Page 61 of On Broken Bonds

At least, so far.

I study the berserker, looking for signs of deception and finding none. That doesn't mean they're not there. Only that he's good at hiding them.

But whether I like it or not, Nyx is right. Taking him with us is probably the sensible choice. I just don't have to enjoy it.

“Fine,” I manage. Fenric visibly relaxes, and I stare him down with every bit of intensity in my body. “But I don’t trust you. One wrong move, and I’ll put a knife in your skull. Is that clear?”

To my surprise, rather than shrinking under that threat, Fenric lets out a relieved laugh, running a hand through his copper curls and cutting his gaze to Nyx. “Well, looks like you’ve already got a strategist on the team. Which is good, because I’m all brawn and no brains.”

I grumble when Nyx laughs, throwing her head back for him. And I continue to grumble as the three of us turn, a newly formed team, heading toward the water as we were before.

18

Nyx

When I'd imagined completing the Trials, I'd expected a full week of terror. Being on edge, fighting my way through blood and ash and exhaustion.

What I hadn’t imagined were the small pockets of peace, of joy, even.

Dusk came on quickly, as Thorian predicted it might, but luckily Fenric found us shelter, a cave on the side of a cliff face, just up from a stream twinkling with perfectly clear water. We were able to clean ourselves, fill our canteens, and drink to our heart’s content. While Thorian built the fire, I used a bit of magic, as stealthily as I could, to draw several rabbits to the campsite.

“This is unreal,” Fenric said, after easily catching them with his spear and throwing them over his shoulder. “I’ve never seen animals behave like that before.”

Thorian gives me a look, then glances away, as if he might suspect my involvement in dealing with the rabbits. I try not to look too suspicious.

Now, the three of us sit contentedly around the fire, feasting on the rabbits. Part of my chest squeezes for the small things, for the terror of being killed and eaten, but Hilda taught me long ago that it’s good to hold that empathy. That we should be thankful for the sacrifice of life to sustain our own.

I’m thinking of Hilda and Ivor, wondering about how they’re getting on at the estate, when a gust of wind blows through our little camp, making the fire die down and pushing a shiver up through me.

As flexible and comfortable as the fighting leathers are, they are not very warm.

“Here,” Fenric says, shrugging off a jacket and placing it over my shoulders. It’s fine, lined with fur, and heated thoroughly through from the warmth of his body.

“Oh, I couldn’t⁠—”

“High metabolism,” he says, interjecting, his hand up. “I practically radiate heat. Don’t really need the jacket. I just scooped it up in the din of the fight and thought it might come in handy.”

Thorian makes a noise low in his throat, and when I glance over at him, eating slowly and surely through his rabbit, I feel a hint of guilt. Why should I? Fenric is just a teammate offering another teammate his jacket.

Maybe I am the one who insisted we let him onto the team, but if Thorian wasn’t blinded by his hyper-independence and stubbornness, he would have easily seen that adding Fenric to the team was the obvious thing to do.

“We need to talk strategy,” Thorian says, with the air of the hardened leader.

I nod, tossing what remains of my rabbit, all bones and gristle, into the fire and turning my attention to him. Fenric long finished his, and, in fact, still looks ravenous, but hasn’t complained.

“First, what kind of fighter are you?” Thorian asks, his gaze straying to the staff in Fenric’s hand. One end is sharpened, which is how he managed to pin down the rabbits. And how he killed the dire wolf earlier.

Fenric dips his head, breathing deeply and lacing his fingers together tightly, “Actually, I’m not. Before this, the only thing I knew was farming. I can tell you how to rotate crops and the best fertilizers for a dry season, but beyond some hunting, I’ve never raised a hand to another.”

Thorian stares at him for a long moment, the light of the fire flickering up over his face, as though he’s trying to figure out if Fenric is telling the truth.

What does he think, that Fenric would lie about his abilities just to get at us? It doesn’t make sense. Thorian might be formidable, but the two of us as a pair are less than intimidating. If it weren’t for Fenric’s help in that first fight, I'd be dead, and Thorian would already be out of his chance to win the Trials.

Besides, Fenric needs us as much as we need him. No one survives the Trials alone, and I can't imagine many competitors would welcome a berserker into their camp. If he throws away this alliance, he may not get another.

“Okay,” Thorian finally says, letting out a quick breath tinged with frustration. Idly, he picks up a stick and pokes at the fire, making it roar to life in a wall of heat. I shiver again, grateful for the extra warmth, even if it’s seemingly symbolic of his anger.

“And when I’m in my other form,” Fenric admits, wincing, “it’s hard to focus. Sometimes the rage is so intense I don’t even realize what I’m doing. I could hurt you.”