Chapter Eight #3
I freeze. Burn marks twist around their palms, vicious pink scars of what must once have been melted flesh. As if they reached into a fire, or dug through charring piles of wood or coals.
Sweat stings my eyes. I wipe it away and search their face.
I’m close enough to see the spatter of freckles across their cheeks; the copper hair shorn close to their scalp is the color of the morning light.
It streams through the open door on the far wall, leading to a small courtyard, one tiny perk in all this.
The paned glass door lets in the sweet scent of climbing crimson tea roses and bog rosemary.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, and tighten my hands into fists. The first collides with their scarred palm with a light smack. When there’s no sign of it hurting them, I punch harder.
The guard lets out a tense breath. “Good,” they say gruffly, and nod. “Keep going.”
My blows rain down in the stillness stretching out around us.
“Did he force you into this too?” I ask after I lose count of the blows. My knuckles sting, but I rub at them and keep going. “Your leader. Wolf.”
“Wolf isn’t technically our leader.” The guard’s brow knots.
Interesting. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Well, it’s all the answer you’re getting.” Their mouth tilts up.
“You know plenty about me.” I arch a brow and cross both arms stubbornly.
Their hands curl into fists, then unclench. The edges of their eyes tighten, thinking. “No, Wolf didn’t force me into this.” Quiet determination is clear on their face. “Let’s just say I wanted answers. And now it’s my job to find them.”
I eye the guard warily. “You’re a spy for the Whisperers?”
They laugh. “You make it sound so formal.”
“Isn’t it?”
The guard shakes their head, smirking, like I’m not getting any other answers on this from them.
I try a different line of attack. My fist slams into their palms again and again with more force than I thought I had in me.
Instantly, I feel lighter, and a fresh singe of energy jolts through my veins.
“Is. He. Always. Such. An. Asshole.” I punctuate each word with a punch.
A curious look lights again in their brown eyes. “Sometimes. You do seem to draw that side out of him more quickly than others, though.”
“Others?”
The guard laughs. “He’s usually more… careful.”
“What do you mean?”
They cock their head, thinking. “You’ll see. Maybe.”
“Lucky me.” I strike until the knuckles of my fists are bright red and the sting of each blow leaves pinpricks across my skin. “I think I hate him.”
“Most people do,” the guard admits, shrugging. “At least at first.”
They expect me to ask another question. I can feel it, hanging unsaid between us.
I leave it.
As far as I’m concerned, the less I know about Wolf, about any of them, the better.
We keep going, punching and kicking through drill after drill until my muscles scream. Even lifting a fork to my mouth is going to hurt like shit after this. But the exhaustion clears my mind, focusing me and sharpening my senses.
Only when every inch of me is covered in sweat does the guard nod for me to stop. “Get some water. And make sure you eat. You need…”
“Fuel to build muscle.” I squeeze my eyes shut at the piercing ache behind my heart. My sister must be better by now, right? Not being able to see her, to know for sure that she’s okay, feels like a dagger between my ribs. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
Shadows flit at the edges of the guard’s brown eyes. There’s a flicker of hesitation, but it vanishes a second before I can try to twist it to my advantage.
Still, I can’t resist one more question. “If you’re sticking around after today, I should know your name.”
A small, sad smile doesn’t quite reach their eyes. The guard rubs at the scarred palms of their hands and picks up the bag they had left on the small wooden chest at the foot of my bed—enormous, sure to be softer than anything I’ve ever slept on before.
They neatly tuck their notes on all my weaknesses into the pack, eyes guarded.
“Talon,” they answer after a long moment. “You can call me Talon.”
I tilt my head. “Wolf. Talon. Those aren’t your real names, right?”
Talon laughs softly. One thumb runs along the hilt protruding from the gauntlet sheath on their wrist. “No, they aren’t our real names.
Wolves and caoranachs were sacred to the Old Ones, and to the mages.
Some of us take our working names from different parts of them.
A reminder—of what we’re fighting for, and what Eireann can still become again. ”
There’s something stirring about that, the idea of someone who dreams so wildly, so defiantly, that their dream becomes not just a part of them but them.
Even though I know better than to hope, there’s no denying the cautious rustle of it deep in the pit of my stomach. Like a creature waking after a long, dark winter.
Talon turns for the door.
“Wait,” I call out before they can open it, heart hammering.
This is probably stupid—a half-formed fledgling of an idea. But…
“If you want me to kill the king, I need a map.”