Chapter Forty-Three
Almost Brothers
A fight in the dirt. A bond in the making.
The cottages of Bernewood leaned close to the cobblestone path, their thatched roofs spilling ivy down pale stone walls.
A brook sang beside the lane, its waters slipping beneath footbridges where children dangled their feet.
Smoke curled from chimneys, dust clouds drifted in the sun, and somewhere nearby came the soft hum of bees.
The whole village breathed in the hush of afternoon—until Storne’s voice cut through it.
“Evander. Gabriel.”
He turned toward a clearing at the edge of the trees.
“With me.”
Amerei glanced up, her hand steadying Viktor as he eased down from Ruby’s back.
“He needs more salve,” she told her father.
Storne grunted. “Then see to it.” He nodded toward the path. “There’s a herbalist in the village. Press him something stronger if you can.”
She nodded, guiding Viktor to the cobblestone.
When the path bent out of sight, her fingers brushed Viktor’s arm—then slid lower, twining with his. For a heartbeat, neither spoke—their silence its own vow amid the calm. Then she gave him a look all daring and daylight-thin courage, and together they turned toward the cottages.
Storne shook his head as he watched them go.
They’re terrible at this.
* * *
The clearing was nothing more than a patch of grass beneath the oaks, sunlight striping the ground through restless leaves. Gravel rasped beneath Storne’s heel as he drew a circle six feet wide with the point of his boot, then folded his arms across his chest.
“Lieutenant Tassen,” he called, waving Evander forward. “If you’ll bear the name, you’ll bear the weight.” His gaze flicked to Gabriel, then back to Evander. “Prove you can fight.”
Evander’s shoulders stiffened. He nodded once. “Yes, Commander.”
Gabriel smirked, cracking his knuckles. “With pleasure.”
The two stepped into the circle.
Storne’s voice was sharp as a whetstone.
“First to be shoved outside the circle sleeps with the livestock behind Fyreglade tonight.”
Evander froze. His face went pale as parchment.
“Livestock?” he blurted. “As in… animals?”
Gabriel barked a laugh. “What, never mucked a stall in Rhidian, castle boy?”
Evander shot him a glare, cheeks hot. “Not all of us were raised in the stables of Vykenra.”
Gabriel’s grin sharpened.
“Careful, or you’ll find out how line Draekenra teaches its sons to fight.”
Evander’s mouth ran before his nerves could stop it.
“What’s the lesson?” he asked—too late now.
“How to marry your cousin?”
The silence cracked—sharp, electric. Gabriel’s eyes flared, every muscle coiling.
Storne smothered a laugh in his fist. “Begin.”
Gabriel lunged, all brute size and fury. Evander barely braced before his boots scraped dirt—Gabriel slammed him back like a battering ram.
Panic flared.
Scrambling limbs, grit biting his palms, the circle’s edge skimming far too close.
“You’re supposed to fight, not dance,” Gabriel jeered, driving him harder.
Evander gritted his teeth, blood rising with the heat of his own recklessness. He hadn’t meant to echo Amerei, but dask—he wasn’t taking the words back now. Not with Gabriel’s pride on the line.
“I was being… polite—”
With a flash of desperation, he dropped his weight, slipped free, and kicked. The blow cracked against Gabriel’s shin.
The larger elf staggered but surged again, looping an arm over Evander’s shoulder and wrenching back. Evander gagged, neck caught in the vise of Gabriel’s elbow, toes clawing for purchase near the line.
Gabriel glanced up, meeting Storne’s eyes—a silent question: Shall I end this?
Storne gave a small nod. Permission.
Evander clawed at the arm choking him, lungs burning. Then, in one breath, his body went limp—dead weight.
The sudden sag forced Gabriel to loosen his grip.
In that instant, Evander drove a mule-kick backward, dropped low, seized Gabriel’s boot, and heaved.
The rush of air, the scrape of gravel—
then the bigger elf toppled like a felled oak, sprawling flat on his back, head lolling just past the circle’s edge.
For a moment, there was only the hush of wind and the soft rustle of birds in the oaks. Evander’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Then Storne barked a laugh. “Well struck, Lieutenant!”
Evander staggered upright, chest heaving, a grin breaking through dirt and disbelief.
Gabriel dragged himself up with a grunt.
Storne’s mouth curved, hard with approval yet softened by pride. He leaned over Gabriel, hands pressed to his knees.
“Looks like Captain Seraphim won’t need to straighten you out after all. Lieutenant Tassen’s done a fine job of that.”
Gabriel groaned, raised the Vykenran salute—sharp enough to sting, sly enough to be forgiven.