Vilhelm would put winning over strategy and reveal his shortcomings through frustration.

The match began slowly, with testing strikes. A reach, flash of legs, thwarted takedown, and lilting rise and fall of men in the background. Henrik set aside thoughts of Britt, of honor, of the dark box in the gut and honed into instinct, bone, and sinew. He danced into the fight like a ribbon, fluttering from here to there, delighting in the pressured movements and light intricacy. It was the closest to berserk he recalled being.

He flirted with the inner power.

Vilhelm revealed himself, as Henrik hoped, through impatience. Prolonged time without total domination set Vilhelm on edge. His eagerness longed to win right now . Winning wasn't enough, but takeover. He planned to crush Henrik and show a conquering, indefatigable spirit within minutes of arrival.

Big dreams, big plummets.

Henrik played into the fatigue, keeping each movement low and intentional. Certainty made Vilhelm lazy. Henrik’s moment to strike came after a failed takedown. Vilhelm pranced forward, attempting to lock Henrik’s legs and pull him onto his back. Henrik’s spine hit the floor, and he rolled, resetting the two-count timer kept by three different soldats around the circle. With a shove from his hips, he regained his feet, and swiped a leg before Vilhelm fully recovered himself.

Vilhelm flailed, attempting to compensate for Henrik’s burst of unexpected speed. The moment of imbalance drove Henrik off the ground, an arm around Vilhelm’s upper body. He lifted, slammed. Immediately, Vilhelm attempted to roll onto his arm, ripping his shoulder blades off the ground.

Dirt puffed around him, staining his tawny skin and thick curls.

The timer reset.

Thighs pressed to the ground, Henrik threw his weight on top of Vilhelm. Their hands grappled, but he smothered Vilhelm’s chest, pinning both blades.

One.

Two.

Two of the three soldats slammed their hands to the ground.

“Complete!” one roared. “Henrik for five!”

Vilhelm, flat on his back, wheezed a breath and shoved Henrik off. For all that energy, it ended simple and quickly. Henrik’s experience trumped Vilhelm’s desire. Uproars exploded. Arguments broke out between soldats, and several feet almost crossed the sacred circle. Einar shoved bodies off of Britt, who tried to duck away from the rabid onslaught pushing forward.

Seeing her inevitable peril, Henrik crossed the square in two strides, grabbed her by the waist, and twirled her into his arms. With a gasp, her feet dangled just above the floor, her chest pressed to his. Her eyes, wide as saucers, were a breath away. The rise and fall of her rib cage expanded against his bare chest. Heat and dust and sweat radiated from him.

Chaos continued, breaking into brawls.

Thudding fists.

Shouts.

Einar dodged a blow, landing his own.

Henrik whispered, “I’m going to lower you, but stand on my feet. Don’t touch the ground. The soldats consider the circle sacred, and only for fighters.”

“Denerfen,” she breathed, “he’s going to bite me. He’s scared.” Her eyes widened. “What do I?—”

In three quick steps, he slipped to the other side of the circle, set her on a discarded table in the corner, and covered her with his body. The broad plane of his body blocked her from view.

“Grab him. Quick.”

Hastily, she obeyed, gently extracting the dragul from her neck and sliding him into the pocket of her dress. He thrashed, hissing, blaring tiny sprouts of fire and steam that would have been amusing in any other circumstance. Carefully, she tucked him into her pocket, navigating flailing wings.

Relief crossed her features as she set a hand outside her pocket to settle the squirming.

“Thank you.”

He set a bent finger under her chin and tilted it higher, surveyed her. His arms shook. A little too gruffly, he asked, “Anyone hurt you?”

Her hair swayed as she shook her head. “No. Einar protected me. And one other, the one that stood by him, he helped too. Just now.”

The gods, but he wanted to kiss her. Seal the violence with her warm lips. De-escalate his raging blood, frothing questions. There was so much . . . A shout from behind stopped his lowering head.

Anarchy.

The room had split into two sides. Einar and a handful of others against the rest. Shite, but hadn’t Oliver told him to keep control? It wasn’t unusual for fights to break out after bets went awry, but this?

He held up a finger and growled.

“Don’t. Move.”

A surprisingly agreeable nod replied.

Henrik whirled around. With a thunderous roar, he shouted, “Silence!”

The bedlam settled. Panting shoulders, heaving breaths, and glazed eyes stared at him, shocked by the forceful command. Einar shoved a soldat off him with a sneer and peeled himself away. When one soldat attempted to lunge for another one, Henrik intercepted the swing and shoved him into the wall. The wild soldat crashed into a chair. As he rose to retaliate, Henrik raised a fist. The fool slithered back to his seat.

“Control yourselves,” he barked. “We’re honorable soldats, not drunk fools upset about a fight. Clear out, every bastid in here. If I hear of another problem happening tonight, I’ll take you to Oliver myself.”

Grumbling ensued, turning into a parting of hostilities. Reluctantly, the soldats veered away from each other. On one side, Einar and his men. The same group that stayed behind for Arvid’s memorial. On the other, the rest. Vilhelm stood in the midst of them, one eye bubbling from a hit.

He panted. “It’s not over, Henrik.”

Henrik scoffed. “Yes it is, boy. Get out of here, and take your fools with you, if that’s what this has become. You had your chance, you lost it. You’re impatient, arrogant, and overconfident. Learn, or you’ll fail again.”

Hissing, Vilhelm spun on his heels. The rest of them filtered out with him, casting wary glances back.

Henrik stood in the middle of the square, seething. His boiling blood lowered gradually. Einar stepped forward. Henrik didn’t understand the relief in his gaze as Einar clasped him in a hug.

“Later, brother,” Einar whispered. “You’ve earned it.”