Circling the Same Wound
The swords met with a shattering clang, steel biting steel. Sparks flared in the dusk, where the setting sun’s fire streaked across their blades, turning them into flickering tongues of flame.
Nic lunged—Collin parried.
Collin struck—Nic twisted away.
Each blow came faster than the last, blades locking and skimming, until Owen’s shouted commands faded beneath the pounding in Nic’s ears.
Collin had gotten better. Much better. Nic didn’t enjoy admitting it, but the truth crackled in every exchange.
Their sparring sessions used to end in minutes.
This one felt like a siege. Collin had patched up his weaknesses, sharpened his footwork, diversified his attacks.
He was unpredictable—and Nic hated that.
The familiarity that usually gave Nic an edge had turned against him.
Each deviation from Collin’s old rhythms needled deeper into his frustration, throwing off his timing, his judgment.
Damn it—he couldn’t even hear Owen anymore. Just the roar of blood and the clash of metal. The training ground vanished; only Collin remained in his vision.
Nic refused to lose. He had never lost to Collin—not once. Defeat wasn’t just personal. It was unthinkable. A loss here would haunt his bloodline.
With a snarl, he threw his weight into a strike. Amare screamed against Lumen as the swords met, grinding in a brutal contest of force.
Their eyes locked—flames behind Collin’s stare matching the inferno burning in Nic’s chest. No tricks now. This was raw will.
His shoulders trembled. His arms burned. Sweat matted his hair and stung his eyes, but he didn’t flinch. His breath rasped, teeth clenched tight enough to crack.
“Give up, Nic,” Collin growled.
He didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
He saw the subtle falter in Collin’s guard, felt the tremor in his stance. The tide was shifting.
Nic dug for that last scrap of resolve. The pain didn’t matter. Losing would hurt more.
A breath. A shift. The gritty crunch underfoot. The scent of exertion. A flicker of hesitation.
Nic moved.
With a roar, he surged forward.
Collin flew backward, arms flailing. His sword spun from his grip as he crashed into the dirt, a plume of dust rising in his wake.
And just like that, the world returned. Sound crashed down on Nic like a wave—shouts, footsteps, a slap on his back. He staggered, legs trembling, and dropped to one knee, planting his sword in the sand to keep from collapsing.
He had won.
It took several breaths before he could even speak, and longer still before his arms stopped shaking. He barely registered Owen’s praise, or his brother’s cheer from the sidelines.
All he saw was Collin.
Slowly, he rose and crossed the sand-strewn space between them. He held out a hand. Collin took it, and Nic hauled him to his feet, saying with a smirk, “Took you long enough to hit the dirt. I was starting to think you’d grown a spine.”
Collin grinned, winded. “You were awesome. Someday, I’ll beat you!”
Nic retrieved Lumen and flipped it once before handing it back. “Sure. And someday I’ll sprout wings and sing soprano. Aim high, my friend.”
“Excellent! Go home early. You two have earned a well-deserved break!” the captain announced. “As for the rest of you, grab rakes and clean up the field.”
Nic cast a glance toward Uriah, who was already trailing after Gravis toward the shed.
“Nic, you coming?”
One more glance. Uriah didn’t look great. Tired wasn’t unusual these days, but his gait was sluggish. Nic gave a noncommittal grunt and followed Collin toward the changing stalls.
They trudged in silence, dragging invisible weights. Nic felt like someone had replaced his limbs with stone and filled his chest with damp sand. The thought of walking all the way home made his muscles pre-emptively ache.
Buckets of water were waiting in the stalls.
Nic didn’t bother with ceremony—stripped down and scrubbed off the day in a series of sharp exhales.
The water wasn’t warm, but it was cold enough to bring him partly back to life.
He poured a stream over his head, wincing at the chill, then sighed as it ran down his neck and over his shoulders.
Collin stepped out from the neighboring stall, hair wet and looking about as coherent as a sleep-deprived ghost. “You going to wait for Uriah?”
“Yeah.” Nic towel-dried his face. “He’ll be quick. Unless he’s decided to abandon society and live under a rake.”
“Well, then,” Collin said with a tired grin. “Good night.”
“See you tomorrow. And next time, I expect you to put up a real fight.”
Once alone, Nic leaned back against the wall and promptly lost the battle with gravity. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But when he jerked awake, Aries and Gravis were stomping in, trailing dust and noisy conversation. Uriah followed close behind with Niall.
As Uriah washed, Nic watched him carefully. The flush in his cheeks wasn’t just from exertion, and his silence echoed louder than Gravis’ entire retelling of his duel. Even when they mentioned Uriah’s win over Sky, he didn’t engage. That wasn’t normal.
He probably needed a day off. A real one. But Sol didn’t believe in mercy, and Uriah didn’t believe in asking for it. He’d rather drag himself through a swamp than admit weakness. Especially to their parents. Especially to Nic.
Nic had tried not to hover so much—tried. But concern had a way of leaking out through the cracks, and Uri hated that. Still, the stubborn idiot looked like he was running on fumes.
A spark of amusement lit Uriah’s face when Niall started heckling Clive. Nic tucked that little flicker away with quiet relief.
He exchanged goodnights with Dragonfly as she headed off. Lucky her, staying nearby. Sky and Gravis too. Watching Uriah lace up his boots with slow, fumbling fingers, Nic wished they didn’t have to cross half the mountainside just to collapse.
“See you boys tomorrow,” Aries mumbled.
“Try not to die of enthusiasm,” Nic replied.
Once their friends were gone, Uriah spun on him, scowl ready. “You didn’t have to wait. You could’ve gone home.”
Nic blinked at him. “I could’ve. But then who would’ve limped dramatically into the sunset with you?”
Uriah narrowed his eyes. “You’re not funny.”
“I disagree.”
“Seriously, Nic—”
“I’m too tired for this fight right now,” Nic said, raising his hands. “Let’s argue later, when I have energy to make my points sting.”
Uriah huffed, stomped past him, but didn’t say another word. Nic didn’t press. Not tonight.
They made their way through the North Town circle, the streets humming with evening sounds. Taverns opened their doors, cooking smells wafting out into the cooling air. Meat, spices, maybe onions—that combination used to make his mouth water.
Tonight, he barely blinked at it.
And then—his heart’s lake gave a joyous lurch, like waves rushing to meet shore.
There she was.
Helen, walking toward him down the moonlit-dappled lane, looking like the first good thing he’d seen in days. Weeks, maybe. Every bone in his body ached, but he barely noticed. He ran to meet her, scooped her off her feet without hesitation.
“Biscuit! What a treat!”
Helen laughed softly, her nose brushing his ear. It sent a shiver down his spine and a half-dozen regrets through his mind for every day he'd gone without this.
“I waited yesterday,” she murmured. “I must have missed you.”
“Eric didn’t excuse us until after nine,” Uriah grumbled nearby, ruffling Dolly’s ears.
“I’ll see you at home,” Nic said, waving his brother on. Tired or not, he wasn’t giving up a few quiet minutes with Helen—not when she looked like that, soft-eyed and uncertain. He looped an arm around her shoulders and gently turned them toward the square, whistling for Dolly to follow.
“How have you been?” she asked. There was a dulled lilt to her voice, like she was dimmed from the inside.
“Still breathing. Still eating like royalty. But you—” he turned, gave her a teasing sidelong glance, “—look like a goddess painted in starlight.”
Helen flushed but didn’t lean into the compliment like she usually would. She smiled, yes, but her grip on his arm tightened. Something wasn’t right.
Nic slowed beneath a vine-wrapped trellis and dropped onto the stone bench, tugging her beside him. The view stretched wide, lake and villas gilded by starlight. Peaceful, romantic—the kind of setting where a man could forget he was dragging a thousand aches behind him.
He caressed her cheek and kissed her, slow and searching, hungry for the warmth he’d missed.
She kissed him back—but it was quieter, tinged with restraint. When she didn’t respond to his second attempt, he pulled back, frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
Helen looked away, toying with Dolly’s ear. She took a breath that caught halfway. “I need to tell you something.”
Ice slid down his spine.
Please not goodbye. Not an arranged match. Don’t say Jacob found her someone richer.
Then—soft as falling ash, she said, “I’m pregnant.”
The words fell like a punch to his gut. For a heartbeat, he simply blinked at her. Then the world lurched. The rising moon blurred. His vision tunneled around Helen’s face as his stomach did something deeply unhelpful.
“You’re... sure?” he asked, faintly horrified by how hoarse he sounded. “How late?”
“Six weeks, maybe more.”
“Six—?!” His voice cracked hard enough to startle a woman sweeping her shopfront. He clamped his jaw and shoved a hand through his hair. “But I got you that book. I thought... I mean, you were careful, right?”
Tears welled in Helen’s eyes before he could backpedal.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief. “It said this could still happen. I tried—I never meant—”
“God, no.” Nic gathered her in his arms, pulling her tight against his chest. “I didn’t mean it like that. Helen, love, I’m not blaming you. I read that part too. I just... chose to pretend it didn’t apply to us. Very mature of me.”
She sniffled into his chest. “What am I going to do?”