Chapter 19 The Open Wound
Soren
Varda refused to examine him in the training yard, though Soren wasn't certain whether that decision had been made for his dignity or hers. In truth, he suspected it was neither.
By the time they reached his chambers, the pain beneath his ribs had settled into something deeper. It was no longer sharp enough to demand his full attention, yet it remained impossible to ignore, like a blade lodged beneath the skin and waiting for the right moment to twist.
The door closed behind them, and silence settled over the room as the healer placed her satchel on the table.
Soren remained standing.
"Sit."
"No."
"Sit."
"I am not a child."
Varda met his gaze without flinching.
"No, but children are easier."
Soren almost smiled at that, though the expression never fully formed. Instead, he lowered himself onto the edge of the chair, irritated by how much effort the simple movement required.
Varda stepped closer.
"Take off the shirt."
This time he obeyed, not because she had ordered him to, but because he wanted answers.
The fabric fell to the floor, and for several moments she simply stared.
The mark stretched across his chest exactly as it had in the training yard.
It looked dark and angry, with a disturbing sense of life beneath the skin.
Although the bleeding had slowed, it had never truly stopped, and a thin line of blood still traced one edge of the mark before disappearing beneath the surface.
The healer didn't touch it at all, which worried him far more than if she had.
At last she stepped back and released a long breath, followed by another.
"You fool."
There was no anger in her voice, only exhaustion.
Soren folded his arms.
"I've been called worse."
"I know," she replied immediately. "I've said worse."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but Varda didn't return it. Instead, she looked back at the mark.
"You have no idea what you've done."
His irritation returned at once.
"I marked her."
"No."
The response cracked through the room like a whip, and for the first time since entering the chamber, genuine anger flashed across her face.
"No, Soren. As if that explains anything."
The irritation beneath his skin sharpened.
"Then explain it."
She let out a short, humorless laugh.
"I would if you listened."
Soren looked away, and Varda noticed immediately.
"You think this is a mark," she said, gesturing toward his chest. "You think it's a symbol, a declaration, or some way to claim a mate."
Her gaze hardened.
"It was never any of those things."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Soren remained motionless, waiting.
Varda crossed to the window, where snow drifted beyond the glass in a landscape of white silence.
"When these bonds were first recorded, they were feared."
That caught his attention immediately.
"Feared?"
"Not by everyone. But enough."
She folded her arms.
"The surviving records are fragmentary. Most of what we know comes from copies of copies, stories repeated across generations."
Soren waited.
"The one thing they agree on is that the bond was never treated lightly."
He glanced down at the mark.
"It looks unpleasant. That's hardly a revelation."
Varda's gaze hardened.
"This isn't about appearance."
The room fell silent.
"The mark is changing."
"I noticed."
"No." Her voice sharpened. "You noticed the blood. I noticed everything else."
For the first time since entering the room, uncertainty slipped into her expression.
"I don't know what this means yet."
That answer surprised him.
"You don't know?"
"No."
The admission seemed to irritate her almost as much as it irritated him.
"I know it shouldn't look like this. I know I have never seen anything similar. And I know the old records contain enough warnings to make me deeply uncomfortable."
Soren leaned back in the chair.
"Warnings about what?"
"I don't know."
The answer came immediately.
"The accounts disagree. Some are incomplete. Others contradict each other."
She exhaled slowly.
"But none of them describe separation as harmless."
The words settled between them.
Soren looked away.
"Eira is safe."
"That isn't what concerns me."
His gaze returned to hers.
"Then what does?"
Varda hesitated.
"The fact that this mark continues to change after she left."
Silence stretched between them.
After a moment, Soren shrugged.
"Then find out why."
The response earned a look that would have unsettled most men.
"You think this is a problem to solve later."
"It is a problem."
"And you think you have time."
Soren said nothing.
Varda studied him for several moments before shaking her head.
"I need the archives."
"What do you expect to find?"
"An answer."
"And if there isn't one?"
For the first time, genuine worry crossed her face.
"I would prefer not to discover that."
The room grew quiet again.
At last she gathered her satchel.
"There may be records I haven't seen."
"May?"
"There are very few surviving accounts."
The implication hung heavily in the air.
Before leaving, she paused at the door.
"You should take this seriously."
Soren looked down at the mark stretching across his chest.
"I am."
Varda's expression suggested she did not believe him.
Then she left.
The door closed behind her, and silence reclaimed the room.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Soren remained seated long after she was gone while the fire burned lower and the pain continued to gnaw beneath his ribs.
Eventually he reached for the discarded shirt lying on the floor. The fabric felt damp in his hands, and when he turned it over, he found dark stains covering the inside.
There was far more blood than there had been beside the campfire, and far more than there had been that morning.
The bleeding was spreading.
The council chamber was quieter than usual, not because fewer people attended, but because everyone was choosing their words carefully.
Soren noticed it immediately. The moment he entered the room, conversations stopped, and several council members glanced toward him before quickly looking away. No one mentioned the envoy, yesterday’s events, or the blood still hidden beneath the fresh shirt under his cloak.
The silence irritated him as he took his seat.
"Report."
The command cut through the room, and a sense of relief followed as everyone turned to something familiar and ordinary.
One by one, reports were delivered concerning supplies, winter stores, patrol routes, trade caravans, and border activity. Soren listened, responded, and made decisions while everything proceeded exactly as it always had, which only made the tension feel worse.
Eventually, one of the older council members cleared his throat, and the room immediately fell silent once more.
"We need to discuss yesterday."
There it was at last.
Soren leaned back in his chair.
"Then discuss it."
No one seemed eager to volunteer, and after a brief pause, Edrik finally spoke. As the oldest warrior in the room and the only one who appeared entirely unimpressed by the prospect of death, he commanded attention without effort.
"The envoy entered under Ironfang protection."
The statement hung in the air without accusation or judgment. It was simply a fact.
Soren waited.
Edrik continued.
"He should have left under Ironfang protection."
Silence followed as several council members shifted uncomfortably. No one disagreed because no one could.
Soren felt irritation stir beneath his skin.
"The man served Vargan."
"He did."
"He carried demands."
"He did."
"He came to provoke."
Edrik's expression remained unchanged.
"Then we should have sent him home."
The answer came without hesitation, fear, or apology.
For a moment, Soren considered ending the discussion there. Instead, he looked toward the mountains visible through the narrow windows because, somewhere beneath the irritation, he knew Edrik was right, and that realization made the conversation unbearable.
Another council member spoke.
"What matters now is Frostvein's response."
That, at least, was a problem everyone understood.
The atmosphere in the room shifted immediately as attention sharpened. Practical matters always came more easily than uncomfortable truths.
"We return the body."
"We return the body and an explanation."
"We strengthen the border."
"Vargan will strengthen his regardless."
"He may already have."
The discussion gathered momentum as Soren listened, made decisions, and issued orders.
Everything felt normal, except it wasn't. Every time the room fell quiet, he could feel the unspoken truth lingering beneath the surface—the thing no one wanted to say, the thing everyone had witnessed, the thing waiting behind every glance.
Something is wrong.
The thought followed him like a shadow.
A knock interrupted the discussion, and one of the guards entered with snow still clinging to his cloak. The man crossed the room quickly before stopping beside the table.
"My lord."
Soren looked up as the guard held out a folded piece of parchment.
"Message from the western patrol."
The room quieted once again.
Soren unfolded the parchment, read it, and then read it a second time.
The western patrol found traces of a lone rider matching her route. The trail continues west.
His pulse quickened instantly.
For the first time in days, something resembling hope pierced through the exhaustion. This was not a rumor, a guess, or a frightened villager remembering the wrong traveler. It was a real sighting and a real trail—old, but real.
Soren rose so quickly that several people looked up in surprise.
"Prepare riders."
The order came immediately.
"My lord—"
"Prepare riders."
No one argued this time.
The room erupted into motion as chairs scraped against stone and orders began moving through the chamber. The hunt finally had a direction again, and for the first time in weeks, Soren felt as though he could see the path beneath his feet.
West.
The thought settled heavily in his mind as he focused entirely on that single word.
He didn't notice Edrik watching him, the brief exchange of glances between the older warriors, or the concern lingering behind their expressions.
While everyone else in the room was thinking about Frostvein, diplomacy, and the dead envoy lying below the fortress, Soren was already gone in his thoughts, following a trail that had begun two weeks ago and was growing colder with every passing day.