Einar touched my elbow, a gentle nudge. “Come on.”
We turned the corner by the butcher. The street was deserted. It was still the quickest way home, though it didn’t feel the same. We used to take the alley, cross the bridge over Red Creek, then the valley, and we’d be home.
As we neared the alley, we heard a commotion. A fight.
No. Not a fight. An ambush.
We should have turned back.
But Einar wasn’t the type to change his mind.
Or maybe he recognized the voice — someone begging the attackers to stop — because he was already running toward the noise before I could stop him.
It was Isak.
Einar wasn’t going to let it go. Maybe he would have, if it were someone else. Maybe he would have seen the risk, and thought that bringing me home safe was more important.
But it wasn’t, it wasIsak.
I remembered the night I realized they were more than friends. I couldn’t sleep. The room felt wrong, the air too heavy, too still. I tossed and turned until I gave up and went to the window. Moonlight poured over the yard, draping everything in silver.
And that’s when I saw them.
Two figures stood by the fence. Still. Facing each other.
Einar. And Isak.
Einar said something I couldn’t hear. Isak replied, sharp and fast, and Einar jerked back like he’d been struck. A moment later, he pulled something from his coat and hurled it into the bushes.
Neither of them spoke after that. Isak turned and walked away. Einar stayed a while longer, then left too. I didn’t know what it meant, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So the next morning, when no one was looking, I went to the fence. The tall grass brushed against mylegs as I crouched down and searched. I didn’t even know what I was looking for.
Until I found it. A small wooden heart, pale and worn, one edge scraped dark with dirt. There was writing on it, tiny and carved by hand.
Always yours - I.
I went still.
It was from Isak. And Einar had kept it.
I didn’t say anything to anyone, but the truth sank in quietly, like something I’d always known. They loved each other. Maybe not now. Maybe not anymore. But they did once, enough to carve it into wood. And now three soldiers were attacking him in that alley.
I still ask myselfwhy. Why they couldn’t just have left him alone. His nose was bleeding, and he was on his knees, slumped forward, and gasping. His shirt hung open, ripped down the side. Blood soaked the collar, staining it a deep, ugly brown. His arms were pulled behind him, wrists pinned.
By…Aran.
I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t feel real.
Aran stood behind Isak, gripping both arms like reins. Black and silver. The armor of the Eye. Hard edges, red trim. His helmet hung at his hip. Sweat matted his hair to his forehead. Blood stained his sleeve. I didn’t know whose. His face was unreadable. Cold. As if he wasn’t even there.
It felt like a nightmare. My mind couldn’t take it in—Aran, dressed like them.
“He touched me,” one of the soldiers snapped. His neck was thick, his nose broken too many times. “Sick little shit grabbed me.”
A bald soldier stepped forward, his scalp gleaming with a jagged scar. He sneered. “Filthy bugger. On his knees like he wants it.”
Crack.
A fist slammed into Isak’s jaw. His head snapped sideways, blood splattering the stones.
