Chapter 8
HARDIN
Korrak’s blade is always colder than it should be.
Even in memory, I feel it—biting across my ribs in a wide arc, slicing through leather and skin, not deep enough to kill but meant to humiliate. He never aimed to finish me. He wanted me broken, bleeding, looking up from my knees with no right to rise.
In the dream, it happens the way it always does.
The crowd chants in low, throaty pulses.
The sand underfoot is sticky with blood.
Our father stands at the very edge of the ring, arms crossed, waiting to see which son he’ll still claim when it ends.
And Korrak, eyes gleaming like coals raked too long in ash, smiles as he brings the blade down again.
I don’t block it in time. I never do. I fall. And the dust rises around me like it’s ashamed.
My body jerks awake with a breath that tastes like rust. I sit up, heart thudding in a rhythm older than this town, older than my exile, older than the man I’ve tried to become since I left him behind.
I rub my face with callused hands, shake it off, and let the dream settle where it always does—beneath the sternum, just above regret.
The rot in the porch step is worse than I thought.
I kneel down, running my hand along the bottom board where the wood dips soft beneath the surface.
It’s been eating in from underneath, damp and steady, like it’s been waiting for the wrong foot to come down and snap right through.
This kind of weakness isn’t just age. It’s neglect.
Not Krista’s fault. It was like this before she got here, but she’s trying.
She patched one of the railing posts with twine and an old broom handle. It’s not pretty, but it held.
She notices me crouched there when she steps out with her tea, wearing one of those sweaters that hangs off her shoulder like it can’t decide whether it wants to stay on or fall loose.
Her hair’s a mess, curls piled on top of her head like a lazy crown, and she looks tired in the way people look when they finally let themselves rest after too long of surviving on nothing but willpower.
“Are you inspecting my handiwork?” she asks, setting her mug on the railing and folding her arms, chin tilted like she’s daring me to laugh.
“I’m thinking it’ll collapse if you sneeze near it,” I reply, not unkindly.
She lifts her brows. “That sounds like a challenge. I’ll have you know I have a very polite sneeze.”
I stand slowly, brushing dirt from my hands. “You have tools?”
“In the shed. I think. Unless the shed decided to eat them.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“Inside with Delphina. They’re trying to convince a broom to sweep itself. I told them good luck.”
I nod. “Then get your tea and come hold some boards.”
She blinks. “You’re helping me?”
“I’m fixing it. You’re assisting.”
She makes a show of sighing but grabs her mug and follows me to the side where the planks are stacked.
I open the shed with a shoulder, ignoring the way the hinges groan like something trying to wake from a nightmare, and dig out a hammer, a box of nails that look a little too old, and a saw that’ll do in a pinch.
We work in rhythm without much talk. She hands me boards, I cut them, set them in place, drive the nails.
Her hands get dirty, but she doesn’t flinch.
Sweat beads on her temple, and she doesn’t wipe it off.
She’s stronger than she looks. Smarter, too.
She watches how I line the braces, pays attention to the angle of the cuts.
She listens more than she talks, and that’s rare.
“Were you always this handy?” she asks eventually, pushing her curls off her forehead with the back of her wrist.
“Learned before I was old enough to hold the blade steady,” I say. “You don’t keep your weight alive in a war camp without fixing what breaks.”
“You mean literal weight? Or… metaphorical?”
I glance at her. “Both.”
She doesn’t pry, but her gaze softens. “Must’ve been a hard place.”
“Wasn’t supposed to be soft.”
She doesn’t fill the silence with empty words, and I find I’m grateful for that. Most people try to patch the quiet with apologies or sympathy, but she just lets it sit with us like a third presence, unbothered and real.
By the time we finish, the new step is solid beneath our feet, and I test it with my full weight before I stand back and cross my arms.
“Won’t win any beauty contests,” I say. “But it’ll hold through winter.”
“Perfect,” she says, and then gestures toward the table near the door. “You want tea?”
I hesitate. It’s stupid. I know it. But I hesitate.
And then I nod once.
She pours two mugs. Hers is already flavored with something floral. Mine she leaves plain, just hot and bitter, the way I like it. She hands it over like she’s done it a hundred times before, not like she’s guessing.
We sit in the shade just past noon, the forest quiet around us except for the faint call of crows deeper in the Hollow. The wood beneath me creaks faintly, and her breath fogs the rim of her mug before she takes a sip.
She doesn’t look at me when she says it. “Does it hurt?”
My brows draw together. “What?”
She lifts her eyes, gestures faintly toward her own mouth. “Your tusks. I mean… you don’t have to answer. I’ve just wondered. They look... sharp. Like they might dig into your skin when you talk.”
It’s not the first time someone’s asked about them. But it’s the first time someone’s asked like that. Not with fear. Not with curiosity dipped in discomfort. Just… softness.
“They grew in early,” I say, voice low. “Broke through before I was fully grown. They tear the inside of my upper lip if I’m not careful. The skin scars, then heals. Then tears again.”
Her face falls, not with pity, but with understanding. “That sounds miserable.”
“You get used to it.”
“That doesn’t make it less miserable.”
I shrug.
She leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Brush off pain like it owes you something.”
I don’t have a good answer for that, so I sip the tea instead. It’s hot enough to scald, but I let it.
She waits. She always waits.
Then she smiles, but it’s small. “Mari asked if you were a good monster or a bad one. I told her you were your own kind of monster.”
I glance at her, and there’s no heat behind it. “And what did she say?”
“She said, ‘good.’ Just like that. No hesitation.”
She looks at me again, longer this time.
“I think she’s right.”
Something tightens in my chest, and I don’t know what to do with it. So I shift my weight and look out into the trees, at the way the light flickers through the branches like it’s trying to spell something I’ll never be able to read.
“I was raised to be a weapon,” I say after a long moment. “That doesn’t always leave room for softness.”
She doesn’t answer right away, just reaches out and sets her hand on mine, fingers warm and steady. She doesn’t squeeze. She doesn’t speak. She just leaves it there.
I don’t pull away.
I should. I know that. The council’s watching. The Hollow is listening. If I let her in, it won’t be quiet. It won’t be easy. It’ll cost something. It always does.
But when she looks at me like this, when her voice finds the parts of me that haven’t been spoken to in years, I think… maybe she could stay.
Maybe I want her to.