Page 54 of The First Scar
"Three years and the best you've managed is commentary from the bench," Brannick shot back. "Truly inspiring."
"Slander. I contributeambiance."
Serenya snorted beside me—a small sound, quickly smothered. Maxx's eyes cut to her, and his posture tempered. He straightened his spine, the edges of his smirk finally softening.
Interesting.
A rebel scout leaned in, offering a battered wineskin. I shook my head. The scout frowned, arm hovering in the awkward silence like he hadn't considered no as an option.
"She's like a feral cat," Maxx said. "Don't take it personally." The scout drew back his hand nervously and Serenya rolled her eyes.
"Oh, for the love of the stars." She unhooked the skin from her own belt and shoved it into my hands. "Take mine. I filled it myself."
I watched the scout retreat, then looked at the warm leather in my palm.
I uncapped Serenya's and drank.
It burned going down. Cheap and sour and exactly what I needed.
Around the fire, the rebels laughed at something Brannick said. Ryla's blade sang against the whetstone in hypnotic strokes.
The warmth of the fire. The weight of Serenya's shoulder against mine. The key vibrating in my satchel, a promise I hadn't decided how to keep.
I watched Brannick from my spot near Serenya, my eyes drifting to the exits out of habit. His laugh came easy, but therewas a deliberate architecture to his cheer—a house built on a rotten foundation.
Maxx saw me tracking it and leaned in.
"Careful, Flameheart," he drawled. His smirk cut wider but harsher than usual. "This one's name means 'kin of sorrow.' He'll smile the whole time he's dragging you through it."
Brannick's grin didn't falter, but a shadow crossed his eyes—there and gone, quick as a snuffed candle.
"Better than being named after your mother's disappointment," he shot back.
"Bold of you to assume she expected anything in the first place."
They laughed together easily, but I'd registered it—that flicker. That fraction of a second where Maxx's words had landed somewhere real.
The fire died. The cavern lapsed into silence.
One by one, the last stragglers found their corners and let sleep claim them. Serenya's head had started to droop, her body finally surrendering to the exhaustion she'd been fighting all day.
"Here." I nudged her toward an empty pallet near the dying embers. "Get some sleep."
She blinked at me, half-aware. "What about you?"
"I slept for six hours, remember? I'm fine." I eased against the stone wall behind her, positioning myself where I could see both entrances and most of the room. "Someone should keep watch anyway."
She was too tired to argue. A small victory.
Within minutes, her breathing had gone slow and even, her body curled toward the fire's fading warmth. I watched her sleep, then watched everyone else.
Brannick had found a corner near the supply crates. Ryla and Torin were tangled together on a single pallet. Her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder, his arm wrapped around her like even in sleep he couldn't stop protecting her.
But even here, safe in his arms, she wore that thick woolen scarf wrapped tight around her. It looked suffocating in the heat of the cavern. Torin’s hand didn't rest on her arm or her waist; it rested gently over the knot of the scarf—guarding it. Like he knew exactly what she was hiding and loved her anyway.
I stared longer than I should have. Long enough to feel the tug on my heart.
Then I shook it off. Did what I always did. Positions. Patterns. Who slept where, and who might notice if we weren't in the same place tomorrow.
