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I’ve been here before, in this position. The Warlord’s voice rises from my consciousness.

See how I’ve pinned your hands, mouse? Twist your wrists, if you can. Make your hands small, and try to slip them out. Do whatever you can to distract me while you get free—spit at me, bite at me, strike my forehead with yours.

With her free hand, Olsa reaches up to take the knife from between her teeth.

I lurch upward, head and neck snaking out, and my jaws clamp shut on her wrist. I bite as hard as I can, grinding into the flesh and tendons. A short, harsh scream breaks from her, and the knife falls out of her mouth onto my chest.

All the while I’ve been working my left hand loose, and with a final squirm it pops free of Olsa’s grip.

My teeth unlatch from her wrist.

I seize the knife.

I drive it up, toward her neck.

Your trick gets you nowhere unless you’re willing to follow through.

But my hand freezes, the knife’s tip barely denting Olsa’s skin.

“No,” I whisper. “There’s been enough blood.”

If I have to die to redeem the wrongs of my ancestors, so be it.

And my fingers open, letting the knife tumble out.

Olsa grabs it as it falls. I relax beneath her, closing my eyes and tilting my chin up, baring my throat for the slice.

When it doesn’t come, I open my eyes.

Olsa’s weight still rests on me, but her hands have fallen slack at her sides. The knife lies nearby in the brittle brown grass.

Hers is a lovely face, flushed with strength and righteous anger. But the anger is fading, leaving behind a weariness that I’ve felt myself—the soul-deep ache of a warrior who’s tired of fighting.

For a long moment, there’s only silence, and the rustle of the breeze through the litter of the forest floor. Something passes between us, eye to eye—a wordless acknowledgment, a tenuous link of something that isn’t friendship or sisterhood, but might one day turn into both.

Neither of us speak as she climbs off me and offers her hand. I grip it silently and pull myself up, putting my weight on my good leg while I brush leaves from my backside and my hair.

Olsa picks up the knife and uses it to trim the twigs from a long, sturdy branch. She hands it to me, and I use it as a walking stick to relieve the pain of my ankle.

Slowly, haltingly, we make our way back to the road.

We don’t talk about how we nearly killed each other. We don’t try to make sense of all the complex wrongs of our two peoples. For now, it is enough to exist companionably. To let each other live.

66

When Olsa stops outside a house and gestures to the door, I give her a nod of thanks. She follows me inside. Her silent presence at my back is my only defense against the gauntlet of burly, grim-faced warriors who eye me as I walk through the front room of the house.

In one of the bedrooms, I glimpse a flare of golden light, so I peek in. The healer stands next to Cronan, shining beams of energy into the wounds. It’s slow, difficult work, as evidenced by the healer’s rough breathing. His dark fingers are tense and rigid, spread in the air over the Warlord’s chest.

At the foot of the bed stands Zeha. She glances up at me and releases an aggravated sigh. “What happened to him?”

Quietly I tell her everything, while she shakes her head and mutters in her language. “And what happened toyou?” she asks when I’m done, surveying my bloody, dirt-covered clothes.

I don’t mention the incident with Olsa. “Most of this is Cronan’s blood. Also a sharp branch cut my neck a bit, and I sprained my ankle getting off the horse.”

“Of course you did.” Zeha rolls her eyes. “Fine horse, by the way. One of the men is caring for it.”

“It’s my mother’s.” I edge closer to the bed, my eyes locked on the Warlord’s ravaged body. Even bloodied and grimed, he’s so beautiful.