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Varrus’s trade pressure weakened the mining post before the attacks began. Supplies vanished along routes influenced by his merchants. Reports were altered. Whether he has contact with the waira or merely exploits their violence remains uncertain, but his hand is close to the failure.
I am angry that Fiona saw what my reports concealed.
More troubling is the fact that I relied on her.
Without her knowledge of the gatherers’ path, the delegation would have been trapped between the waira and the ravine. I could have destroyed more of the creatures, but the magic required might have revealed the curse before every guard under my command.
A human saved Morwen’thir soldiers because she understood my territory better than I did.
The conclusion follows me through the stronghold.
I refuse rest.
Before dawn, I enter the practice hall.
Joran is already there, inspecting the weapons used by the night guard. He looks at the practice blade in my hand, then at my bandaged arm.
“You should sleep,” he says.
“You are not my physician.”
“No physician would recommend sparring after yesterday.”
“Then it is fortunate I asked my captain.”
His violet eyes narrow. “What are you proving?”
“That the attack caused no lasting weakness.”
“To me?”
“To anyone who observed it.”
Joran places the weapon he is holding on the rack. “No one questioned your strength.”
“Take a blade.”
He obeys because refusal would turn concern into insubordination.
We begin slowly.
Wood strikes wood in sharp, controlled rhythms. Joran is heavier through the shoulders, built to hold a defensive line. I am faster. I turn his first attack and drive him backward across the practice floor.
The movement pulls at the cursed scar.
Cold flickers through my side.
I attack again.
Joran blocks. “Enough.”
“We have barely begun.”
“You are favoring your left side.”
I increase the pace.
He meets each strike with growing force. Our practice blades crack together. I pivot, cut toward his shoulder, and reverse toward his ribs. He catches both attacks.
