Page 151 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Elara reached out.

“I can do it,” Gavriel said quickly, stopping her, terrified of the contact.

He drew a shallow breath, willing his body to obey. A tremor ran through him as he rolled onto his side. His elbow wavered as he slid it beneath himself. Every muscle quivered as he pushed upward. Cold sweat broke across his skin from the effort.

“Good,” Kalaetzu murmured, hovering a protective hand nearby without touching, as Gavriel eased back until his shoulders met the wall.

“How did that feel?” Elara asked. He noticed then a wrap around her wrist.

“Horrible,” Gavriel said. He glanced finally at Njall, who was sitting rigid across the room in a silence heavier than anger. “But better than I deserve.”

Kalaetzu reached into his pack and drew out a small vial. “Here. I have a few more nutrient tonics. They will help now that your body is responding again.”

Gavriel drank slowly. A muted warmth followed, chafing against Njall’s cold regard.

“You need real food too,” Elara said. She crossed to a pack near the wall and brought back bread and a leather cask. “It will help your strength return.”

“Thank you,” Gavriel whispered. He took a small sip of water, letting it sit on his tongue before swallowing. Then a bit of bread. Both felt foreign in his mouth.

As he chewed, he noticed their attention gingerly resting on him. “I suppose,” he said quietly, swallowing again, “you are wanting to know who I am.”

Elara shifted closer, gently cradling her wrapped wrist. “Only if you are ready.”

Gavriel set the food down. His vision still blurred now and then, but he pressed his head back against the wall and sorted through the years anyway. He considered what had been truth. What had been survival. What had belonged to Lord Pietre. And what had belonged only to him before the Battle of Netherfen Hallows.

“I am commonborn,” he began. “I have only ever wanted a simple life.”

Gavriel could feel Njall’s attention without meeting his eyes.

“I was born in Vaelstrom,” he continued. “My parents loved books and debate and the slow work of understanding things. My father served as a legal advisor to a Duskmerri noble family. My mother was their governess. In winter and spring, we traveled with them to court. The rest of the year, we lived in Netherreach. It was a good childhood—no right to complain.”

Elara nodded once. “I wondered how you learned to pass as a baron.”

“My parents educated me well,” Gavriel said. “Enough to understand how nobility speak and carry themselves. Though I never wanted their rank. I meant to apprentice under my father eventually. Live a quiet life of papers and honest words written in ink.”

“You told me you were taken from Duskmere,” Elara said, eyes narrowing.

Gavriel blinked once to clear his vision and ride out a sharp pain in his leg. “When I was twelve, my father was killed in a mugging in Vaelstrom. Because we rented our home, my mother could not inherit the lease. And I was not yet of age. We lost everything. We moved to Netherfen Hallows to live with her last living relative. My great-uncle.”

He suppressed a shudder against the memories that came with that man. “He drank. And he did not keep his anger to himself. My mother suffered most. She died within the year from bruises and shame alike. I was thirteen when what remained of my childhood vanished.”

Elara’s breath caught. “You stayed with him?”

“Sometimes. When he forgot to feed me, or when his temper turned, I ran. The blacksmith let me sleep above the anvil. Hunger, though, is what I remember most from that time.” The last winds of the storm scraped against the walls and found their way through the cracks. Gavriel shivered.

Elara rose at once and retrieved the cloak that had served as Gavriel’s pillow. She wrapped it around his shoulders carefully, her hands hovering. “We did not risk a fire,” she said quietly as she settled the fabric. “Patrols may still be searching.”

“That seems wise,” Gavriel said, managing a faint smile. He dared a glance at Njall. Njall had turned away and fixed his attention on the cold hearth. A fresh shiver of guilt moved through Gavriel when he realized Njall was not wearing a cloak.

“Why didn’t you go back to Netherreach? Vaelstrom?” Elara asked after a moment.

“I meant to,” Gavriel said. “I began saving coin for it. But life became tolerable, and tolerable can be its own trap.” He shifted against the wall to ease the stiffness in his hips. “When I was fourteen, I started sweeping the forge. The smith let me apprentice soon after. I was good at it. Good with steel. With iron. Before long I was teaching the village boys and working the anvil myself. It was not grand, but it was steady. After everything, steady felt like enough.”

He drew a breath. “Then came the attack. We fought for hours in the heat. Lord Pietre was thrown, or fell, from his horse. I put on his plate to rally the men. The deception was meant to last an hour. Just long enough to turn the tide.”

Njall turned to look at him directly.

Gavriel met his gaze, and the rest he said mostly for him. “I never intended any of this. If I had known the attackers were fae, I would not have done it.” His voice dropped. “And I am sorry. I should have told you the truth. At first I did not know who to trust. Later, I did not want to force you into choosing. Oorlon held your father over you. I would not make you weigh my life against his.”