“How did you know?” she demanded of Byne in a quiet voice, nodding toward the two men.
“The only diplomacy Annath knows is blood. He’ll get his deserved politics,” Byne responded with a contemptuous smirk.
Trisha’s head reeled back. “You’re… you’re happy for it?”
Byne glanced at her with a frosty glare. “Annath’s been pushing his limits for the past years. This will teach him well.” She flashed her upper row of teeth in a ferocious grin. “It’ll be an exciting fight—they’re both good.”
“Aye,” Fjorten agreed, scratching his beard. “Though Annath cuts too wide. Hope m’lord keeps that in mind.”
How could they be so calm? For her, the outcome wasn’t predestined. Annath, even if older, carried himself with the air of an accomplished fighter. Shorter than Blainor, yes, but his shoulders were built like an ox’s, muscles bulging beneath his clothes. And yet Blainor had bested him once, if the story she’d heard back at the Normark inn was to be believed. Tall, strong, and younger, Blainor had shown a deft hand with a sword, but how would he fare in a raw knife fight?
Blainor stepped forward with a steadiness that spoke of his confidence, the remnants of civility peeled away. A force of nature, someone meant for the open fields, not within these stone walls erected by his forefathers. Trisha couldn’t look away.
Her mind played over Annath’s words. What was Blainor hiding? What had he brought back before her time? Then, all deliberation ceased, for the men had reached each other, and the fight began.
Annath lunged, but Blainor sidestepped and countered with a thrust, almost cutting Annath’s eye. The other man dodged just in time, and Blainor’s strike missed by a hair’s breadth. Annath pressed forward with speed and ferocity that made Trisha’s breath hitch. He cut high. Then, low. Blainor deftly danced away at both jabs. Red blossomed in his left sleeve, but he didn’t slow.
The Warlord pounced back, attacking with a sharp slash, slicing Annath’s face. Scarlet drops of blood fell to the floor, a wide gash now gaping on Annath’s cheek. The other man staggered,flinging his hand up. A breath of quietude followed before he bared his teeth in a growl and lunged.
Everything narrowed down to the two men, moving so fast it seemed impossible to detect where one started and another ended. Boots scraped against stone; arms swished through the air. Their ragged breathing filled the quiet space. Bodies shifted. Blades flashed, too close to harm, too fast to stop. The short daggers flew. Then, flew again. And again. Impossible to parry now. No dodging. The body absorbed each plunge. Every guttural sound sent a jolt through Trisha. Her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into the skin of her palms.
She hated this. Being forced to witness this violence without a chance to intervene or make it stop. Even more, she loathed how her heart twisted every time it seemed Annath struck Blainor. Her mouth was dry, and her body trembled as if she were the one fighting for her life. A haunting memory bubbled to the surface. Of a dark forest, a taut bowstring, and an arrow released. A shape that fell, breathless.
The glint of a bloodied blade forced Trisha not to think of that now.
With his final movement, Blainor struck. The knife darted forward, finding its mark just above Annath’s collarbone. Annath gasped, stumbling back, his free hand clutching at the wound. Dark blood seeped between his fingers. He staggered, then stumbled down to one knee.
“Summon a healer,” Blainor commanded, watching the fallen man try desperately climb back to his feet. His voice carried through the room, steady and loud, despite the faint echo of exertion. “Now. He may still live.”
He flicked the blood-coated dagger, a few drops landing on the floor like rain. The pace of his breathing eased, his shoulders slacking as the fight’s energy drained away. He dropped the weapon and turned. When he did, his eyes found Trisha.
She swallowed. His gaze was hollow—the look of a man who had done what was required and nothing more. The others rushed forward, their voices breaking the muted gap: Byne’s filled with smug content, Fjorten’s with appreciative respect. The sounds, mutters, and comments crowded the air in the hall, yet Trisha couldn’t join them.
Words had escaped, along with her ability to voice what she felt. Instead, she retreated, unable to tear her sights away from Blainor. No discernible sentiment face—no regret, anger, or even triumph.
Trisha’s heart battered against her rib cage. Fear, but for herself or for him? The things he must have endured to become this man. He could’ve died. And yet he’d accepted it—almost welcomed it—as though his life held no meaning. As though survival were a mere game, or something for him to take.
Maybe it was what was needed to rule these northern lands? To command people like Annath. The fight had been brutal, bloody, and vicious. It should have repulsed her. But it hadn’t. Could it be understanding? This was her birthland, the place she’d sought. She’d come to find her past, but maybe it had only been an image in her mind. A mirage of hope and drive. She might have embraced this life. Might have become one of them. One of him.
A painful lump wedged in her throat. Featherlight touch skimmed against Trisha’s mind. It stirred awake the warm glow of her magic. If her parents hadn’t given her away, if she’d lived among his kin here, would she still be herself?
11
Annath survived.Trisha didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried when Fjorten shared the news with her during the intermission.
“Takes more than a knife wound to get rid of that bastard.” Fjorten scratched his neck. “Pity, really.”
Trisha’s brows knitted together. “But wouldn’t killing him… bring down his clan’s fury?”
The glow of the setting sun radiated over the stone floor and pillars, the laden trays of roasted game and whole birds suffusing the smoke-infused air. Beneath the Dewingar banner and wrought-iron candelabras sat Blainor with Gend at the high table. The wild-maned Chief Blutmeer had his head close to the Warlord. They must be talking about Everfrost. Or whatever it was that Blainor had brought from the south. If she drifted closer, she might be able to catch a word…
Fjorten’s dry laugh broke her ruminations. “Annath’s son is of age. Bet he’s ready to ride the men on his father’s behalf.”
“Can’t but notice that Hjorsen’s not here,” Kaidenmuttered. “Instead, Annath dragged Ernaut with him again. What a spiteful man.”
“Aye,” Fjorten agreed, frowning. “He won’t make a good chief.”
“But the scar suits him,” Kaiden said. “A pity Stammek didn’t take his eye.”
