Chapter 11 #2
She turned, her emotions from their initial encounter resurfacing. “Maybe you should let me teach you, next round.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge, Princess?”
She took a step forward until there was no space left between them, her chest bumping up against his. “Call it an invitation.”
He looked down at her, searching for the joke, but she met his gaze head-on, refusing to look away. Something shifted—so subtle that, had she not been watching for it, she’d have missed it entirely. A hesitation, a softening, a moment when anything might have happened.
But Kael only smiled, a slow, private thing. “Next round,” he agreed. “But first, breakfast.”
He turned and started toward the mess hall, leaving her to follow.
Alina stayed where she was for a moment, letting the adrenaline drain from her limbs, her skin still tingling from the memory of his touch.
The sun had finally cleared the wall, igniting the frost into diamonds and throwing long, golden shadows across the yard. She picked up her bow, put it back on the rack, and walked after him.
She was hungry, yes. But it was not the need for food that gnawed at her.
The path to the mess hall twisted past the armory and through the outer cavern, where the air was always thick with ash and the ghosts of last night’s woodsmoke.
Alina’s route took her near the open forge, its heat and noise a welcome reprieve from the morning cold.
There, half-in and half-out of shadow, Marcus Ironweave hammered a length of red-hot steel, each blow echoing up the walls and into her chest.
She paused to watch him, partly out of admiration for the craft, but mostly to let her pulse slow after Kael’s lessons.
Marcus was built for this kind of work: broad-backed, hands like old roots, jaw forever dusted in black.
A burn scar curled up his right forearm, ridged and shiny, the only mark of imperfection on a body otherwise chiseled by years of labor.
He caught her gaze between hammer strokes, then nodded once and grinned. “Princess,” he said, as if announcing her to a room full of courtiers. “You’re up early.”
She smiled, unable to help herself. “So are you.”
He dropped the hot metal into a bucket, the hiss and cloud of steam a miniature thunderstorm.
“No rest for the wicked,” Marcus said, and peeled off his gloves with a slow, practiced motion.
From a battered tin at his side, he produced a handful of dried apricots, which he offered to Alina with the care of a man passing jewels.
“Here,” he said. “Keeps the hunger gremlins at bay.”
She took one, the flesh leathery but sweet on her tongue. “Thank you,” she said, surprised by how hungry she actually was.
Marcus wiped his hands on a rag, then pointed at the benches lining the courtyard.
“That’s the best place to dry your boots, if you ever get caught out in the marsh.
You’d be amazed how many tough bastards lose a toe to rot before the winter’s through.
If you want your boots to dry by morning, you can wedge them by the kitchen hearth if you’re quick about it, others will have the same idea—just don’t block the oven, or you’ll get an earful. ”
Alina listened, a little overwhelmed by the torrent of practical advice. In the palace, information had come at her sharp and coded, all layers and hidden meaning. Marcus handed it out plain as day, like there was nothing worth hiding.
He picked up the strip of steel with a pair of tongs and flexed it, squinting at the glowing seam. “You training with Kael?” he asked, voice casual but curious.
She nodded, chewing the last of the apricot. “He’s… persistent.”
Marcus laughed, a deep rumble that shook the dust from his apron. “That’s one word for him.” He tossed the metal back in the fire and turned, resting his weight on the worktable. “Don’t let him get in your head. Most days, he’s as lost as the rest of us.”
She hesitated, then said, “He’s a good teacher. Hard, but fair.”
Marcus seemed to weigh her words, then nodded. “That’s the best you’re going to get around here. The Caves aren’t gentle.” His gaze softened, just for a moment. “Neither are the people. But they look out for their own, even if they pretend not to.”
Alina wanted to say something but found herself tongue-tied. She looked at her feet, then back at Marcus. “Does it ever stop feeling strange? Like… like you’re wearing someone else’s clothes?”
He considered this, then shrugged. “You'll get used to it.”
He clapped her on the shoulder, his hand heavy and reassuring. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you fed before you faint.”
They walked together to the mess hall, Marcus leading the way with the easy authority of someone who knew every twist and turn in the stone corridors.
The hall was already filling, bowls of porridge and hunks of brown bread passed down the tables with the practiced speed of survival.
No one looked up as they entered, but Alina felt the heat of a dozen glances brush her skin.
With what she had experienced in the safehouse, she couldn’t hold it against them.
She was honestly surprised they hadn’t lynched her yet.
Marcus guided her to the serving line, where a woman with flour dusting her sleeves and a wariness in her eyes ladled porridge into bowls. “Morning, Mari,” Marcus said, all gruff affection. “You know Alina, yeah?”
Mari eyed her, then nodded. “I’ve seen her.”
Alina flushed, but Marcus only snorted. “Well, she’s a special guest. Give her the good stuff, will you?”
Mari obliged by slopping an extra ladle of porridge into Alina’s bowl and handing it over with a faint, reluctant smile. Alina wasn’t so sure if she wanted to be a special guest. It was meant nicely, and she took it as such, but all she wanted was to blend in.
They found a spot at the end of the table, and Marcus talked her through the unwritten rules of mealtime: don’t take more than you can finish, keep your elbows in, never drink from the communal cup if you’ve got a cold.
Most of this she had figured out in the weeks she had been here, but it was still nice to have somebody looking out for her.
He told stories about the old days, about smuggling arms and outwitting the King’s men, and about the time he and Kael ran a ten-mile relay with a broken cart and a bag of moldy cheese.
Most of the tales ended in disaster, but Marcus always found the part worth laughing at.
Alina listened, eating more than she’d thought possible. The porridge was thin, but the bread made up for it. She felt the eyes on her less and less as the meal went on, until it was just her and Marcus, and the low, steady hum of life all around.
When she finished, she wiped her mouth and said, “Thank you. For this.”
Marcus shrugged, but she could tell he was pleased. “No trouble. Just follow my lead. No one here bites unless they’re provoked.”
She wasn’t so sure about that, but she smiled, the warmth from the food and his words settling deep in her bones.
As the hall emptied out, Marcus stood and gave her a short, approving nod. “See you at training tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.
He left her there, alone with her empty bowl and the first true sense of belonging she’d felt in weeks.
Surprising herself, Alina thought she might actually survive this place.
The council room, also called the war room, felt hewn from the heart of the mountain, the stone walls sweating moisture no matter how many torches burned in their brackets.
By the time Alina arrived, the place was already full of twenty or so rebels gathered in clusters around the large battered table, all of them bent over maps or talking in undertones that never rose above the crackle of pitchwood.
Now that she was actually in the room and not hiding behind the door, she had time to take it all in.
The room was shaped like an oval, with the big table in the center.
Every surface was littered with parchment, clay markers, and cups of weak beer.
On the far side, Kael and Tamsin conferred with Elara, their heads close together.
The witch’s pale hair caught every flicker of torchlight.
Marcus held court at one end, rolling a marble between his fingers and laughing at something the messenger boy said.
Eyes turned her way, some curious, some wary, one or two openly hostile.
Alina recognized the wariness of people who’d been betrayed too many times to trust the new face, no matter how clean her boots or how careful her smile.
They had every right to hate her, in Alina’s mind.
The safehouse still haunted her. But then again, she had as much right to be here as the rest of them; Kael had invited her to discuss strategy for the approaching raid.
So, she crossed the room, shoulders back, and made for the center table.
Marcus intercepted her en route, holding out a pouch of dried fruit. “Carbs before strategy,” he said, and she took a handful, chewing to steady her nerves.
“You love your dried fruits, don’t you?” She smiled at him.
He chuckled. “Got me there, Princess.”
Approaching the table, she let her eyes sweep over the large map that was pinned down.
It was hand-drawn, annotated in three different inks and at least two hands.
Marcus pointed at a jagged line marked as the north pass, that led to a village named Willowcreek.
“That has been our supply route up until shortly. It has run dry, unfortunately.”
"Why?" Alina was half afraid to ask.
Marcus looked at her with what appeared to be sympathy. "The village had a visit from your father's troops."
Alina remained silent. No words would do this justice.
Tamsin joined them and nodded, her expression grave. “We need to establish another route. But it will take time.”