They’re always training, swinging swords and shooting arrows from sunup to sundown. But now that I think about it, I rarely see large groups leave the camp.
I scrub harder, my mind racing. What else? The supply wagons come and go regularly. There’s a steady stream of messengers too, always in a hurry. And the command tent—that’s where all the important conversations happen. If only I could get close enough to hear something useful.
A group of warriors run by, their breath puffing out in white clouds. I watch them go, noting their matching surcoats and synchronized movements. Everything here is so orderly. It’s almost unnatural.
The wind picks up, and I shiver, wishing I could crawl into one of these pots for warmth. At least then I’d be toasty.
I sigh and dunk another pot in the frigid water. Being a reluctant spy is exhausting work.
I’m elbow-deep in icy water when a shadow falls across the surface. I glance up, squinting against the sun, and find myself staring at a warrior I’ve never met before.
He’s young, probably around my age, with a friendly face that seems out of place among the hardened soldiers I’ve seen so far.
His brown hair is cropped close to his scalp. But it’s his eyes that catch my attention. They’re a warm, rich brown.
His nose is slightly crooked, as if it’s been broken and not quite set right, giving his otherwise boyish features a rugged edge.
“Need a hand?” he asks, crouching down beside me.
I arch an eyebrow. “With cleaning pots?”
Dimples appear in his cheeks as he grins at me. “Yes. I’m an expert pot-scrubber.”
“Oh, really?” I smirk. “And here I thought the only thing you warriors are good at is swinging swords.”
A brisk breeze ruffles his hair as he clutches at his chest. “You wound me. We’re excellent at starting fires too.”
I snort and hand him a pot. “All right then, expert. Show me what you’ve got.”
He takes it, rolling up his sleeves. His arms are lean but muscled, and his eyes spark with amusement.
“I’m Finn,” he says, dunking the pot in the water.
“Everly,” I say as he scrubs with surprising efficiency. “I’m impressed. Where’d you learn to clean like that?”
The warrior winks. “It’s a secret.”
“Finn, the horses need tending. Now!”
I look up to find Cenric standing over us, his jaw clenched tight.
All the playfulness evaporates from Finn as he jumps to his feet. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” He scurries off like a nest of hornets is following him.
I turn back to Cenric, ready to apologize for staring at him in the sweat lodge, but his eyes are blazing harder than I’ve ever seen them.
“Did someone steal your favorite sword?” I ask, aiming for lightness.
His mouth tightens even more. At this rate, his lips might disappear entirely. “You shouldn’t be fraternizing with the men.”
I can’t help it. I snort. “Fraternizing? Truly? We were cleaning pots, not planning to elope.”
The sun breaks through the tents and slashes across Cenric’s face as he scowls at me. “It’s inappropriate.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I widen my eyes in mock innocence. “I didn’t realize pot-scrubbing was such a scandalous activity. Should I have brought a chaperone?”
Cenric’s nose flares.
Part of me wants to poke him further, just to see what happens. “You know, if you keep frowning like that, your face might stick that way.” I tilt my head, getting a better look at the handsome barbarian warrior. “Though, I suppose it would save you the trouble of having to glare at people.”
