CHAPTER 5 JAX #2
Sephran steps forward to tuck it behind my ear again.
His touch is lighter this time, but somehow more deliberate, too.
My hammer freezes midstrike, because I truly don’t know what to do with this.
Sephran has always been kind. Always thoughtful.
When I first came here, he was the only person to notice that I needed a bench to help support my weight while I was shoeing horses— and the only person who tried to remedy the problem.
Are these light touches more of his usual kindness? Or something entirely different?
He sighs, and his voice drops. “I’m sorry, Jax. You just . . . you don’t seem happy that he’s back.”
I don’t know what to say to that either.
I hammer the last nail into place, then set the horse’s hoof down. I pull the lead rope to slip the knot from the tether, but Sephran doesn’t step back. It leaves us standing very close.
He was on duty all day, so he’s still trussed up in gold- and- red-trimmed armor, every weapon buckled into place. He’s a little taller than I am, and definitely broader, especially with his gear. He’s got sandy hair and a ruddy, freckled complexion that usually bears an easy smile.
There’s no smile now, though. His somber eyes are searching mine. “Do you understand me?” He speaks slowly and deliberately, then taps me in the center of my chest. The weight of his hand is heavy and warm, even through my tunic. “You are not happy.”
I swallow, because he’s not wrong. “I understand.”
Movement flickers behind him, and I glance up. I recognize the blond hair, the brown eyes, the striking combination of features that nearly took my breath away on the first night I ever saw him. It’s doing the same right now. My heart kicks.
“Tycho,” I say in surprise.
Sephran stiffens. His gaze ices over.
Then I realize how close he is. How he was touching me. What he just said.
I have no idea how much Tycho heard or saw— if anything at all. His eyes flick from me to Sephran and back, and even though there’s nothing between us, warmth sparks on my cheeks.
“Jax,” he says. His voice isn’t cold, but I’m not sure I’d call it warm. His gaze bounces between us again, settling on Sephran. “Lieutenant.”
Sephran takes a step to the side, his frame rigid. An emotionless soldier, standing at attention. “My lord.”
I hate this.
“You are here,” I say to Tycho, trying to keep my voice light to make up for the fact that Sephran is all but staring daggers at him. “I think tomorrow.”
“I rode hard so I could make it back quickly. I had to report to the king first, but—” He breaks off. “Ah, sorry.” He makes a face, then begins to repeat everything in Syssalah.
“I understand you first time,” I snap in Emberish.
A line appears between his eyebrows as if I’ve startled him. He inhales like he wants to say something, but then his mouth clamps shut. He draws back, suddenly as cool as Sephran. “I . . . forgive me.”
We stand there glaring at each other for a long moment. I know he was translating for my benefit, and I should probably be grateful.
But I didn’t need it. If he spent more time here, he’d know that.
You are not happy.
Yeah, no kidding.
The air has turned tense and prickly, and it doesn’t help that Sephran is still standing there, watching this entire interaction. I have no doubt he can read every emotion on my face— and sadly, he can probably do it better than Tycho can.
When Tycho glances between us again, his gaze settles on Sephran for a moment longer than necessary. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“There’s no interruption,” Sephran says. “Jax was just inviting me to go shooting.” He pauses. “My lord.”
Somehow he makes it sound like a totally different invitation. Something private. Something intimate.
He also says my lord as if he really wants to say you asshole.
It’s my turn to stare daggers at him. Sephran’s eyebrows go up, just a hair, his expression becoming a little daring. Any contrition is gone from his face.
Tycho’s voice turns tightly formal— the way it always does when he’s confronted by the soldiers. “You have duties,” he says to me. “I’ll find you later.” He looks back at Sephran. “I believe you’re due at the barracks. Captain Malin is seeking you.”
Before either of us can respond, he’s given me a nod, and he turns away.
Oh, this is awful.
I stride past Sephran, my step solid and sure after weeks of practice with the false foot. “Tycho,” I say, catching his arm.
It’s the dead heat of summer, so he’s only got a light tunic under the black armor that befits his role.
It leaves the bend of his elbow bare above the knife- lined bracers strapped to his forearms, and that’s where my hand falls.
The instant my fingertips find the warm curve of muscle, a spark rolls through me, and I can tell it does the same to him.
He goes tense at once, so I’m surprised when he doesn’t jerk away, and instead he turns to look at me.
For a moment, I see torment reflected in his eyes— the same exact torment I’m feeling. But he blinks and it’s gone. His eyes are so cool that I almost regret touching him at all.
“Jax?” he says.
“We go shooting.”
“I heard,” he says evenly. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”
Clouds above. I recognize this Tycho— the man who’d rather pick a fight than confront a difficult emotion.
When I don’t answer, he shifts to pull away.
Months ago, I would’ve let him go. He was the skilled nobleman, and I was the poor blacksmith. I never had a right to ask for anything.
But so much has changed since he first found me in Briarlock. I don’t know if our time apart has changed him, but coming here has definitely changed me.
So instead of letting go, I tighten my grip and hold fast.
Belligerence flares in his expression, like he might jerk free or tussle. That’s the fight he’s looking for, and anyone else would probably give it to him.
But I don’t. Instead, I stroke my thumb across the warm curve of his bicep.
He stops breathing for a second, and I feel the response in his body when he exhales. He simply . . . pauses. Softens. Waits.
So I do it again, brushing my thumb along the slope of his skin. “Come with us,” I say quietly.
The bracing tension has slipped out of his frame, and for an instant, I think he might yield. But then he frowns and glances past me. His eyes go a little cool again, and when he speaks, it’s in Syssalah. “I don’t think I’m invited, Jax.”
I don’t let go of his arm. I can almost feel his pulse, and my heart seems to seek the same rhythm.
“I’m inviting you,” I say. “Please?”
He’s frozen in place, and torment flickers in his gaze again— followed by regret.
“I can’t,” he says. “I have orders. Prince Rhen is sending me to Gaulter for a few days, and I need to prepare. We still need to be wary of Truthbringers, and there’s a concern that scravers won’t stay hidden for long. ”
Of course. Of course. My heart falls. “Oh.”
Sephran was right. I should’ve known.
And the worst part is that there seems to be no unwinding this.
We’ll simply continue down this path of unhappiness.
I move to let him go, but Tycho puts a hand over mine, trapping me there. His expression shifts, and he glances away. “Jax, I . . . I want . . .”
But then his voice trails off. I’m frozen in place, trapped by the space between the words.
His eyes, golden brown, find mine, and he straightens, his tone turning more formal. “I won’t be going alone. Malin has been asked to assemble a small team.”
Malin. Of course. They developed a closeness that took me by surprise when I first saw them together, simply because I didn’t expect it.
Or maybe I just resent it. My heart seems to be growing a layer of ice that would rival the chill in Sephran’s gaze.
But then Tycho adds, “Prince Rhen recommended that you join us.”
For an instant, I almost can’t believe I heard him correctly. “Prince Rhen wants me to join the soldiers?”
Tycho nods. “He said you’ve earned a chance to do more than swing a hammer.”
My heart thumps hard in my chest. No one has ever offered me an opportunity to do anything more than work in a forge.
But then reality crashes down, because I’m thinking of how tense and prickly the last two weeks have been. Hell, how prickly the last few minutes have been.
Silence stretches between us, and I know Tycho is aware of it, too. Especially since Sephran is still at his back, watching us.
Against my will, my eyes flick to the soldier. Captain Malin is seeking you.
Now I understand.
Tycho follows my gaze, and I think his jaw tightens.
He lets go of my hand, then steps back. “This isn’t without risk.
There’s word of skirmishes to the north, and we have no idea where the scravers may lie in wait— to say nothing of the Truthbringers.
” He pauses, all cool formality. “But we’ve been ordered to depart by dawn.
We’ll meet in the courtyard before first light. ” Another pause. “If you want.”
My heart is surging ahead. There are too many surprises here.
I’m not a soldier. I’m not.
But I’ve been asked to join them. By the prince. My breath catches, just for a moment. I hate Prince Rhen— and he knows it. I said it right to his face. For him to offer this, to me . . . I know it’s significant.
But I have so many questions. Will I have to pack? What should I say to Master Garson, who runs the forge? Will I need armor? Would I ride Teddy or would we take a wagon?
But behind all the questions is a spark of emotion that I can’t quite identify. Prince Rhen may have offered me the position in the forge here, but that was the same job I’ve always done, just in a new place.
This— this— is the first time in my life I’ve been offered something new. Something challenging.
Something important.
I stare right back into Tycho’s brown eyes, so dark in the lantern light. All of a sudden, I don’t care about the torment, I don’t care about the distance between us, I don’t care if the next week is prickly and tense.
All I care about is the chance to be something more.
“Yes, Tycho,” I say in Emberish. “I want.”