Chapter Two: You Lead. I Follow.

  Bryn’s stomach lurched. Bile burned her throat. The world receded—sound gone, color gone—just his face, bloodied and vacant in her lap.

  Someone was yelling his name.

  She was yelling his name.

  Other voices now. Footsteps. A hand clamped over her arm and the world snapped back, vicious and bright.

  She spun. No thought; all instinct. Her dagger flashed and a scream tore through the night. The guard staggered, glassy-eyed. She flipped the blade, went for his throat.

  More hands grabbed her—arms, shoulders, hair. Holding her back. Holding her down. She screamed—not in fear, but in the feral rage of someone who’d just lost her soul.

  Soldiers shouting. Not words. Just noise.

  Nothing would ever be anything but noise again.

  They were dragging her away. Away from him.

  The old rage, long buried, surged to life. She howled. Threw herself forward, thrashing against them all teeth and blades and nails. Her arm slipped free. She hit the cobblestones hard, elbow cracking. Drove her foot into the soldier’s knee. His grip broke. Maybe his leg too.

  A blink later, she was back on Marken. Covering him. Sheltering him. Like that could bring him back.

  “Marken,” she shouted, shaking him. “Wake the hells up. You are not allowed to do this, old man. Do you hear me? You are not fucking allowed!”

  She barely felt them pulling her away this time. She should’ve been ready. But Marken still filled her vision.

  Where there should’ve been footsteps, his laugh.

  Where there should’ve been a sword, his scowl.

  And where there should’ve been the fist flying at her temple—all she saw was his body, stretched and broken on the ground.

  *****

  She came to on a cement floor. Head spinning. Throat raw. World a haze.

  Blood on her sleeve. Dim light filtered through a dirty window.

  It hit her like a sprung trap: he was gone.

  She shot to her feet. The jail was empty except for her and a lone guard who stumbled back and, eyeing her warily, darted out of the room.

  Bryn grabbed the bars. Shook them once. Again. Harder. Blood on her hands. Not hers. His.

  Something lurched inside her. A sickening, awful alone that was going to be hers for the rest of her life. And with it came the break. But she wasn’t going to cry, not here, not for everyone to see. So she let anger drown it. Swallow it whole. She shook the bars again. Kicked them for good measure. “Fuck!” she shouted as pain lanced down her foot.

  “What you deserved,” came the hollow reply, and she closed her eyes again. One thing could make this situation worse. Just one. And here he came.

  “Kelmar.” She spat the name. Spat blood too. Someone must have taken advantage of her unconscious state to settle a debt.

  The captain of the guard regarded her with world-weary eyes. Every button shining, shoes polished, long nose angled in her direction. “What in the name of Justice happened?” he demanded.

  She snorted. “Justice. Stupid name for a god.”

  His eyes narrowed dangerously. She’d known they would. She was needling him. Poking. Pushing. If she was lucky, he’d take a swing at her. If she was really lucky, he’d open the door first. “We can’t all worship demons of pleasure and cruelty,” he snapped.

  Her head shot up, fuel to her inner fire. Her voice dripping with venom. “I don’t worship that bitch.”

  “Well, Marken did. And now he’s dead.” They stared at each other across the room. Only ten feet, but felt insurmountable. His tone softened, just a hair. “The old bastard was a thief without mercy. But he kept the scum in line. Knew how things worked. I’ll miss that.”

  Her mouth went dry. Somehow, Kelmar’s words made it real. She struggled to cling to the anger, wrapping herself like armor. But it sagged under the bone crushing weight of reality. “I want out,” she whispered, her appetite for baiting him gone. “Call my brother.”

  “You’re not going anywhere yet.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You can’t hold me for anything. I know the damned law.” Knew it because Marken drilled it into her. Sat her at the table for days, smacking her awake when she dozed off, forcing her – a feral girl who could barely read – to labor over every letter in the candlelight.

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  “I can hold you until you answer my question. What happened?”

  I don’t know what happened. And she sure as hells didn’t want to discuss it with Kelmar.

  Her hands curled into talons. They’d taken her daggers. Her sword. Her lockpicks. Missed the knife in the bindings under her shirt. Missed the pick in her braid too. Even if they hadn’t, she was lethal. The thought slid in, slick and deadly: Can’t lock me away if you’re dead.

  She smiled at him. Somewhere in the shadows, a rat scampered for cover. “Come closer,” she invited. “See what answer you get.”

  Kelmar shrugged and, to her surprise, produced the key. “Come on out. Attack me and I’ll have an excuse to lock you away for days.”

  The cage slid open. Her fingers twitched toward her blade. So easy.

  Kelmar regarded her warily. “You pick a fight,” he warned, “and I fight to win.”

  She drew up short. The caution echoed in her skull. But it wasn’t Kelmar saying it. She’d heard those words before — on her knees in the dirt with Marken standing over her, daring her to make the wrong choice.”

  *****

  Night had fallen thick and heavy by the time they stopped. The others set up camp without a word to Bryn. Mercenaries and thieves Marken trusted—at least for tonight. She hunched by the fire, arms crossed tight over her chest, anger and pride and shame battlering for ownership of her gut, just like they’d been doing since the thickset man with the ugly scar dared to laugh as she passed. “You getting soft, Marken?” he’d called. “Bringing your little pet project along to warm your bed?”

  The world dropped from under her feet. She hadn’t thought. Hadn’t cared. He’d barely finished the word and her dagger was half out of its sheath. She lunged…

  And Marken seized her by the arm, spun her around, shoved her back. Her hand spasmed around the dagger. Her voice near a shriek. “I’m not letting him get away with what he said!”

  “Stand down,” he snapped.

  For just a moment she considered throwing the dagger at him. She threw words instead. “Sure. After all, he has a point. You are getting soft if you let an insult like that slip by.”

  The slap came sharp and fast—not cruel, but decisive. A reminder, hard and brutal, that she didn’t get to flaunt his stupid leadership and call the shots. Not punishment for what she felt, but for what she did. With her anger shattered, she read his disgust at the other man as clear as her own. He didn’t look at her with anger; he looked at her with disappointment. And that alone brought her up short.

  “I said stand down.” He turned his back on her, slow, deliberate. Expecting to be obeyed. Focused now on the others. “Open your mouths again,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate, “and I’ll let her break your teeth.”

  Hours later, the sting of Marken’s slap still burned hotter than the fire. Not the pain but the way he’d put her down in front of everyone. Instinctively she reached for her brother. Not there. Of course not. Scouting ahead. She was alone, alone with Marken and these assholes who’d as soon spit on her corpse as lift a hand to help her.

  At least the assholes had the sense to keep their distance. Marken, on the other hand… The crunch of boots warned her of his approach. He sat across from her, resting his forearms on his knees, gaze appraising. “You showed them they got to you,” he said without preamble.

  If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure what would come out. So she let the silence stretch until he shook his head. “You think rage makes you strong? It doesn't. It makes you sloppy. Makes you weak.”

  She bit down on her tongue. Tasted blood.

  “You had the right to be angry. Not to fly off the handle and forget who you are.”

  Bryn’s head snapped up, fire flashing in her eyes. “I know exactly who I am,” she snarled.

  “You don’t,” Marken replied flatly. “Not yet.” He stood. Walked around the fire to stand over her. And without a word he tapped her shoulder—sharp, commanding.

  Down.

  Her heart plummeted, the fight scampering a retreat as the mercenaries’ predatory gazes burned through her skin. Seared her bones. “Not here,” she said. Halfway to a plea. All the way, really.

  She glanced over her shoulder at Marken. No softening. No mercy. Just that flat stare saying the conversation was over. Her throat worked against her anger, her pride, her shame. Not in front of those sneering bastards just waiting for her to fall. “Please,” she whispered, hating herself even as she said it.

  Marken sighed, and for just a second, Bryn thought he looked tired. Older. Like he hated this as much as she did. “You think I’m trying to hurt you? Humiliate you? That’s not what this is about. This is about choices, Princess. About you choosing to control yourself instead of waiting for me to do it for you. You don’t learn that, you’ll never be anything but that angry, reckless child trying to prove herself. And I already know everything I need to know about her.” His fingers tapped her shoulder again, harder this time. Last chance. She obeyed now, or he’d shove her down himself.

  Bryn’s stomach twisted. Her skin crawled with humiliation. But even worse than the idea of kneeling was the knowledge of what would happen if she didn’t. Slowly, painfully, she slid off the log, sinking to her knees before him.

  She stayed there, frozen, fists planted in the dirt, breathing hard, refusing to meet his eyes.

  Minutes passed. Or maybe forever.

  Finally, in a voice low and broken, she said the words he was waiting for: “You lead. I follow.” They splattered the dirt like blood.

  Marken crouched beside her. One hand on her neck – not restraining, not hurting. An anchor locking them together. “You remember it next time. And if you do fight – you fight smart. Fight to win. Not to bleed.”

  He stood, hauled her to her feet. Briefly held her in the crook of his arm, fingers tight in her hair. “You’re mine,” he said, half to himself. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

  She leaned into him for half a second, let herself have that before she retreated. Returned to examining the fire like it was the most fascinating thing on the damn planet.

  Marken didn’t speak again. Just tossed her a bedroll. Checked her weapons.

  It was how he showed he cared. And it was the only language she understood.

  *****

  The memory hit like a hammer—and then it was gone, drowned in the iron stench of reality. Marken was gone too. Cold. Still.

  The lesson this time was silence.

  And nothing she did could bring him back.

  For a moment, she and Kevlar stared at each other. Two feet and a thousand miles apart.

  Then came the crash from outside.

  A window? A crate? Someone shouted. Another voice joined in.

  Kevlar flinched, his eyes closing like the sound hurt.

  Bryn leaned against the table. Grinned.

  “Hey,” she said. “I think my brother’s here.”

  Once upon a time I thought I'd claw out the eyes of anyone who tried to put me on my knees. Once upon a time I tried to claw out his. But he never walked away. He could’ve let me burn. Could’ve let me ruin everything just to prove I was strong. But he didn’t. He stood there, steady, while I came undone. And when I finally bent my pride enough to say the words, he held me like I was still worth saving. I wasted a lot of gods damned time before I understood what it meant: you lead, I follow.

  Not obedience.

  Trust.

  He broke me just enough to save me.

  -Bryn

  Next: From blood to breath. Bryn learns to count to one.

  Too much? Too harsh? Let me know your thoughts.

  Keep your blades close.

  -QH