When I lived with Da in Briarlock, we might’ve been poor, but we never had occasion to sleep on the ground. Aside from my week of travel to Ironrose Castle, I haven’t had much experience with a blanket and a bedroll. Since the moment we rode out of camp, I’ve felt Tycho’s tense focus, and combined with the hard riverbed, I can’t get comfortable. It’s as if his anxiety is a silent companion that won’t stop kneeing me in the back. As it is, I don’t really drift off until the first sparks of sunlight appear on the horizon, just as the soldiers begin to wake, donning their gear and tending the horses.
From behind me, someone gives my hair a gentle tug, and for a breath of time, I think it might be Tycho. My heart gives a wary little skip, hopeful. But then Sephran says, “Time to wake up, Archer.”
I turn my face into the wool of my bedroll and make an unhappy sound. I don’t want to be the only one lazing around, so I throw my blankets to the side and sit up.
And there’s Tycho, sitting across the fire, tying his boots. His gaze is locked on his hands, every movement sharp and precise as he pullsat his laces, snapping them sharply around each boot hook, tying them off with cool efficiency before he jerks at the leather strap to fasten the buckle overtop.
He is very deliberately not looking at me.
Just like last night, when he wasalsovery deliberately not looking at me.
Everything has unraveled so quickly between us. Yesterday, I showed up in the courtyard, wearing the new armor Prince Rhen had delivered to the Shield House, my stomach dizzy with butterflies. I was wrestling with excitement and uncertainty about being included with the others, especially since I don’t have a clearly defined role here. I’m not a soldier— but I’m not just a blacksmith anymore either.
But Tycho’s tone was so chilly when he asked me to join them. Does he resent my presence here? Maybe. He’s hardly said a word since the moment we left— and even then, he wasn’t exactly friendly. He issued orders like we’d never met, and his voice was so cold.Do you need me to repeat it?
Then again, maybe that’s my fault. I did snap at him in the forge when he offered to translate.
My heart feels twisted up in knots.
I don’t realize I’m staring at him until his eyes flick up and meet mine. For an instant, his gazeburns. My breath nearly catches.
But then he looks away, planting his boots in the dirt to stand.
I scowl and reach for the false foot and my own boots. It takes me longer to strap everything onto my right leg, so I can’t go after him. I’m not even sure I want to.
My hair is a tangled mess from sleep, and I angrily twist it into a knot, jabbing a length of steel through it to hold it in place. Then I push to my own feet and head into the woods to take care of human needs.
It’s only once I’m there that I realize Tycho would’ve seen Sephrantug at my hair. He would’ve heard his comment and the warmth in his voice.
Guilt flares in my chest. Against my will, I think of the night Sephran pressed me against a tree and kissed me.
It was nothing. Itmeantnothing.
You are not happy, Sephran said. My pulse thumps, confirming that.
When I return to the fire, it’s clear that I’m slower than the others. They’re fully armed, their horses mostly tacked, their bedrolls put away. Only Tycho is still saddling Mercy. My own breastplate and bracers are still in the dirt beside my abandoned bedroll.
Heat flares on my cheeks, and I rush to tug the armor on.
“Hey,” says Sephran. “Slow. It’s all right. Here.”
I look up, and he’s holding out an apple, along with a chunk of cheese that looks like he broke it off a larger piece. I give him a sheepish smile. “Thank you.” I shove the food in my mouth, holding the apple with my teeth while I finish buckling the armor into place.
Malin was banking the fire, but he watches this interaction, saying nothing. I can’t read his expression, and I’m still not entirely sure what to make of him. I’ve heard a lot of fond stories from Sephran, but not as many since Malin returned from Syhl Shallow with Tycho. It’s clear that his new role has caused a little friction between the two of them. Last night, when Malin tossed the wild turkey in the dirt, Sephran waited until he turned away, then leaned close to me and muttered, “I guess the new captain is too good to pluck a bird.”
I don’t know if they’ve spoken to each other this morning, but based on the current chilly silence, I’m guessing not. Clearly the tension between me and Tycho isn’t theonlyconflict among our group.
My bedroll is knotted tightly, so I pick up my things and head for the horses. Despite what Sephran said, I don’t want to delay them.
When I get to the tie line, I discover that Tycho has saddled Teddy for me. He’s just finishing the last buckle on his bridle.
I stop short, unsure what to make of this. Is this a kindness? Or subtle reproach for taking too long?
Tycho must have heard me moving through the grass, because he looks back. I have no idea what expression is on my face, but his demeanor darkens, and he gives Teddy a pat on the neck, then moves to pass me. In silence. Again.
I catch his arm.
He goes rigid, just like at the forge, and I think he might jerk free. Everything about him is braced for a fight.
