The Normark soldier hit the ground with a thud, breath and life abandoning him.
Blainor’s chest rose and fell, racked with exertion. For a moment, it was the sole sound breaking the silence. Then, he shook it off like a master. “I thought songbirds fled to the trees.”
Trisha’s mind struggled to process his words before the familiar burn of annoyance flared across her cheeks. “When I learn to fly, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
Her breath quivering, she pushed herself upright, battling the trembling of her limbs. The memory of her arrow’s flight, how it sank into that nameless man’s flesh, brought another taste of bile to her mouth. She swallowed, forcing it down.
Them or me, she repeated, hugging herself. How hollow it sounded. She’d never get used to taking a life. “Is it… over?” she asked, hoping, wishing.
“For now.”
Incredulous, Trisha stared at Blainor, parsing the unsaid. “You expect another attack?” Her voice broke under her hysteria, the words snagging somewhere in her throat.
He scoffed, wiping his sword on the dead man’s clothes. “Not tonight.” Sheathing the blade, he stepped forward. Pale dawn slipped through the foliage, illuminating him. A branch split under his boot. His hands moved a fraction before stilling, but his fingers flexed athis side.
“Are you unharmed?”
“Yes, except for my pride,” Trisha muttered before massaging her sore behind.
Another crack echoed behind her. A soft, apologetic snort followed; Dapple prodded her shoulder gently.
Sighing, she leaned into the warmth of his cheek. “It’s all right, boy. You were braver than I.”
Blainor watched them in silence before nudging with his head. “Come on. Let’s return.”
She didn’t object—too weary to resist or argue. With the danger gone, only exhaustion remained.
Her thoughts shifted as they approached the campsite. It was a mess—items scattered across the ground, motionless figures, and, above it all, that distinct stench of blood and death.
It churned her insides. She refused to think about the lifeless husk strewn over the forest floor.
Blainor strode through the chaos toward Fjorten and Kaiden. “Where do we stand? What are our losses?”
“They fight poorly, m’lord,” Kaiden spat, “even with numbers on their side.”
“Ilker’s dead, and Jurgen took an arrow to the leg,” Fjorten reported. “But no other losses.”
Blainor turned toward Jurgen, who was seated on the ground while another man worked to bind his wound. “Will you be able to ride?”
“You’d have to kill me if you plan on leaving me behind, Warlord,” Jurgen declared. “I’ll ride.”
“Good.” Blainor spun around to his lieutenants. “No survivors. Tell the men. Kill anyone that breathes.”
Blainor’s men circled the clearing, complying with his order.
Before wandering away, Trisha stared at Blainor, mouthagape. She couldn’t bear to watch—too disturbed by the Warlord’s cold practicality, by the reek of death, by the way her life had changed in less than a day. Dapple kept pace beside her, quivering with unease.
He shoved her shoulder.Where’s my treat?
She fetched a lump of sugar for him. While Dapple chomped on his treat, Trisha looked around the dark forest, as if hoping her answer would emerge from beyond the bark. What should she do? She couldn’t stop at Isdet. That route was blocked. And the path back to Nortwurd would expose her as well.
With a scrunched face, she rubbed her forehead. Dapple wouldn’t mind departing this scene of bloodshed, nor would she. But braving the night alone, especially if the king’s men were still waiting, was a risk she was not willing to take.
She kicked the dirt.
To stay in Normark or to accept Blainor’s offer of protection? As if her thoughts alone had summoned him, steady footsteps approached.
He’d abandoned his shield but still wore his gambeson, a few glossy bloodstains splattered over the fabric. So unassuming in his plain quilted armor, with the sheathed sword at his belt and midnight hair coiling on his crownless forehead, yet he ruled all of Eichlandt?
