Nobody calls us a liar.
With Failinis’s snarl echoing in his head, Cian blocked and countered with a sweep of Claiomh Dorchadas that forced Oisín to leap back. But not fast enough, and the tip of the blade grazed his thigh, drawing a thin line of red that welled up like a ruby thread, bright against the golden hue of his skin.
The warriors around them paused mid-motion, their breaths catching in their throats. A collective inhale rippled through the crowd like a gust of wind through tall grass.
Oisín hissed, more in surprise than pain, pressing a hand to the wound. He looked down at the blood on his fingers, then back at Cian, and laughed, shaking his head like this was the most amusing thing that had happened in at least a century or two. “By the gods, you are in a mood. Did someone piss in your porridge this morning, or is this just your charming way of saying you wish to challenge me for my position as heir to the Fianna?”
Fuck no, I don’t want to be anyone’s heir.
Cian exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to stay still and not drive forward to capitalize on the drawing of first blood. The last thing he needed was Oisín’s mouth running wild with speculation, spreading rumors like wildfire through the ranks. “My apologies,” he ground out, the words tasting like shit on his tongue.
Brother warrior, if you are tasting shit.Failinis rumbled,don’t do it when I am close enough to the surface to taste it.
“Apologies?” Caílte’s massive war hammer slung over one shoulder as if it were made of feathers, pushed through the gathered warriors. He clapped Cian on the back hard enough to make his teeth rattle. “Since when do you apologize for drawing blood, Hound?” His dark eyes scanned him, then locked onto the swirling blue creeping up Cian’s forearm, exposed when his sleeve slipped from where his leather bracer had secured it. “Ah. That explains it.”
The mark was a living thing, writhing under his skin like a serpent, and Cian neither wanted nor needed their pity. Didn’t they understand how he needed to move, to fight…to forget?
Diarmuid, younger than most of them but no less deadly, tossed his bow aside and drew his dagger. The blade caught the light as he twirled it between his fingers, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “You should sit this one out, brother. No shame in it.” It was unusually sage advice from the often-flighty warrior. “Even the mightiest oak has learned to bend in a storm because it knows standing strong against a warrior stronger than yourself will break you in the end.”
“No,” Cian snapped. The word sounded like the crack of a whip. But the thought of stopping, of yielding to the gnawing, restless devastation at the rejection, made his skin crawl. Failinis prowled beneath his ribs, a storm of fur and fangs, demanding he hunt, claim, and keep their Grá Croí forever. The beast side of himself was in a tempest of a frenzy, and Cian was the fool trying to hold back the tide with his bare hands. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw popped, the sound lost beneath the roar of blood in his ears.
Oisín sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like he was dealing with a particularly stubborn child. “Stubborn bastard. Fine. But if you faint, I’m not catching you. I’ve got a bad back, and you’re heavier than you look.”
Relieved the tension had eased between himself and the son of the king he’d sworn his allegiance to, Cian flipped him off, earning a round of laughter from the warriors nearby. The sound grated against his nerves, but he forced himself to breathe through it. He couldn’t afford to lose control here, and the training resumed.
This time, it was Caílte who stepped forward, his hammer a blur as he swung. The man was a force of nature, his strikes powerful enough to fell a horse or flatten a mountain.
Damn, I wish he was fighting with his swords and not the hammer.
Why does it have to be the hammer when I am not at my best?
Cian met the first one with both blades crossed, the impact driving him back a step. His boots skidded in the dirt, and for a heartbeat, his balance wavered as Reaper’s scent flooded his senses, smoke and gunpowder and something darker, like the earth after a storm, like the first, sharp breath of winter after a long, suffocating summer. The memory of it was so vivid, so real, that Cian’s grip faltered for the briefest of moments, his focus fractured, and Caílte’s next swing caught him in the shoulder.
Pain exploded down his arm, white-hot and blinding, like a brand pressed against his skin. Cian roared, more in frustration than agony, the sound tearing from his throat in his beast’s snarl. The warriors around him flinched, their eyes widening at the raw, feral fury in his voice. He twisted, driving Claiomh Solais up in a vicious uppercut that forced Caílte to stagger back, but the damage was done. His left arm was numb, his grip slipping, his fingers clumsy as a drunkard’s.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
His movements were sluggish and his reactions delayed, like he was fighting through deep water. Caílte took advantage, darting in with his dagger, feinting left before slashing right.
Thank fuck he didn’t use the hammer.
Cian blocked, barely, but the movement sent another searing jolt through his shoulder, and his vision swam. Black spots danced at the edges of his sight, mocking him, taunting him as the ground tilted beneath his feet, the sky above spinning like a drunkard’s dream. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. The scent of iron and sweat filled his nose, but beneath it all, beneath the blood and the dust and the stink of battle training, there was him. Reaper. The ghost of his scent clung to his skin, a phantom touch that made his mark burn like a brand.
No. No, no, no?—
Failinis snarled, a sound that rattled his ribs, that demanded.
Enough. We hunt. We find him. We?—
He should have known that Failinis would flip the switch from morose to needing to act so fast, but it still caught him off guard. “Shut up,” Cian growled, but his voice was slurred, his knees suddenly unsteady. The world tilted, the sky above spinning like a wheel out of control. His second sword slipped from his fingers, falling to the ground as if it had been ripped from his grasp. His legs gave out, and he hit the dirt hard, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. The world went gray for a moment, the edges of his vision blurring as he gasped for air.
Fionn’s face swam into view. “That’s it. You’re done.”
Cian tried to shove himself up from the ground, but his arms wouldn’t cooperate. They felt useless and heavy. His fingers twitched against the dirt, nails digging into the earth, trying to stop the world from spinning. The scent of crushed herbs and sweat and blood filled his nose, but beneath it all, beneath the chaos of the training grounds, there was Reaper and the knowledge he didn’t want their Grá Croí bond.
Hunt.
Find him.
