Page 21 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

She’s worried you’ll attack me, Grandfather Tortoise had told him as Morfran bathed.

If I did, does she really think she could stop me? he’d asked. It wasn’t in arrogance. While she was lithe-limbed and athletic-looking, she had proven to him that she couldn’t fight all that well, despite those out-of-place moments when she showed promise.

She’s more skilled in maiming than you think, he said. She’s actually an assassin.

Morfran gawked at him.

But she’s on sabbatical, Tortoise added. After her last job, she believes she’s lost her touch at killing people, and needed an extended period away from work to find herself again.

Morfran snorted at that, tossing her a look from the tub. Assassins don’t lose their touch. You sure she didn’t just lie to you for the kicks and giggles of it?

You’re free to ask her about it yourself, Tortoise replied dryly. She’s standing right there.

Morfran hadn’t bothered. If she actually was an assassin, she wasn’t a very good one. Aside from her ambushing him in the forest, he’d easily overpowered her even when he was injured. Not to mention she’d failed at tying him up properly, and anyone could learn some fancy handwork with a knife. But she did have that stishovite dagger, which was quite the costly, rare item…

He looked over his shoulder now. She’d said she was bringing him back to her father, who was waiting in the central clearing.

“If you trust me enough to help you carry out plans to kill our dear lord and lady, why am I still tied up?” He raised his wrist bindings.

“Because I know you’re still planning to run the moment there’s a chance,” she replied.

“Do you? You know, trust must be given for trust to be received. How are you to trust me if you don’t give me the opportunity to prove myself?”

“I have no problem not trusting you, so long as you’re bound.”

He sighed, exaggeratedly. “I thought we were finally getting along, you and I. You vouched for my life, you hand-fed me bread, you peeked while I was in the bath—”

“I did not.” She flushed, angry.

“—and did I not save your little dwelling…thing…and everyone in it?”

“You saved our village here,” she admitted. They reached the weightlift, a clever contraption that allowed them to step on a wide platform of wood and counter the weight of sandbags it was tethered to on the other end. Morfran couldn’t help but admire it as it slowly lowered them towards the forest floor. “But the Dark Lord you willingly served burned us out of our actual homes.”

“That was his men who did that,” he argued. “Lord Morfran despises the act of burning down anything. It takes great effort and years to build something great, and to see it all gone within a day…” He thought of his reputation, frowning. “He told his men to cease their arsonist habits, to take control of the villages only, and with as little bloodshed as possible. He needed the village resources and the people within them to maintain the village. It was economy he wanted to build up. His economy. Flourishing and powerful, something no one could beat down. But then Ravana came and persuaded them to burn it all.” He paused, a great silence growing. “And here I am.”

They’d reached the forest floor, but she was still staring at him. He had the feeling she was studying him, turning his words over in her head, holding them up to the light as if to inspect their authenticity.

She looked away suddenly. “The center clearing is right over there.” She gestured towards a grove with a massive fire and dozens of stumps and logs circling it as seating. “My father and the village advisors are waiting for you. If you lie about anything, we’ll find out. I will be far from pleased should you do that.”

Her constant antagonism was grating his nerves. “Yes, but who cares what you think?” he said icily, repeating the words of one of Brim’s men from earlier.

Hurt flashed through her eyes before she could cover it up. He thought it’d be a triumph to rile her, but instead he just felt cold and empty as she pursed her lips, nodded her head towards the campfire to remind him he was expected, and left in haste. Almost as if she were fleeing.

He stared after her for a moment. An assassin on sabbatical? She did seem lost. And it was obvious Brim’s men held some resentment towards her. Perhaps she’d failed in some spectacular way?

Well. It wasn’t his problem. He shrugged these thoughts away and sauntered towards the massive firepit, where Brim and many others sat around. They stopped speaking as he approached, their expressions ranging from accusing to suspicious to hateful. The topic of discussion had clearly been him, and it was such an awkward situation that to break the tension he raised his hand—best as he could with them bound—and waved.

“ ’Lo there.”

“Sit him down,” Brim stated, and although Morfran was perfectly capable of sitting down himself, two ridiculously beefy men grabbed him by the shoulders, hoisted him up over a log, and slammed him onto it.

“Thank you, friends,” Morfran said irritably, staring straight ahead.

“Shut up.” One swatted the back of his head. It felt like he’d been kicked by a cow. He might’ve even gone cross-eyed.

Brim sighed. “Please remember, Owain, that he did desert Lord Morfran’s army, and that he did save your dear mother’s life when he stopped that general from blowing up the skywalk.”

The big brute known as Owain shrugged as he settled onto the stump next to Brim. “It was a love tap.”