Page 64 of Wench

The first light of dawn cracks open the horizon. Lavender and rose bleed upward through the trees. Honey-gold filters through the lattice of branches above the healing bough and Marian watches it spill across Lox’s skin like a benediction.

She had taken up residence in the quiet corner of the room where they’d placed Lox hours ago and refused sleep, even when it threatened to drag her under. Convinced the moment she slipped into the depths of exhaustion would be when Lox succumbed to his injuries, she kept her vigil, back pressed to the curved wall of living wood, eyes gritty and swollen.

Lox lies unnervingly still. The healers stripped him down to the waist so the poultices could be pressed against the worst of the wounds scoring his ribs and shoulder. His antlers returned sometime during the night.A good sign, the weavers had said, but they’re dulled, as though even they have been drained of vitality.

Her head tips back against the wall as her throat tightens – she has no right to feel this consuming ache to reach out to him, to cradle his head in her lap and brush her fingers across his brow until he returns to her.

Allen’s head pokes through the door, surveying the space before slipping inside. His grin falters when he sees her curled in the shadows. ‘Saints, have you been here all night?’

Marian straightens, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. ‘I didn’t want him to be alone.’ Her voice is scraped raw from a night without rest.

Will enters next, sharp-eyed and frowning, arms crossed tight. Their gaze lands on her, then flicks to Lox. Behind them, Little John follows, so broad he has to duck through the doorway. He takes one long look at Marian, then at his liege, and sighs, the sound low and winded.

‘Have you made your decision?’ Will asks, tone clipped.

Marian inches off from the wall, joints aching, body heavy. Her gaze lingers on Lox. ‘Perhaps we should wait?—’

Will shoves off the wall with a huff. ‘The vine inking isn’t for him, Marian. It’s for you.’

Marian’s throat bobs. She’d been truthful about her real name once she’d recovered, but this is the first time Will’s used it. Not girl. Not a curse or a pain.

Just Marian.

‘Do hurry up, though, will you?’ Allen yawns with a stretch. ‘I’d hate for the frigid morning air to cramp my hand while creating my masterpiece.’

Marian’s brow wrinkles in confusion, eyes darting between him and Will. ‘Yourmasterpiece?’

‘Don’t scare the girl, Allen,’ Will grumbles. ‘Traditionally, the inking ceremony is a private rite from one warrior to another. One promise to one truth.’ Their lips twitch, not quite a smile, but not far from one either. ‘But if you’ll let us, we’d like to do something a little different.’

Allen’s smile is bigger than she’s ever seen it. ‘Last night, when Will told us what you did, I realized you’ve already bled for Sherwoodandfor each of us.’

Marian blinks. ‘I don’t?—’

‘For me,’ Will cuts in gently, ‘when you stood between the net and my throat, and chose pain you didn’t have to carry.’

‘For me,’ Allen says next, stepping closer, ‘every time you took a hit and got back up in training, trusting me to push you further than you thought you could go. And for Little John, when you let him guide your breath back to you instead of drowning in panic. You gave us your trust when you had nothing left to give.’

Marian swallows, her throat dry. ‘But . . . I’m not one of you.’

Will shakes their head, following her meaning. ‘Warriors aren’t made by weapons, but by choices. And yesterday, you made yours.’

The silence that follows is thick. Marian looks at the three who’ve stepped into the room, and feels the tilt of her world shift again.

Allen spreads his hands as if to cut through the weight of it. ‘So we’d like to give you our mark as brothers-in-arms – well, siblings-in-arms, I suppose.’ His grin flickers, then steadies. ‘As a way to say that you are already part of this, whether you’ve claimed it or not.’

Marian’s lips part, but the words fail her. For so long her life has been bound by bargains she never asked for. But this is different. They’re offering her a place, not out of obligation or because she’s useful, but because theychooseher.

Marian closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. ‘I’d be honoured,’ she manages.

The three of them grin conspiratorially before they gather her in their arms, shuffling out the door and into the trees.

The forest floor muffles the sound of their boots. Mist clings low to the ground, reluctant to lift even as the sun pushes through the canopy in fractured rays. Even the air buzzes with anticipation, as if Sherwood itself knows where they are headed.

The path narrows until the branches seem to bend inward, closing them off from the waking world, before the trees part suddenly and reveal the entrance to a cave. The depths within it gleam faintly, and when they step inside, the world glows.

Crystals sprout from the walls, jagged and luminous, catching every scrap of light and splitting it into shards of purple and red that scatter across the stone floor. Water drips down from the ceiling, pooling in basins etched into the rock. The air vibrates with magic, thick and palpable and ancient.

Will halts and gestures to a pool at their right. ‘You’ll need to wash first.’