Chapter Six A Blanket Bought With Hunger #3
“She is treating him,” Caelan said, voice steady. “His fever worsened in the night.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “You speak too much.”
Caelan lowered his gaze. “Aye.”
The guard stepped closer, peering. Caelan felt sweat prick under his skin despite the cold. He kept his hands steady on the boy’s wrist. He forced his breathing slow.
The guard grunted. “If the boy dies, she is punished,” he said.
Caelan swallowed. “Aye.”
The guard spat into the straw and moved on.
Caelan exhaled slowly. He turned back to Morna, who was watching him with narrowed eyes.
“You lied,” she whispered.
Caelan’s mouth tasted bitter. “Aye.”
Morna’s gaze held his. “For me.”
Caelan looked away. “For us,” he corrected.
Morna’s lips parted, then closed. She did not argue. Her eyes held something that was not gratitude alone. It was fear, and guilt, and a growing understanding of what Caelan was becoming.
They shuffled into the yard. Morna moved slowly, supported by Caelan’s arm, her hood pulled low. The blanket remained hidden beneath her cloak, tucked tight.
Caelan’s stomach tightened at every guard’s glance.
In the kitchen shed, Brenn gave Caelan a long look. “You look like you have not slept.”
Caelan kept stirring. “I have not.”
Brenn’s gaze flicked toward Morna, who was sent to the archer line despite her sluggish steps. “She is ill.”
Caelan’s jaw tightened. “Aye.”
Brenn lowered his voice. “If the captain hears, he will use it.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. “He will use anything.”
Brenn grunted. “Then keep it hidden.”
Caelan’s hands tightened on the paddle. Hidden. Everything had to be hidden now, even care.
At midday, Ivor slid into the shed under pretense of carrying bowls. He leaned close, grin faint.
“Payment,” he murmured.
Caelan’s stomach tightened. He had known this moment would come, and still it felt like being cornered.
He glanced at the guard outside, then lowered his voice. “Tonight.”
Ivor’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
Caelan’s jaw clenched. “Tonight,” he repeated. “I cannot starve in the open.”
Ivor’s grin sharpened. “Not my problem.”
Caelan felt anger rise, then forced it down. Anger would not change Ivor. It would only make Caelan reckless.
“I will pay you,” Caelan said softly. “One day of my portion. I keep my word.”
Ivor studied him, then nodded, satisfied. “Good,” he murmured. “Because if you do not, I find another way to be paid.”
Then he slipped away.
Caelan’s stomach turned.
That evening, when bowls were distributed, Caelan stood in line like everyone else and accepted his portion with blank face. He carried it back to the barrack, set it down, then waited until the guards moved on.
He lifted the bowl and offered it to Ivor.
Ivor took it without hesitation, gulping as if the mash were feast. He did not share. He did not thank. He simply ate.
Caelan watched, jaw clenched.
Morna’s voice came faint from the straw. “You gave him your food.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. “Aye.”
Morna’s eyes were heavy with fever, but her gaze was sharp. “You are a fool.”
Caelan gave a humorless huff. “I know.”
Morna’s lips pressed together. “Do not become thin for me.”
Caelan swallowed. “If you live, it is worth it.”
Morna stared at him for a long moment. Then she whispered, “That is not an answer that keeps you alive.”
Caelan had no reply. He lay back on the straw, stomach empty, and felt his body protest. Hunger gnawed. It did not feel noble. It felt stupid.
Yet when he looked at Morna beneath the stolen blanket, her shivering eased, her breathing steadier, he felt the strange relief of a choice made.
Relief and guilt, braided together.
In the dark, Morna shifted closer, her voice low. “I do not want you to lose yourself.”
Caelan’s throat tightened. “I am not losing,” he whispered. “I am changing.”
Morna’s breath hitched. “That is the same thing.”
Caelan stared at the ceiling. He thought of the boy with fever. He thought of Elara’s hollow cheeks. He thought of Valerius’s calm voice asking what his integrity was worth.
He had refused to bend for food. He had bent for Morna’s warmth.
That was the beginning.
Caelan could feel it, a step taken down a path that did not have clean stones.
He turned his head toward Morna. In the dim, her eyes watched him, fevered and fierce.
“I will get us out,” he whispered, the vow tasting like iron. “Even if I have to become a man I do not like.”
Morna’s gaze held his. “Then let me be the one who tells you when you have gone too far,” she whispered.
Caelan swallowed. “I do not know if I can listen.”
Morna’s voice was steady despite the fever. “You will,” she said. “Because if you cannot, then you will survive, and you will be empty, and that is not living.”
Caelan’s chest tightened. He did not answer with words. He reached for her hand beneath the blanket and held it, careful, as if touch could anchor both of them.
Outside, Blackwood creaked and breathed, a machine that fed on men’s choices.
Inside, Caelan felt hunger twist his stomach, and felt Morna’s hand in his, and understood that this was how Valerius won: not with clubs, but with bargains that tasted like mercy.