I glance at her. “What happens now?”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Now, you learn fast.”
CHAPTER 8
HARDIN
Korrak’s blade is always colder than it should be.
Even in memory, I feel it—biting across my ribs in a wide arc, slicing through leather and skin, not deep enough to kill but meant to humiliate. He never aimed to finish me. He wanted me broken, bleeding, looking up from my knees with no right to rise.
In the dream, it happens the way it always does. The crowd chants in low, throaty pulses. The sand underfoot is sticky with blood. Our father stands at the very edge of the ring, arms crossed, waiting to see which son he’ll still claim when it ends. And Korrak, eyes gleaming like coals raked too long in ash, smiles as he brings the blade down again.
I don’t block it in time. I never do. I fall. And the dust rises around me like it’s ashamed.
My body jerks awake with a breath that tastes like rust. I sit up, heart thudding in a rhythm older than this town, older than my exile, older than the man I’ve tried to become since I left him behind.
I rub my face with callused hands, shake it off, and let the dream settle where it always does—beneath the sternum, just above regret.
The rotin the porch step is worse than I thought.
I kneel down, running my hand along the bottom board where the wood dips soft beneath the surface. It’s been eating in from underneath, damp and steady, like it’s been waiting for the wrong foot to come down and snap right through. This kind of weakness isn’t just age. It’s neglect. Not Krista’s fault. It was like this before she got here, but she’s trying. She patched one of the railing posts with twine and an old broom handle. It’s not pretty, but it held.
She notices me crouched there when she steps out with her tea, wearing one of those sweaters that hangs off her shoulder like it can’t decide whether it wants to stay on or fall loose. Her hair’s a mess, curls piled on top of her head like a lazy crown, and she looks tired in the way people look when they finally let themselves rest after too long of surviving on nothing but willpower.
“Are you inspecting my handiwork?” she asks, setting her mug on the railing and folding her arms, chin tilted like she’s daring me to laugh.
“I’m thinking it’ll collapse if you sneeze near it,” I reply, not unkindly.
She lifts her brows. “That sounds like a challenge. I’ll have you know I have a very polite sneeze.”
I stand slowly, brushing dirt from my hands. “You have tools?”
“In the shed. I think. Unless the shed decided to eat them.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“Inside with Delphina. They’re trying to convince a broom to sweep itself. I told them good luck.”
I nod. “Then get your tea and come hold some boards.”
She blinks. “You’re helping me?”
“I’m fixing it. You’re assisting.”
She makes a show of sighing but grabs her mug and follows me to the side where the planks are stacked. I open the shed with a shoulder, ignoring the way the hinges groan like something trying to wake from a nightmare, and dig out a hammer, a box of nails that look a little too old, and a saw that’ll do in a pinch.
We work in rhythm without much talk. She hands me boards, I cut them, set them in place, drive the nails. Her hands get dirty, but she doesn’t flinch. Sweat beads on her temple, and she doesn’t wipe it off. She’s stronger than she looks. Smarter, too. She watches how I line the braces, pays attention to the angle of the cuts. She listens more than she talks, and that’s rare.
“Were you always this handy?” she asks eventually, pushing her curls off her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“Learned before I was old enough to hold the blade steady,” I say. “You don’t keep your weight alive in a war camp without fixing what breaks.”
“You mean literal weight? Or… metaphorical?”
I glance at her. “Both.”
She doesn’t pry, but her gaze softens. “Must’ve been a hard place.”
