There, near the stone bridge that crossed the stream, stood Marina. But she wasn't alone. She was deep in conversation with someone, one of her crimson hand’s resting lightly on his arm.
Vaskel's stomach sank as Marina shifted and he spotted who was behind her. Thrain.
The dwarf stared at her, transfixed, his usually gruff expression replaced with the dopey smile of someone completely under a hellkin's spell.
Marina laughed at something Thrain said, the sound dancing between them in the frigid air, and she leaned closer to the dwarf, her crimson hand squeezing his arm. Vaskel felt a phantom pulse on his own arm, so sharp was the memory of Marina touching him in the same intoxicating, possessive way.
Thrain, who’d bravely ventured from his home in the Ice Lands to warn Sass of danger and who hadn’t flinched in the face of battle, appeared completely enchanted by the beautiful hellkin.
There wasn’t a shred of doubt in Vaskel’s mind that Marina was using Thrain as part of her sinister plan, just as there was nothing Vaskel could do about it without revealing everything.
Eighteen
Frustration burnedthrough Vaskel's veins as he watched Marina lead Thrain over the bridge and toward the castle. He could run after them, but what would he say? He knew Marina well enough to know that she would plead innocence, and he would look like a fool. Every instinct screamed at him to race after his friend, grab Thrain by the shoulders, and shake him until he saw Marina for what she really was. But it would be pointless.
He'd crewed with Marina long enough to know her patterns, her weaknesses, her talents. And the one thing Marina savored more than anything else was taking something someone else loved. If she discovered Thrain was important to him, that the gruff dwarf had become a friend he genuinely cared about, she'd sink her claws in deeper. She’d hurt him just to hurt Vaskel.
No, the best thing, really the only thing he could do to keep his friends safe was to break the hells-cursed soul bind. He needed to cut Marina's hold over him completely and permanently. Then and only then would his friends be safe.
His boots crunched over the foot-worn snow with unnecessary force as he resumed walking, barely noticing the door to the tinker shop creaking open as he passed. He glanced over as Korl emerged, ducking slightly to clear the low doorframe. The orc had only recently given up his position as guardsman to reopen the old shop, though Vaskel knew he still helped Val with patrols occasionally. Today, though, he wore no armor. Thick brown pants encased his massive legs, topped with what had to be the most peculiar sweater Vaskel had ever seen.
The cream-colored garment was warm-looking, but lumpy in odd places, with one arm that reached past Korl's wrist and another that barely made it halfway down his forearm. The neck was too loose, exposing plenty of green chest, and there appeared to be an extra hole near the shoulder that served no discernible purpose.
Vaskel stopped mid-stride, doing a double take that made Korl's dark eyes crinkle with what might have been amusement.
"Val made it," the orc explained before Vaskel could formulate a question about the sweater. "Before she decided she should stick to scarves."
Despite everything consuming his thoughts and darkening his mood, Vaskel grinned. "It looks warm."
Korl grunted, a sound that landed somewhere between agreement and resignation. "It is that." He raised the short arm, displaying how it only reached halfway down his forearm, leaving his wrist and hand exposed to the winter air. “In most places.”
Vaskel was unable to contain his laughter as he shook his head. “I will never question why Val only knits scarves again.”
"Heading to The Tusk & Tail?" Korl asked, falling into step beside him when Vaskel nodded. "Mind if I walk with you?"
"I'd be glad for the company," Vaskel said, and meant it. Korl's solid, quiet presence was exactly what he needed right now.
They walked in companionable silence for several moments, their heavy footsteps crackling rhythmically through the snow. The village was fully awake now, smoke rising from every chimney, the aroma of yeast tinging the air, and the sounds of daily life drifting from open doors and windows.
"Something on your mind?" Korl's deep voice broke through the hellkin’s dark thoughts.
Vaskel started, surprised that the orc had noticed his distraction. But then, quiet folk always noticed things others missed. They observed instead of filling every silence with words.
"Thought it was grooms who were supposed to be anxious about weddings,” Korl added.
Vaskel shook his head, grateful the orc hadn’t discerned the truth. "I'm not nervous about your wedding, if that's what you're thinking. I'm thrilled to be part of it. Honored that you asked me to stand with you."
Another grunt from Korl, this one somehow conveying different emotions than the one before it. "You've been a good friend. To Lira and to me."
The simple words hit Vaskel harder than they should have. Korl wasn't one for speeches or declarations, which made his spare words carry more weight.
"If there's ever any way I can be a friend to you," Korl continued, his gaze fixed ahead as if eye contact might make the offer too heavy, "you only need ask."
They'd reached the tavern now, stopping beneath the wooden sign that swayed gently in the winter breeze and creaked lazily on old hinges.
Vaskel put a hand on Korl's shoulder. "Thank you. That means more than you know."
The villagers of Wayside—Korl, Pip, Sass, all of them—had started as Lira's friends, her chosen family after returning home, but somewhere along the way, without him noticing, they'd become his as well. Not because he'd charmed them or seduced them or manipulated them the way Marina would have. But simply because he'd been there, working alongside them, sharing their joys and troubles, and becoming part of the fabric of their daily lives.
