I nodded and broke off a piece of bread, resisting the urge to stuff it into my mouth and swallow it whole, forcing myself tochew it this time. It seemed that, with every bite I took, I grew only hungrier.
"Mother is one of the few nicta handlers," I explained with pride in my voice. Mother had tried to train me to take care of them, too, but the big beasts frightened me too much. Always had. Instead, I had taken an apprenticeship in clothes making, a trade that became obsolete during the siege. Had my mother not shared her meager rations with me, I would have starved to death long ago. As it was, we had both been starving.
Mallack nodded. Nicta handlers were revered because not many wanted to deal with the ungainly, oftentimes vicious animals.
After I’d had enough food in my stomach that I started to feel bloated, I gathered my courage and asked, "Why? Why are you helping us?”
His jaw worked, and for a moment, I thought he might walk away instead of answering. After a long pause, he simply said, “Because someone should have. Because no one else did.”
I stared at the table. At the steam curling from the stew. At the way my fingers still trembled, still held the spoon even though I was full.
“I don’t have anything to offer you,” I whispered. “Nothing to pay.”
His gaze lifted to mine. Paused, then, “I didn’t ask for anything.”
That’s when I knew. I would have given it—whateveritwas—if he had asked.
My name. My pride. My body.
Whatever he wanted, if it meant this—safety, food, warmth after moonphases of starving and being hunted—I would have given it all.
But he hadn’t asked. And in that moment, it wasn’t fear I felt. Or debt. Or confusion.
It was something more dangerous.
Something like trust.
I woke with a start, gasping for air. My heart thumped inside my chest like a trapped animal. But just like the other times I dreamed about my assumed past, the dream immediately began to fade into thin tendrils I couldn't hold on to no matter what. Not the memories, not the pictures, not the past itself. Only emotions lingered. Emotions centered around Mallack.
That's when I noticed the spot next to me was empty and cold. I wasn't sure what time it was, or how long I had been asleep, but I knew that, however long it had been, I had been alone. Mallack wasn't here. Hadn't come to bed.
Funny, we had slept together the last two nights on the ship. Well, I had lain in bed and slept, while he sat on one of the chairs, where I assumed he got some sleep. But somehow, I'd grown used to his presence.
A deep scream, followed by the unmistakable sound of metal striking metal, made me sit up straighter. Suddenly, the night was alive with rising shouts—the barked orders of dragoons, the heavy thud of boots, the roar of a nicta. The ringing of steel on steel sounded out again, closer this time.
I scrambled to the end of the cot, my heart pounding. I couldn’t see anything from inside the tent, only feel the ground shakebeneath me, and the tension in the air was thick enough to choke on. Another scream was cut short, and I trembled from head to toe. Panic surged as I rushed to the flap to throw it open. Somehow, the not knowing seemed worse than seeing what was happening—at least until I did. Until my eyes landed on the utter chaos and devastation rampaging through the camp. The fire had been kicked out; its embers scattered across the trampled grass. Shapes moved in the dark, some too fast and hunched to be dragoons.
Renegades!
My heart hammered even harder when I saw one up close. His armor was piecemealed, stitched from stolen plates and rusted chains, scavenged from old battlefields and butchered traders. I shuddered and moved to close the tent flap, but it was too late; he had already seen me. Before he could move forward, though, he was struck down by a dragoon. I knew I should close the flap now; I had been so close to… what? Being killed, raped?
Still, I couldn't help but watch. The Renegades moved like predators, darting between trees and tents, striking from the shadows and vanishing again. One of them slashed a guard across the throat, and he fell in a wet heap, his blood soaking into the earth like spilled ink.
I stood frozen. The air stank of iron and ash. The Pyme River roared just beyond the tree line, drowning the groans of the dying. And then, through the chaos, I saw a blur and knew instinctively who it was.
Mallack.
He wasn’t wearing armor, not even a shirt. Sword in hand, he fought like something the gods had carved from the night. Fluid,vicious, and unstoppable. He moved through the fray like the tide of reckoning. Each one of his swings was deliberate, every movement calculated and brutal, delivering death.
A male charged him from the side, blade raised, but he was flung backward by a kick that snapped his sword arm bone like a twig before he even had a chance to reach Mallack. Another tried to take him from behind, but Mallack spun, sword flashing in a wide arc, and ended it in a single, merciless stroke.
A sudden fear flared in my belly and spread out all through me, a fear oflosing him.
The thought struck so suddenly it stole my breath. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t even mine. It came from somewhere deeper, somewhere older. Like the echo of a wound I hadn’t yet remembered. If he died out there—if I lost him again—I wouldn’t recover.Again?
The thought hit like a fist to the stomach. I stumbled backward from the tent opening, wrapping my arms tightly around myself, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the battle. Not as long as I could still seehim.
Mallack moved like no warrior I had ever seen. He was all grace and destruction wrapped into one brutal, breathtaking form. Bare-chested, his muscles strained beneath his skin, slick with blood and sweat. His sword flashed again, catching moonlight, catching death, cutting through it all with terrifying precision.
