6. Memory
Memory
Mariana
There was a monster in the clearing.
It was a thing of nightmares; a thing that, at nineteen, I already knew by heart. Ten feet tall, with twisted antlers and long claws and a sunken stomach beneath ribs jutting through pale gray skin. Unnatural. Evil. Cursed.
We had been tracking the creature for nearly two weeks, killing the diseased animals it had left in its wake: a wolf with spider-like legs coming out of its inflated torso, a stag with red eyes and clawed feet, a raccoon with black venom dripping from elongated teeth.
Weapons glowed with bright blue flame in the blackness of night; bonfires turned the evidence to ash.
Tonight was the culmination of this hunt, the final kill before a well-earned respite.
The other knights were taking their places on opposite ends of the clearing, surrounding the abomination so we could catch it by surprise.
I glanced at Grinnick, crouched beside me in the underbrush.
When he caught me staring, he smiled, and the expression warmed me from the inside.
He dragged finger down my arm, the firm contact blazing a path of fire.
“You want to take this one? Or should I?” he whispered.
“It’s not ours to take, and you know it,” I replied.
The hierarchy of our faction might’ve felt like bullshit at times—especially for knights like us, capable of taking an abomination on our own—but I had not joined the Bad Blues for protection from abominations.
The faction protected me from my fellow knights.
From the harshness of winter. From loneliness and the fear of being beholden.
For me, it was a cage that kept me safe.
But Grinnick—he had no patience for handing his glory over to others. His rebelliousness was thrilling, empowering—but it also twisted knots in my stomach. Because the more he challenged the hierarchy, the more he threatened the safety of the iron bars I’d built around myself.
“You’d do well to take Heris’s orders more seriously,” I added.
A robin’s call echoed from across the clearing, our signal to emerge.
Grinnick lifted his greataxe, the blue flame of his Oath’s magic licking along the steel. “The only person I take seriously around here is you,” he said with a wink—then burst out of the underbrush and raced toward the action.
I ran after him, my palm humming with thrum of my shortsword’s magic.
Eerie blue light lit the clearing, casting odd shadows on the abomination.
While most assumed the neck and chest were the quickest ways to kill a Morta, I had learned to target its tendons: the crook of an elbow, the front of its knee.
Though they looked rather fragile with their torn flesh and gangly bodies, Morta were tough, and smaller cuts served better than brute force—at least, at first.
It was under my tutelage—both in sparring and in hushed, late-night conversations inside my tent—that Grinnick had learned how to fight.
He utilized both his brawn and my finesse, and the combination made him unstoppable.
Too bold. Everyone resented him for it, and as we fought the Morta that night, it became clear that Grinnick didn’t take seriously what I knew to be the true danger, here: not the monster, but the other men.
The forest filled with the shouts of knights and the wails of the Morta.
We took turns as planned, hacking away at the creature’s gnarled limbs, spraying the grass with rancid blood.
Grinnick was unrelenting, ignoring the order of things, unwilling to work as a team, even going so far as to step in front of our leader, Heris, for the final blow.
But I was paying attention. I saw it coming.
Grinnick: lifting his greataxe to end the ghastly creature.
Heris: parrying Grinnick’s strike.
The Morta: swiping at Grinnick’s belly with its claws.
I collided with Grinnick in a bodily shove, knocking him out of harm’s way.
My interference allowed Heris to sink his dagger into the monster’s chest, claiming the kill for his own.
The beast toppled, the chaos in the clearing stilled, and there was a flood of emotion in my chest, a gasping sort of gratitude mixed with horror at what could’ve been.
I sank to my knees in the blood-slicked grass, imagining the groan Grinnick would’ve loosed in death, the hot viscosity of his blood under my hands, the abject shock on his face as he witnessed his life spilling out of his open stomach.
The grim thoughts—they felt so possible, so real. My relief was acute.
Thank the Fates I’d been there.
It could’ve been so much worse.
I woke with a start, sitting upright with dagger in hand, slashing the weapon at the empty room. My skin was hot, clammy; my body felt like a plucked string, vibrating with terror—with memory.
The dream was not the version of that night I remembered in my waking hours; it was a taunting vision of how things should have gone.
In reality, my life was the nightmare from which I couldn’t wake up.
The version of the story where I did not reach Grinnick in time.
Where the horrors I imagined in the dream were not visions of what could have been, but recollections of what were.
I blinked the sleep from my eyes. The fire in the hearth was smoldering, its embers glowing faintly, the only light in the room.
Outside the lone window, the city was shrouded in the dense gray of predawn.
For a brief moment, I considered settling back into bed and chasing the ending of that dream, just to relish another stolen moment with the man I’d lost so many years ago—but why torture myself with things I couldn’t touch?
I dragged my sweaty hands over the linen sheets, trying to wipe away the phantom sensation of Grinnick’s sticky blood still clinging to my magic.
Then I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
My ribs ached as I stood. After receiving my orders from the Lord, I’d spent the better part of last night soaking in a tub of hot water.
Salts and rosemary soap had left my muscles lax and my skin feeling clean and buttery soft.
I already mourned the start of another long stint in the elements.
Fates, Mariana, get it together, I scolded myself. One night under a real roof, in a real bed, and I was already losing my edge.
A shiver scuttled down my spine, and I threw another log on the fire, the room filling with warm light.
My gear was heaped on a small wooden dining table in the corner.
I went to it, rifling through the pile of clothing and leather straps to find the fabric I’d been using to wrap my injured ribs.
I’d climbed into bed last night naked, relishing the freedom; now, the cloudy mirror on the wall revealed the damage that my touch magic experienced unrelentingly.
Greenish, mottled bruising. Bumps, blisters, and raised red marks from the wrap.
A plethora of old, pale scars that pulled when I moved.
Gritting my teeth, I began cinching my torso once more, hating the roughness of the fabric.
I’d need the extra support for the day ahead.
I knew from experience that straining my core to avoid the discomfort of the wrap would only prolong the healing process.
There was no avoiding pain, only mitigating it.
I dressed in a clean black tunic, tucking the laces at the collar so they wouldn’t tickle my neck.
My leather weapons harness came next, then the familiar weight of my sword belt.
I fixed my vambraces over my wrists and fitted my black metal breastplate across my chest. A deep scar along the left side of my abdominals tugged in my gut when I reached back to pull the straps of my armor tight.
With everything in place, I took one last look at myself in the mirror.
When I was a girl, I’d had a round face and big brown eyes, just like my mother.
At thirty-five, my face was chiseled and harsh; experience had transformed my doe eyes into those of a coyote in a trap, wide and wild.
There wasn’t a day I didn’t mourn the girl I’d once been—smart and mischievous, yes, but also loved, innocent, safe.
I turned away from the mirror, my long sigh stifled by the confines of my Valiant uniform. It didn’t take long to gather the rest of my things, don my cloak, and leave the comfort of the inn.
Outside, the city was still. Though I could not see the top of Mount Shield through the darkness and gloom, I could smell the new snow on its peak.
The fresh mineral scent mingled with the stink of Fenrir’s streets: rotten food, vomit, trash, and the general reek of so many humans living and littering in close proximity.
Though I appreciated the luxury of warm baths and soft beds, I preferred the scent and silence of the forest.
Of course, all that would be ruined by the company I was about to keep.
Mighty Knights were city dwellers, notoriously prissy about the wilds; any Mighty Knight was guaranteed to be a frustratingly fragile travel companion.
The fact that Faren Hayward was that knight only made it worse.
The last time I’d seen him, he’d threatened to kill an innocent man for being infected with monster blood, too impatient to track down a tincture that would subdue the symptoms.
My previous run-ins with him were no better.
His eagerness to prove his worth to his worthless Order usually resulted in him acting impulsively.
Not to mention that every time he opened his mouth, it was to spout the convictions of our corrupt Lord.
I had no interest in listening to what a hard-on Faren had for the sniveling, vile excuse for a man he served—nor did I wish to look after him as he bumbled through a monster-infested wood.
Best to set expectations early.
The cloudy sky was just beginning to pale in the east when I strode through the barbican gate at Castle Might.
My Oath tattoo granted me access into most parts of the castle—but not the Mighty barracks.
Thankfully, they were easy to infiltrate.
The guards hadn’t changed the pattern of their rounds for years, and the locks were simple enough to pick.
It took me barely fifteen minutes to locate and jimmy my way into Faren’s quarters; he was, apparently, valued enough in his Order to earn some privacy.
The space was small, but neat. Two beds, one empty.
He was asleep on his back, breathing softly through parted lips.
A thin quilt was draped over him, his bare, tan shoulders exposed to the night air, arms resting at his sides.
As I crept closer, I took in his features: the boyish flush of his cheeks, the lock of light brown hair across his forehead, his noble bone structure and the masculine width of his jaw.
The sum of these qualities was pleasant—attractive, even.
Too bad about his personality.
Swiftly, I swung my leg over him, sitting astride his chest with my thighs pinning his arms at his sides. By the time his eyelashes fluttered, the tip of my dagger was already wedged beneath his pretty chin.
A smile came to my lips as his eyes widened with recognition. “Rise and shine, Buttercup.”