Vana sniffles again and unfolds himself. His feet swing over the edge of the crate, delicate slippers covered in dust beneath the hem of his robe. “IfI was crying, it would be because next week, I’m going to Draskora, and I don’t want to go. I’m being adopted by House Dire, and I don’t want that either. And tomorrow, I’m going to be bloodbound to a man I’ve never met. A man I didn’t choose.” Vana shrugs in on himself, hands braced on the rough wood. “I’m scared of everything, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
The helplessness in Vana’s eyes takes Daromir’s breath away. Vana is meant for poetry readings in the hanging gardens. Paint and canvas trades by moonlight. Strolling along the Kaiskara shoreline with sunlight in his hair and cool water lapping at his feet.
Fuck, Draskora is going to eat this boy alive.
Daromir has never been one for falsehoods, but now a hollow promise aches to be given. He wishes he could reassure Vana that he doesn’t need to be scared. Vana will have a bloodguard to defend him. But Vana doesn’t just need physical protection. He needs someone to protect his heart and soul as well.
The strongest cadet will win tomorrow’s tournament—not the best.
If Branim had come to this storage room to fetch her own leather oil, Daromir knows exactly what would have happened. Branim would have said something polite enough to Vana, then gotten the fuck out of there. She would have returned to the practice hall to tell Daromir about thecrazy shitshe just saw. Daromir hears Branim joking right now, loud as anything:Thought I was trying out as a bloodguard, not a fucking babysitter.
The thought of Branim or anyone else bloodbound to Vana makes Daromir’s stomach sick with anger. His jaw tightens. What if Branim or whatever other champion doesn’t take proper care of Vana?
“That’s a pretty good reason to cry,” Daromir says. “If you were crying, that is.”
That must be the right thing to say, because Vana gives a surprised, watery laugh. And that gives Daromir the courage or insanity to peel himself from the door and detour to a crate of clean rags. Then he stops right in front of Vana, so close he can smell the dawnblossom and ocean scent of him.
Daromir hasn’t been this close to someone he wasn’t about to knock to the ground in years. Some hidden corner of his heart twists with new warmth as he carefully wipes the tears from Vana’s face.
Closing his eyes, Vana sits motionless until Daromir finishes. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a new calm in those emerald depths.
Daromir is calm too. This feels right. This is the certainty, the purpose he’s been grasping for. Daromir never thought of himself as a caretaker, but that’s the truth of the bloodguard calling, isn’t it?
Nobody has ever needed Daromir like this.
“You’re right,” Daromir says. “You shouldn’t cry in front of other people, especially in Draskora. But it’s okay to cry in front of me.”
“Thanks,” Vana says, with a hint of sarcasm. “That won’t exactly help me in Draskora.”
This is the moment when Daromir should consider the course of his life. He should think about his sponsorship from House Miraz. His remaining years of training. His home and family and cadet friends on Kaiskara. He should weigh his options and choose the best path.
Daromir doesn’t consider any of that. He doesn’t need to. “Don’t be stupid. I’m going to be your bloodguard.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the best cadet on Kaiskara,” Daromir says. “I’ll beat the other challengers, and we’ll be bloodbound by sunset tomorrow. Then you’ll be able to cry in front of me whenever you need to.”
Vana’s mouth opens and closes a few times. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Daromir Chel Azri. Any other problems?”
“You’re too young,” Vana says next.
“So are you,” Daromir counters. “I’m sixteen, and you’re fourteen. There’s no rule that says I can’t enter, just like there’s no rule you can’t have a tournament yet. It’s just a tradition, and we can ignore traditions.”
Vana’s lips part gently, and an emotion Daromir can’t describe hits him. Warmth. The need to protect. The need to repel all outsiders from the tenderness of this moment.
“I’d like that,” Vana says eventually. “I’d like that a lot.”
“Good, because I’m going to win your tournament,” Daromir says, utterly certain. It’s a vow meant for arena sands and sweeping skies and a thousand witnesses, but it rings just as true in a storage room between them alone. “I’ll bind my blood to yours and share your pain. I’ll follow you to Draskora and anywhere else you travel until my final breath.”
Vana exhales, and the hope and wonder in his eyes make him look stronger and more vulnerable at once. “Promise?”
“I promise. I’ll protect you.”
In the days that come, Daromir keeps his promises—but it isn’t enough. Vana breaks anyway.
?
