“Fear.”
Cara’s voice. An urgent call. She threw herself into Corbyn. She came in low and fast, the way I had taught her, angling for his center of gravity, her shoulder driving into his ribs before he had fully turned to face her.
It should not have moved him. He was twice her weight, and he had been a fighter since before she was born.
He fell back, his hand ripped away from my collar.
Partly because he did not brace. Partly because she hit him with everything she had. Partly because while she might have been ready to rip him apart, he was staring at her in wonder.
“Cara, stop.” I started toward them.
She’d drawn her knives. They glinted in her hands as she came at him again.
“Stand down!” I ordered. Sharper this time.
She hesitated at my voice, and that was the opening Corbyn needed. He moved to seize her, to hold her before she could attack again. She drove a knife at his gut; Corbyn caught it on his forearm with the armored bracer and deflected it away, and as she was preparing for her next blow, he wrapped her in his arms.
She moved quickly, pulling her feet up and throwing herself forward, forcing him off-balance. Her gaze swept to mine, confusion flashing across her face. Why wasn’t I helping?
“Both of you, stop it.” I held out my hand to try to de-escalate, though Cara did not really do de-escalation as a general rule. “Corbyn, let her go. Cara, don’t hit him.”
She drove a knee at him. He turned his hip, taking it on the thigh, still barely registering it, still looking at her face.
“Corbyn.” I reached them. My hand came down on his shoulder. “Let her go.Let her go.”
He released her arm.
She stepped back and came immediately forward again, knives up, putting herself between us—between him and me—her breathing ragged, her stance wide. She was still ready.
His eyes did not move from her face.
“Cara. Lower the blades.”
“You’re bleeding,” she said flatly, not looking at me.
“I know. Lower the blades.”
She finally looked to me. Her question was clearly written across her wide-eyed, furious face.Why are you telling me to stand down?
Corbyn said, in wonder, “Lightbringer.”
Twenty-One
Cara
Lightbringer. It made no sense, and then it made too much sense.
I knew it. It lodged in my chest, my dragon’s name, the name Fear had said with particular weight the first time, the name that carried the feeling of someone else’s recognition. Lightbringer. The ancient, furious, beautiful thing currently sulking in the back of my mind.
He was tall. Broader than Fear, built differently, the kind of build that came from work heavier than any training yard. Unruly blond hair. His face I cataloged looking for threat—there was no anger there—and then again, looking for something I recognized in the jaw, the line of his nose, the set of his mouth.
His eyes were blue, surrounded by laugh lines. Which was not special, but my mother and Tay and Lidi all had gorgeous, wide brown eyes, and I had asked my mother once where mine came from.
“Your first father,” she had said. And then, before I could chase that information with another question, “Don’t, Cara. Some things are better left alone.”
I had asked twice more over the years, in different forms, and the answer was always some version of the same thing—dangerous, gone, monster, don’t—and she had never given me a name.
He was looking at me with an expression I’d never seen before. It was grief, but grief wasn’t all of it.
