Chapter 36 #2
Long wooden tables stretch the length of the room, with benches that could seat dozens of men, but we still sit in small clusters, mostly organized by vanguard and then by cast. There’s a little intermingling—it isn’t forbidden to socialize with others—but the vanguards naturally stick together.
Scattered down our table are other Stormriven casts, though there are a handful from Fellsworn mixed in.
One table over is the unofficial Fellsworn table, with a few Stormriven sitting over there, too.
Stormriven and Fellsworn seem to have formed an alliance of sorts—or at least, the two vanguards are more friendly with each other than they are with Atherclad and Skyforge.
I don’t know why that is, but I can’t say I’m upset by it.
Avoiding Tyrston is a top priority for me.
At the thought, I turn in my seat, looking over my shoulder to the Atherclad table that’s at my back.
My gaze is immediately drawn to Tyrston.
When he sees me looking at him, he smiles and licks his lips.
He throws a dagger into the wooden table.
Thwunk . He yanks it back out, giving the handle a quick pull.
Thwunk . He pulls the handle forward and backward, and lifts the dagger out of the table again.
He kisses the pommel of his dagger, then kisses the air between us.
My stomach rolls, but still, my eyes are drawn to his grotesque display.
Until Faelon slams an elbow into my side. “Don’t,” he says, a surprisingly simple reprimand from someone who can’t say two words if twenty will do.
I snap my head back around to find all of the Ra’veth men looking at me with their mouths drawn in tight lines, their eyes solemn.
“Don’t bother with him,” Nyrica tells me. “Your reaction is what he’s after.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one he’s threatening with that dagger.”
Nyrica’s eyes go uncharacteristically hard, and I get a brief glimpse into what he must look like in battle—his expression morphs from friendly and jovial into something menacing and aggressive. It’s chilling, the look on his face, the way his entire body has tensed up.
But it’s Thalric who replies.
“Yes, we are,” Thalric says. “If you threaten one of us, you threaten all of us.”
Like it’s something they rehearsed, each of them—even Kiernan—draw a dagger.
In one harmonized motion, they slam the daggers into the table.
The entire provisionary goes eerily quiet, the dozens of little conversations dying down to nothing as the distinct sound of those six daggers slamming into the table at the same time resonates up and down the hall.
No one says anything, but Nyrica throws up his fist in a rude gesture toward the Atherclad table. I can’t help the laugh that bubbles in my throat—sharp, surprised, a little unhinged. It’s what Levvi might’ve done. Or Alden. Or Seb. My father.
I think about pretending this never happened—about pretending I’m above it.
But Nyrica’s right, and he’s also wrong.
Tyrston wants my reaction, but not just any reaction.
He wants my fear, my panic, and with my cast beside me, I feel none of those things.
So, I turn back toward Tyrston, meeting his gaze evenly.
He’s still watching, but this time, his face is flushed red with fury.
I smile, saccharine sweet—a fuck you from across the room.
Tyrston jumps to standing so quickly that his chair falls over. But in the time it takes for the back of his chair to hit the ground, the sound of 50 chairs scraping across the stone floor echoes against the walls, as each and every man in Stormriven and Fellsworn rises around me.
Someone sitting next to Tyrston puts a hand on his arm and whispers in his ear. Tyrston jerks his arm back and storms out of the provisionary.
The air in the room is decidedly fraught, no one moving, until Faelon mutters, “I told you we all need a good fuck. This shit doesn’t happen when everyone is freshly fucked.”
I swing wide eyes over to Faelon.
Caius stares him down. “And I told you, you can’t say shit like that anymore.”
“What?!” Faelon gripes. “I’m sure Leina understands the stress-relieving power of a good fucking.”
I blink once. Twice. Then I burst out laughing. The others around me start to chuckle, everyone retaking their seats.
“You’re right, Faelon. When is it our turn to go to the brothel?” I ask.
He grins at me. “It’s a pleasure house,” he says overly offended. “And we’ll definitely go when you get back from Elandors Veil. To celebrate.”
When I get back from Elandors Veil. Not if.
I hold up my tankard of mead. “A toast then,” I say. “To sex and to Elandors Veil.”
Faelon eagerly raises his glass in the air, but Thalric puts his hand on Faelon’s arm, holding his cup down.
“No,” Thalric says, holding up his own cup. “To family.”
My eyes are a bit wet as I raise my mug, but I don’t cry. I refuse to cry.
“To family,” I echo.
The others follow, their voices layered and strong. It’s better than friendship. It’s belonging .
But that night, I dream of fire and screaming, of blood in the soil, and of shadows reaching for people I love.
And I remember how fragile a family can be.