Morning light slanted through the shutters, cutting across the chamber where Jerric lay. His bandages were fresh, though the stain had already seeped through in places. Kelara wrung a cloth, laying it against his brow, while Lysa sat close enough that her knee brushed the bedframe. She kept her hand pressed against his arm, as though sheer will might keep him tethered.
Petric stood behind them, restless as a blade without a sheath. His arms folded, dropped, folded again. He shifted to the window, then back to the bed.
“Hovering won’t mend him,” Kelara said quietly, without looking up. “He needs calm, not a roar.”
Jerric stirred at her voice, and for a heartbeat Petric almost reached for him. But a knock at the door broke the moment. Jorlan leaned in, eyes steady.
“The boy is safe,” he said. “The house still needs its Lion.”
Petric hesitated. Kelara’s glance settled him: go. He followed Jorlan out, though his gaze lingered on the bed until the door shut.
— — —
By afternoon, the air was easier. At the lakeside, Petric and Bradan sat on a rickety dock, lines trailing into the water. Bradan was whistling, tuneless but content, until his pole jerked suddenly. The hook came back bare.
“You’re supposed to wait before you yank,” Petric muttered.
“And you’re supposed to catch something at all,” Bradan shot back, grinning.
Petric’s line remained slack. Bradan leaned over, peering. “Didn’t your grandpa teach you how to do this?”
Petric snorted. “He tried. Gave up after I reeled in my own pants.”
Bradan’s laugh carried across the water, loud enough to flush a heron from the reeds. They lapsed into silence, feet dangling. Petric’s eyes fixed on the ripples, the endless moving surface.
“Do you think we’ll ever get to stand still?” he asked at last, voice low.
Bradan didn’t answer right away. He only watched the line quiver in the current, and let the question sink.
— — —
Later, the yard rang with shouting. Nell had stacked two barrels side by side and planted himself before them like a wrestler. Tank, grinning ear to ear, hefted one clean onto his shoulder.
“Your turn, big man,” Tank called.
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Nell grunted, tried to lift, and barely shifted his. “These barrels are heavier than they look.”
“Or you’re softer than you look.”
Nell scowled, then tipped his barrel just enough to spill wine over Tank’s boots. “Strength isn’t everything. Strategy wins.”
Tank roared with laughter, setting his barrel down. “Strategy smells like sour grapes.”
They squared off with wooden staves next, Nell flailing with exaggerated swings, Tank batting them aside easily. At last Tank clipped him in the ribs, and Nell dropped like he’d been slain.
“You cheat,” Tank said flatly.
“Maybe,” Nell wheezed, rolling onto his back. “But I die funny.”
Both of them laughed until the yard echoed with it.
— — —
The next morning, Josira sat on the steps outside the hall, dagger balanced on her palm as she drew a whetstone down its edge. Two young guards lingered nearby, whispering to each other, eyes caught on her.
She flicked her hair back deliberately. The blade glinted. “Careful, boys,” she said, grinning. “I cut more than steel.”
One guard nearly dropped his spear. The other reddened to his ears.
Before Josira could press the advantage, Gung’s shadow fell across them. “Discipline isn’t a game,” he said simply.
Josira smirked without looking up from her blade. “Neither’s survival.” She slid the knife back into its sheath and rose, leaving both guards rattled and Gung frowning at her wake.
— — —
Petric cursed under his breath as he yanked at a dented chestplate. The straps refused him, twisted and stiff. Nell lounged nearby on an overturned crate, chewing dried meat.
“That’s why you keep a fat friend,” Nell drawled. “I bounce arrows off.”
“You bounce everything off,” Petric muttered, tugging harder.
“Exactly. Living armor. Cheap, portable.”
Petric shot him a look, but Nell only grinned. At last, with a grunt, Nell stood and tightened the straps himself. His hands were rough but sure. “We got you,” he said, quieter this time. The humor lingered, but the weight was real.
Petric stilled, just long enough to nod.
— — —
That evening, dust trailed the air as Solin and Clarien returned through the gates. Their cloaks were travel-worn, their boots heavy with mud. Kelara was the first to meet them.
Clarien shook her head faintly. “We weren’t there to flirt, Solin.”
“You were the one who packed wine,” he answered, almost smiling.
Despite the jest, their report was grim. “Alfareth West has doubled its patrols along the Vale,” Solin said. “They’re staking the ground. Villagers say they move like they mean to stay.”
A murmur ran through the gathered household. Jerric had limped down to hear it, pale but upright, Lysa at his arm. Bradan muttered a curse. Nell spat into the dirt.
Petric’s jaw clenched. “They think to claim our border.”
Kelara laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t.”
But his eyes burned at the thought, and though he said no more, the anger hung like smoke.
— — —
That night, long after the lamps guttered, Petric stood on the balcony alone. The map of Calmyra lay pinned on the table behind him. His hands were braced on the cold stone rail. The keep slept; he could not.
“You’d know what to do,” he whispered to the stars. “I hear you, Father. I just don’t know if I can follow.”
For a moment, silence. Then — memory or madness — Gerald’s voice seemed to stir the dark, low and commanding: “Lead, boy. A lion doesn’t wait for wolves to circle. The lion hunts first. The lion hunts fierce."
Petric’s jaw set. His grip whitened on the rail. He whispered it back, like an oath. “Hunt first. Hunt fierce.”
The torches hissed in the wind. Below, the courtyard lay still. Above, the constellations wheeled on, bright and indifferent. And Petric stood between them, sleepless, the echo of his father’s voice lodged in his chest.
