Page 27 of On Burning Paths

Leaning against the wall, Talon tips his head back and crosses his heels, seemingly not worried about the fact that Thorian and I are watching him intently. Perhaps he’s telling the truth, and he really just wants to join us. Maybe he’s not planning anything.

Still, we’re on edge.

Time ticks by, and the rain continues to pound away outside our little shelter. Nyx yawns, and slowly, we settle in for the night.

Just like that, our team of three has added another member. May the gods help us all.

9

Nyx

We come around a turn in the path and the trees break open, and there it is… water. A wide, glittering stretch of it, reaching out far enough that the trees on the other side look like broccoli, and a bird skimming the surface near them is nothing more than a streak of white. Whether it's a large pond or a small lake doesn't matter to me in the slightest.

I’ll finally be able to bathe.

The thought of being clean for the first time in days rises up so fast it crowds out everything else. The swamp water, the storm, the dirt and grime of days of travel ground into my skin and hair. I want all of it gone.

“A lake!”

I don't mean to shout it out, but I do, my eyes flying to Thorian as I come to a stop.

Thorian hesitates, shooting me a look, and Talon and Fenric come to a stop as well, glancing between the two of us. We’ve been walking all morning. Gathering up our things and leaving the cave in the early light of dawn was an efficient, quiet affair, with Thorian and Fenric too suspicious of Talon to engage in our normal conversation.

That, coupled with the itching of my scalp and the greasy film over my skin, has made it difficult to keep my spirits up this morning. I miss Fenric kicking his rock along the path, pointing out everything he sees and giving us information about them, and I miss Thorian muttering about how annoying Fenric is.

I’d also hoped, foolishly maybe, that Talon might use the walk as an opportunity to share about himself, but he’s been quiet aside from the occasional whistling. If he’s bothered by the fact that his entire team is dead, he doesn’t show it.

“I suppose…” Thorian relents, shaking his head as he looks down at me, “that we could stop for a brief wash⁠—”

“Yes!” I pump my fist in the air, then turn and hurry down the side of the hill toward the water. I can hear the men scrambling behind me to catch up, cursing under their breath, and I know it’s dangerous to go ahead like this, but I’m excited.

Maybe it’s the lady in me, but I’ve been chafing against the dirt under my nails, the grime over my skin. Before, I argued to Thorian that freshening up would make me a better fighter, and he’d laughed while Fenric joked that our stenches might keep the beasts away.

Now, the water reappears when I break through the trees, my boots sinking into the soft silt of the lake’s sand bar.

I turn, meaning to say something, and the words dissolve entirely.

They're already undressing. Thorian has shed his tunic and is working at his boots, and the sight of his bare back stops me mid-step. He's broader than I'd registered, solid and defined, the muscles of his shoulders and back shifting as he moves. When he straightens and turns slightly, I catch the line of his chest, the flat planes of his stomach, and I forget what I was going to say entirely.

Fenric is already down to nothing but his trousers, and there's no polite way to describe what that does to me. He's built differently than Thorian, leaner through the torso but no less defined, all of it cut clean by days of hard travel and a life that clearly hasn't allowed for softness anywhere. He tips his head back to catch the sun, completely at ease in his own skin, and I can’t help but stare.

Talon, paler than the other two, drops his trousers to reveal thin boxers underneath and doesn't spare a thought for any of us watching. He's tall, all lean lines and hard muscle, his build understated until you're looking directly at it. His shaggy blond hair falls across his forehead, and even in the full light of day his blue eyes carry a cool, unreadable quality. He’s beautiful, in some way that doesn't quite obey the same rules as everyone else's beauty. Like he was made by different hands entirely.

I know I should look away. I mean to look away.

I don't.

Heat pools low in my stomach, spreading outward, and I press my lips together and try to look like I’m simply standing here, perfectly composed, taking in the scenery.

Then Thorian glances over at me.

His thumbs are hooked in his waistband and he says nothing, just lets his gaze travel up and then down, slow and unhurried, like he knows exactly what's happening and finds it interesting. The corner of his mouth shifts, barely.

My face goes hot.

"I'm just going to find somewhere a little more—" I gesture vaguely at the trees near me, already backing away. "Private."

I turn and walk away with as much dignity as I can reasonably claim, which is not very much.