Page 6 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

“How’s Finn? He hasn’t been home all week,” I say, deliberately shifting the conversation away from wherever that look in his eyes is headed.

Grier’s expression softens, just barely, with concern that’s always there when we talk about my brother.

“He’s fine. You know how it gets with the trials ending.”

I nod and force my weight back onto my heels. “I should be getting back.”

“You should.” He doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a moment, then back up to my eyes.

“Gemma.” The way he says it is the problem. He makes it hard to keep things simple, wanting more than I can offer or risk.

“Goodnight, Grier.”

I turn before I can change my mind, and his hand brushes my wrist as I go, our habit we never named.

“Stay safe, Gemma.”

I don’t look back. I know better.

The streets thin out as I make my way home. The flat is dark when I slip inside. Mom’s waiting at the small table by the window, with a single candle burning low, turning a sprig of sea holly between her fingers.

She looks up, relief washing over her face. Then her eyes drop to my leg.

“Tides, Gemma.” She’s already up, grabbing the cloth and salve she keeps by the basin.

She examines the wound, fingers gentle but sure.

“This isn’t what the training was for.” Her voice brings me back. “It was supposed to keep you safe.”

“I know, Mom.” There’s no point arguing. We’ve had this conversation so many times the words have worn smooth.

“Finn embedded in the castle, you both running jobs for Fletcher—” She shakes her head. “All of my children, neck-deep in a rebellion that will get you killed.”

“Someone has to fight back,” I try.

“The rebellion will survive without you.” She looks at me. “But I won’t.”

She sighs, more to herself than me. “We should move, all of us, somewhere far from here. Somewhere safe.”

Somewhere safe, as if that exists.

Northpine had felt safe once. The northernmost village, tucked in the shadow of the Windthrone Mountains, where winter came early and stayed late. The cabin we grew up in sat among endless pines, snow piling so high some mornings we couldn’t open the door. Other families rationed through winter, but food was never our problem. Mom always had a gift for growing things, even when the ground said otherwise.

Our days had been spent training with our mother in those quiet woods. Sword fighting in clearings, knife throwing at targets carved into tree trunks. The art of moving through the forest without disturbing a single branch. We complained constantly, especially about learning how to wield magic we’d never have.

“Mom, we’re never going to be awakened. Why do we have to learn this?”

Her answer was always the same. “Training in the shallows saves you from drowning in the deep.”

The memory fades as her hands press against my leg. I sit and let her work.

“This is going to scar,” she says as her hands slow on the bandage.

“I know.” I can’t meet her eyes. The guilt settles heavy in my chest.