《A Kiss of Salt and Fire》


 Torstens Fetch

    Eoin sprawled across the bench in the dimly lit pub, one booted foot braced against the table leg, the other stretched out in a lazy sprawl. He had been there since before noon, nursing a steady stream of drinks, although he wasn''t quite drunk-just loose-limbed and comfortably warm. He hadn''t bothered with propriety when dressing that morning. His shirt hung open at the throat, his hair in its usual state of dishevelment, unruly curls falling across his brow. He radiated the very picture of man who had nowhere pressing to be and nothing in particular to do, which was, for the moment, true.


    He''d spent the earlier part of the day watching spring bullocks being mustered and castrated-a grim bit of business that, but one that had in a left-handed sort of way given him a flicker of satisfaction. If he had to be collared and made to dance to another man''s tune, at least he had been spared the knife. The thought had amused him at the time. Now, as he tipped his tankard and drained the last of his ale, it only left him feeling vaguely resigned.


    A shadow fell across the table. Even before Torsten spoke, Eoin knew it was him. There was no mistaking the presence of the prince-regent. A whiff of fine soap, a whisper of fine wool, a hint of authority in the stance, and a little too much weight in the silence to be anyone else.


    "Eoin."


    Eoin sighed, letting his head loll back against the wall. "Your Highness," he drawled, not bothering to sit up. "To what do I owe the honour? Come to buy me another round? Or just here to remind me how gainfully employed I am in your service?"


    Torsten didn''t rise to the bait. He sat on the bench across from Eoin, elbows braced on the table, and studied him. "I require your service today. I want you to fetch something for me. "


    Eoin drew a quick breath in through his nose, then huffed a short laugh. "Whatever could it be this time?" he asked, voice touched with mockery and fatigue. "A lost sock? Lost treasure? Secret wisdom?" He traced the edge of his tankard with a fingertip, "The hand of the fairest maiden in all the land?"


    "Hmm." Torsten said, flicking a crumb off the table. "Not quite. My fondest desire, actually is that you find Ingbord Feyrune for me, whatever she may about today, tell her I want her, and escort her to me at the keep. Do you think you could manage that?"


    Eoin reached for his tankard, found it empty, and let it thunk back onto the table. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then let out a slow, exaggerated breath. "You want me," he said "to go roaming about town, to fetch a woman to you?" He sighed, rolling his eyes heaven-ward. "Torsten, we know I''m your dog. Your errand boy. Your whore. Am I to assume that we have now added ''pimp'' to my list of duties?"


    Torsten said nothing. He quirked his mouth and let the silence stretch. He held Eoin''s gaze, steady, his expression unreadable. He didn''t move; he didn''t blink.


    Eoin felt his jaw tighten. He wasn''t afraid of Torsten. But there were moments-rare ones-when the prince-regent''s will pressed against him like a weight, reminding him who he was, what he was, and why he always, inevitably, did as he was told.


    Torsten set a handful of coins on the table, enough to cover Eoin''s drinking that morning. "It is my wish that you that deliver my Magician to me. Kindly tell her that I require a Seeking. And Eoin? Tidy yourself first. Not only is the lady in question important to me, she is deserving of your respect in her own right".


    Eoin sighed, tipping his head back against the wall. "Ah, yes," he muttered, lazy and insolent, but the edge of defiance had dulled. "I leap to obey."


    Eoin met Torsten''s eyes, something unreadable passing between them. Then, with a slow, deliberate stretch, he got to his feet, rolling his shoulders as though settling a weight. "Well, then," he muttered, raking a hand through his untidy hair. "I''d better go fetch the lady."


    Eoin took his time walking back to his quarters at the keep. The cobblestones were still damp from last night''s rain, and the cold spring air carried the faint, briny scent of the sea. Hints of sulfur drifted on the chilly breeze, a constant reminder of the island''s inner heat and restless heart.


    He passed a few merchants setting up their stalls, their voices carrying in the still morning air. Someone was sharpening a knife, the steady scrape of steel on stone a familiar sound. A few people gave him a wave or a smile of greeting, but where Eoin walked, most people averted their gaze.


    Eoin''s room in the keep was small but serviceable, a place to sleep and store his things. Grumbling to himself, he shrugged off his shirt, filled the basin with water, and splashed his face, wiping away the lingering haze of ale and sleep. The water was shockingly cold, making him hiss and suck in a sharp breath. He ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it back, then pulled on a clean dry shirt made from soft Eysian wool, leaving the laces at the neck undone, exposing his throat and a glimpse of chest. He paused, thinking perhaps to wear a jacket, but instead decided just to go and find the lady without extra care.


    It was relatively easy to find people in Vardvik. It wasn''t a large city by any means, and it sloped evenly downhill from keep to harbour. Eoin let his feet lead him downhill, trusting his natural instincts to lead him where he needed be. After a short walk, he stood in front a house and knew, without having been told that it was where he would find Ingbord, and that finding her would allow him to complete the prince''s errand. The house was well placed, well-within town in sight of the keep, but far enough to the edges to afford space and privacy. Snug, small and well-built it was made of warm-colored bricks. A narrow garden lined the front, green shoots beginning to poke through the frosty soil.


    Eoin stepped over the low garden fence without using the gate, draping himself against the doorframe in a pose of careful ease. One long arm stretched overhead, fingers grazing the wood, while the other rested lightly at his hip. The picture of nonchalance. Deliberately unmoved.


    When the door opened, and something inside him lurched. He had seen her before, of course. Many times. From across the court, at Torsten''s side, moving through the streets with quiet command. She was no stranger to his sight. But this was the first time he stood before her. The first time her gaze landed on him directly, settling like the weight of a hand against his chest. It only two people meeting at a doorway, and yet his pulse skittered against his ribs.


    He should have spoken first. That was how these things worked. A quip, a smirk, some easy, forgettable charm to set the tone. He had the words ready, but they died in his throat. Unwilling he found he was tracing her shape in a slow, five-fold study. Eyes, lips, breasts, belly, feet.


    She met his gaze first, cool and frank. But it wasn''t her eyes that held him. It wasn''t her body, not exactly. It was the weight of her, the quiet force of her existence, the way she filled the space between them with something impossible to name. Her gaze dragged down him, slow and deliberate, measuring and unhurried. From the tousled mess of his curls to the undone laces of his shirt, to the hint of dirt on his boots¡ªshe took him in as though cataloging him.


    He had done the same to her. Was still doing the same to her.


    To Eoin''s senses, she smelled like silver-cold and bright, raw and rare. She breathed like spring, like the thaw of a long winter, warm and inevitable. And beneath it all, he swore he could taste the dawn, fleeting and fresh, gone before he could grasp it.


    He took a step back, a breath. And then, simply-


    "Ingbord Feyrune."


    "Eoin Brocker." She said at last, her voice smooth. "Relatively sober and at my door". And then "Well, don''t you clean up nicely?" The words were neutral. Light, even. But there was something in her tone, some quiet amusement that unsettled him.


    Eoin forced himself to move, just a fraction. He let out a long, exaggerated breath, as if bored, as if she hadn''t just stolen the air from his lungs. Then he tilted his head, let his mouth curve into a lazy smirk.


    "Torsten''s orders," he drawled.


    Her eyes flicked over his boots. "Not completely."


    "Can''t be helped." He leaned back against the doorframe. "Urgent orders. He wants you."


    She arched a brow. "Funny," she said slowly. "I might have said the same about you."


    He managed to keep his expression from shifting. He could feel the words, sharp at the back of his throat, but if he answered too quickly, too sharply, it would mean something.


    Instead, he huffed a quiet breath, something deliberately rueful, and shook his head. "Not like that," he said, letting the words settle, casual, easy. "You''re summoned. I''m to escort you. He wants you in your capacity as Magician. Something-something about Seeking."


    She watched him, unreadable.


    "And he sent you, to tell me that?"


    Eoin exhaled, long-suffering, slipping back into the easy irreverence had carried him through so much. "I am indeed his errand boy," he said, tipping his head in mock humility. "When Torsten commands, I must deliver."


    She tilted her head, considering. Then, with a nod, stepped back from the door.


    "Step inside then, Eoin. Its chilly and out you''re hardly dressed for it. I''ll be a moment to collect my things."


    Eoin hesitated.


    It was just a house. Just a doorway, a small step from the street to the stone floor inside. There was no reason for a flicker of memory to prickle down his scalp.


    Then she turned away and the moment broke.


    He stepped inside.


    Ingbord moved through the space without hesitation, crossing to a table where a knife and foodstuffs lay, evidence of a lunch interrupted. She tidied with quick, precise motions, then pulled a satchel from a hook, tucking a few small packets inside.


    "Hand me my cape, would you?" She huffed softly as she cast one last glance around the room, ensuring everything was in order. "Pity I''ll miss lunch. Do you suppose Torsten will feed me at the keep?"


    Eoin lifted her cape and slung it gallantly around her shoulders, setting it just so.


    "I imagine," he said with great solemnity, "that Torsten is willing to give you anything you desire that is within his power to grant." His lips quirked. "Including supper."


    He shrugged, nonchalant. "He does keep a decent table."


    He hoisted her satchel for her, gestured toward the door, and let her pass first.


    Ingbord crossed the room, pulling up short on the threshold and turned back to pluck a small vial from one of the shelves, and uncorked it. The liquid inside was dark and thick. She tipped it back, swallowed, and grimaced.


    Eoin watched, unimpressed. "What was that?"


    "A precaution."


    "Against?"


    She smiled, but didn''t answer. Instead, she grabbed her belt from the back of a chair, fastened it around her waist, and adjusted the small knife that hung from it.


    "Come along, then," she said, recrossing to the door. "Let''s not keep our prince waiting."


    Eoin offered his arm as they stepped from Ingbord''s house, the gesture almost courtly, although his posture undercut any real pretense of nobility. She considered it for only a moment before resting her hand lightly in the crook of his elbow. His warmth bled through the fine wool of his shirt, and she noted-without much thought-that he ran warmer than most men.


    The streets of Vardvik were narrow, winding their way up the hill toward the keep. One didn''t walk through Vardvik, so much as one walked up it or down it depending on if you were going to the keep or the harbour, or places in between. Uphill, to the keep the walk was a steady incline, the kind that made a person mindful of their breath and be inclined to walk, not chatter. Ingbord had walked it many times before, in all seasons and in all weather, but something about this walk felt different. It took her a while to notice. At first, she simply enjoyed the crispness of the early spring air, the scent of salt and sulfur carried on the wind, the way the light softened the jagged stone buildings. But then-subtly, slowly-awareness crept in.


    At first, she thought little of it. A woman carrying a basket shifting aside, a passerby looking away¡ªit was common enough. But the pattern held. No calls of greeting, no one acknowledging her passage. Not a single hand lifted in recognition. It wasn''t avoidance. It was absence.


    Her brows knit slightly, but she said nothing. Perhaps it was merely Eoin''s oily reputation, his presence alone enough to keep the good and decent townsfolk from looking too closely. He was Torsten''s creature, after all. People knew what he was, and more than that, they likely guessed what he did for the prince-regent. If they averted their eyes, it was probably for their own comfort.


    Or, perhaps not. There was something vaguely unsettling and unseemly about Eoin. As they walked, she had a mild, admittedly not unpleasant feeling that she and Eoin were passing through a world not quite real. She pressed her lips together and glanced at Eoin, but he only walked quietly beside her, and unhurried, as if nothing were amiss.


    The climb to the keep was steady, the pathway curving up the rocky incline. Eysa''s keep was a functional thing-built for necessity, not grandeur. There were no towering wooden gates, no spired turrets. Just thick stone walls, a stronghold that had stood against the wind and sea for generations.


    As they neared the gate, Ingbord let her hand slip from Eoin''s arm, straightening slightly. If he noticed, he said nothing. A boy stood at the door-too young to be a proper guard, but old enough, barely, to bear a sword at his hip. He had the watchful, wary air of someone eager to prove himself.


    "State your business," the boy blurted, as though the whole keep didn''t already know they were expected.


    "Ingbord Feyrune," she said levelly, "Here to see the prince-regent."


    Eoin gave a lazy salute. "And Eoin Brocker, but I imagine you don''t need telling that."


    The boy''s gaze flicked to Eoin, unreadable. Then, after a heartbeat too long, he stepped aside. "Magician! Brocker. You''re expected."


    Eoin grinned, but it didn''t quite reach his eyes. "That we are."


    The boy pushed the doors open and they stepped inside to the dim corridor beyond. The air inside was warmer, scented with tallow and old stone, and a faint traces of damp and sulfur where the sea wind, and the volcano''s breath moved through unseen cracks.


    Eoin led the way without hesitation, his pace unhurried but purposeful. He knew this place as intimately as he knew the man waiting for them-every turn, every stair, every draft that whispered through the halls. Ingbord followed, her own steps certain. Neither was she a stranger to these halls, having spent many hours in Torsten''s company here.


    They passed the lesser chambers, the larger hall where Torsten held court in his uncle''s name, and the rooms where Eysa''s business was conducted daily-an ongoing dance of too little wealth and too much need. Here, the keep''s heartbeat quieted, the hum of voices thinning until there was just the muffled sound of their footsteps against stone.


    Torsten''s rooms were at the top of the keep, past the old guard station and behind a heavy iron-bound door. There were no guards stationed outside, no servants lingering in the corridor. Eoin stopped before it, pressing his palm flat against the wood, fingers briefly splayed as though feeling for something. Perhaps listening. Eoin glanced back toward Ingbord; his expression unreadable in the dimness.


    "I''ll be loitering just outside the door," he said. "In the event you find the man inside wanting, you have only to call out for me." He rapped smartly, then pushed the pushed the door open, stepping aside for Ingbord to enter ahead of him.


    Torsten''s chambers were warm, the grates opened fully to allow Eysa''s volcanic heat to seep in. Beneath the keep, a labyrinth of vents and tunnels carried the island''s lifeblood, spreading warmth without the need for fire. The air held a faint mineral tang, a quiet reminder of the molten depths flowing far below-restless, enduring, and always present.


    Torsten stood barefoot by a low table where a simple meal had been set. He looked up, his gaze landing on Ingbord as she entered, his smile was one of quick bright welcome-and something else - a quick flash of relief and a flush of heat softening the planes of his face.


    Ingbord lifted her chin, meeting his gaze, bold but playful. "You wanted me?"


    Torsten''s mouth curled, just slightly, equally playful. "I do."


    It might have been the wind, or the volcano''s breath moving about the keep. Or perhaps Eoin didn''t quite stifle a sigh as he shut the door behind them. The latch clicked quietly into place, sealing them inside.


    Torsten greeted her warmly, the heavy door clicking shut behind Eoin''s smirking presence. "Ingbord," he said, his voice rich with familiarity. "I appreciate you coming on such short notice-and I do hope the escort made some effort to behave himself."


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    She shook her head in amusement, eyeing the table. "I hope you have something nice for me, Torsten. I was just about to have lunch when I was pulled away, and magic is rather hungry work."


    Torsten''s smile deepened. "Cranky magicians are a menace only a fool would entertain. I think I understand the importance of keeping my Magician satisfied. Perhaps I can persuade you to forget lunch and have an early supper with me instead? It''s not my intent for you to go wanting."


    Ingbord lips quirked at the double meaning but sat, accepting the offering. A light meal had been laid out-bread, cheese, slices of cured fish. He poured her a cup of weak ale and took a seat beside her, tearing off a piece of bread more to keep her company than out of real hunger.


    They spoke of small things-news from the harbor, the latest foolishness at court-conversation easy between them, laced with familiarity and affection. But she did not miss the way his fingers tapped idly against the table, the way his eyes flicked over the room, always coming back to her face. There was a purpose to this visit, and the space between them was growing thick with it. The room was growing warmer, and Torsten was growing restless.


    "You had Eoin fetch me to your chambers with instructions to tell me you wanted a Seeking," she said, setting her cup aside. "Let''s not dally further." She stood, shrugging off her cloak and fixing Torsten with a level gaze.


    "You know my price. Are you prepared to pay it?"


    Torsten closed his eyes for a moment. "I do." A beat later, softer, "I am."


    It was not reluctance. He wanted the Seeking, yes, but he wanted her too-always had, always would. He was not unfamiliar with how a Seeking worked. The ritual stripped away the tenderness he craved, but not the desire. His body responded before she even touched him, before she stepped close and pressed against him, before she tugged at the laces of his tunic and slid her fingers over his belt. By the time he cupped the curve of her waist and pulled her tighter, he was more than ready to pay her price.


    She did not tease. This was not for love, whispered endearments or lingering caresses. This was for the Seeking, and she took him to his bed without hesitation, taking from him what was needed.


    He let her press him down, let her strip him bare. He lay back, arms above his head as she shed her own garments and straddled his hips. Her palms pressed flat against his chest as she murmured words in the old language-words of offering, of binding, of agreement. The same words she had asked of him moments before, spoken now in ritual. A gift of himself, freely given, in exchange for her Seeking. He nodded once, then felt her-hot and wet as she guided him inside. She breathed in sharply, adjusting, settling over him with a slow, deliberate motion.


    Torsten gritted his teeth, fingers flexing against her hips. He wanted to drag this out, to roll her beneath him and take his time, but she set the pace, and he let her. He closed his eyes, surrendering to it. To her. The rhythm she set was steady, unhurried, each roll of her hips drawing him closer, pulling him under. He gripped her thighs, his fingers pressing firm into her skin, but he did not try to control her. He let himself be taken, let himself give. And when she flexed around him, working him with that subtle, knowing pressure, it was too much. He gasped, his body tightening, and then pleasure overtook him, spilling through him in waves.


    Afterward, they lay together, the afternoon light slanting through the high windows. His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek, his skin hot where she rested, cooling rapidly everywhere else. She traced idle patterns against his ribs before murmuring, "Tell me what it is you seek."


    Torsten exhaled slowly. "It''s a map."


    She lifted her head to look at him.


    "A map of Eysa and the waters around it, drawn in great detail. It marks the city of Vardvik, the smaller towns, the volcano, the best vents. About an arm''s length wide and half as tall." He gestured the dimensions with his hands. "In the lower left-hand corner, southwest on the map, there is a blazing sun, inscribed in real gold. My grandfather, King Rolly, commissioned it from his Magician. Both he and the map have been missing for decades."


    Ingbord nodded. "Sverri." She said, being well-acquainted with the sequence of Eysa''s magicians. "Hmm. His magic allowed him to see details hidden from view. Do you know why Rolly would have commissioned such a thing?"


    "Rolly never told me his reasons," Torsten admitted. "I was only a boy when he told me the story of it. Both Sverri and the map had been missing for decades by then. But he was not a man who did things without purpose." His fingers trailed absently over Ingbord''s bare shoulder. "Eysa is poor. It has always been poor. I think he hoped the map would show him the way to change that."


    He let that hang between them. "Perhaps he wanted to open new trade routes," Torsten continued, keeping his voice even. "Or maybe he just wanted to see Eysa as it truly is. A king should know the shape of his own land, shouldn''t he?"


    He turned his head to meet her gaze, hoping it was enough truth to satisfy her.


    "Do you have anything that belonged to Rolly? Something personal, that was his?" asked Ingbord.


    In answer, Torsten pulled a ring off his finger and gave it to Ingbord. "This was Rolly''s before it came to me."


    Ingbord held the ring and brought it her lips, tasting the bright gold quickly before slipping it onto her own finger.


    She closed her eyes, focusing, drawing her awareness into the band.


    But the ring held nothing of Rolly. Only Torsten. Hot. Hard. Echoes of hungry longing swirled through her senses. The steady pulse of his desire, banked now but never quite extinguished. A restless energy driving him forward, relentless and unyielding. She caught recent flickers of his day-the bite of salt air, the weight of steel in his grip, the touch of her hand on his bare skin. But nothing older than him, nothing of the man who had worn the ring before.


    She let out a slow breath and opened her eyes. "I need something closer to him. More personal."


    Torsten hesitated only a moment, then nodded. He pushed the furs aside and rose from the bed, unhurried and unselfconscious. The chamber was warm from the vents, and his skin still held the heat of their joining, gold in the afternoon light slanting through the high windows. He stretched briefly-just a shift of his shoulders, a flex of his back-and crossed the room with shameless ease.


    At his desk, he opened a carved wooden box and withdrew something small, dark, smooth. A stone. He turned it over in his fingers before carrying it back to her, and slipping back under the furs beside her.


    He pressed it into her palm. "Rolly carried it with him everywhere."


    She weighed it in her hand, identifying it as hematite and feeling the dense, polished surface. Cool, despite the warmth of the room. She brought it to her lips, the iron-slick taste of it spreading across her tongue before she closed her fingers around it and let herself sink into its echoes.


    The impression came quickly this time. Rolly. Sharp-minded, cagey. His thoughts were a locked chest, iron-bound and heavy. She felt his ambitions-coiled tight, pressed hard into the weight of the stone. A longing for power, and beneath it, resentment-deep and abiding-that Eysa was a poor, small nation, cut off from the mainland, excluded from its trade, its politics, and its wealth.


    "Do you know what Sverri''s price was?"


    "Allegedly, a hundred gold pieces."


    Both Ingbord''s brows rose in rare surprise. "A hundred gold pieces. That''s...staggering. Do you think Rolly paid?"


    Torsten exhaled; tone dry. "Doubtful. I''d be hard-pressed to scrape together a hundred gold from the treasury today. I doubt Rolly had the means to make good on the deal. And since my uncle didn''t inherit a bankrupt kingdom, I suspect Sverri never saw a single coin."


    "One last thing," Ingbord said, slipping from the bed in a liquid motion. She stretched her arms high above her head, the long lines of her body shifting. Torsten watched her, still sprawled on the bed, his body heavy with satisfaction but his pulse quickening again at the sight of her. She was glowed with heat, standing tall in the aftermath of what she had taken-what he had given. The magic was rising within her, poised to turn pleasure into power. She let out a centering breath, flexing her fingers and rolling her wrists.


    "What makes you think your luck will be any better than Rolly''s with this missing map of yours?"


    Torsten''s lips curled. He exhaled, slow and knowing. "Unlike Rolly," he murmured, "I pay my magician."


    Ingbord reached for her knife resting on the bedside table and moved the to the center of the chamber. Drawing a breath, she shut her eyes, letting the details of the map settle in her mind. Then, with slow, practiced movements, she knelt and traced an imaginary circle on the ground with the tip of the blade. She murmured more words in the old tongue, tracing graceful symbols in the air with her fingers.


    With the edge of her knife, Ingbord pressed a shallow cut into her thumb, just enough to bring a drop of bright and glistening blood to the surface. She brought her hand to her lips and licked the drop of blood away, swallowing the taste of iron, the final piece of fuel for the ritual.


    A hush fell over the chamber. The temperature dropped, subtle at first, then sharper, like a creeping frost. Torsten shivered but did not move. He had seen Ingbord Seek before. He trusted her, but it never failed to unsettle him, the way the air seemed to pull inward, the way the heat in the room was sucked away, leaving his fingers chilled and making frosty puffs of his breath.


    Ingbord breathed in deeply, feeling the power coil through her, wrapping around her limbs like an unseen current. Her breath slowed, her pupils blown wide as her vision blurred, then sharpened into something more. She was not in the room anymore. Not really. Her mind drifted outward, casting into the cold vastness of elsewhere.


    She sought.


    She drifted exhaled; through the ice-cold channels between waking and dream, her breath shallow, her mind unmoored. The Seeking pulled at her, fueled by the heat she had drawn into herself, stretching her thoughts across the island, over the sea, across leagues unknown, to a place she had never stood but now somehow knew.


    A sense of imagined heat pressing against her skin, thick and cloying, so unlike the bracing winds of Eysa. The air was rich with the scent of spice and sweat, roasted meats and perfumed oils. Around her, voices rose in a dozen tongues, bargaining, laughing, arguing.


    A market.


    A crush of bodies moved through the narrow, sun-drenched streets, bright silks catching the light, headwraps shielding faces from the almost painful brilliance of the sky. The sun here was sharp, relentless, its reflection bouncing off pale stone walls and gilded rooftops. Above it all, a banner fluttered-deep blue, scattered with stars.


    She turned. Within her rotating gaze she saw the span of a bridge arched high and graceful over a wide, sluggish river. Beyond that, a vast cathedral, towering, its spires stabbing skyward beyond the market where her Seeking was focused.


    She moved-was moved-like a zephyr through the stalls, past hanging tapestries, cages of shrieking birds, baskets of golden fruit.


    She cast her vision about, recording details of the unknown city she found herself in. The angle of the sun. A sign above a door. A graceful tree shading a fountain.


    Creeping tendrils of cold began to wind along her arms and cheeks. She clenched her fists to hold what heat she could in her hands, moving faster now, seeking within the alien marketplace.


    The scent of ink and old parchment curled into her lungs. A bookstall, half-shaded, its wares stacked in careless towers, scrolls tucked between thick, leather-bound tomes.


    "Unseen." she whispered, her breath a plume of frost. "Hidden? Lost?"


    There.


    A single roll of parchment, tightly bound, tucked behind a cracked wooden case.


    Gooseflesh bloomed on her arms and chest. "I know where it is," she whispered.


    And then, like the tide pulling back from shore, the vision faded and she plunged back into her achingly cold body in an ice-cold room in Torsten''s rocky keep.


    Ingbord came back to herself in Torsten''s bed. She lay there quietly, unmoving, with her eyes closed, feeling cold to her very bones, aware of Torsten''s arms around her, wrapping her against the heat of his chest. The heat of his bare flesh pressed against her chilled back almost made the icy aftermath of a Seeking worthwhile. She pressed in closer, winding her legs around his to warm her thighs.


    "A sunny mainland city with spires and bridges. Blue banners and a wide, slow river pouring into the sea. That can only be Ilroya," she said, her eyes closed, still holding the bright, vivid picture in her mind''s eye.


    She felt him nod against her shoulder.


    "How long would it take to get there?" she asked quietly.


    Torsten let out a slow, whistling breath. "There isn''t a boat in Eysa capable of making the trip. I haven''t got anything seaworthy enough to make that voyage. It would be a case of taking a rakkar to Othmark and from there hiring passage to Ilroya. Ten days to get to Othmark by rakkar, probably. Maybe another dozen to get to Ilroya by ship. A little longer coming back."


    "How much," she asked, still unmoving, "would it cost to hire passage from Othmark to Ilroya?"


    Torsten paused. "Perhaps seventy or eighty gold pieces," he said finally.


    She exhaled softly. "You haven''t got a great deal more than that in all the treasury," she said softly.


    "I don''t," he admitted.


    "It''s an outrageous gamble, Torsten," she said. "It would be wagering everything you''ve got on Rolly''s magical scrap of sheepskin." She rolled over and pressed her lips against the hollow of his throat. "Even so. You do need me to go and get that map for you, won''t you?"


    His grip on her tightened. "Yes." His voice was low, reluctant. "I do."


    For a long moment, they just lay there.


    She cinched her arms tighter around him and pressed her face more deeply against his neck. "Do you remember the day I left Eysa for the mainland to go to study away?"


    Torsten let out a slow breath, his hand stilling against her back. "I do."


    "You were watching." It wasn''t a question.


    "I was." His voice had a quiet, unreadable weight to it. "I saw you from the keep and watched you walk along the quay to the ship." He paused. "It was windy."


    "Windy? You remember that it was windy that day?"


    He chuckled. "Your hair was untied. You hadn''t pulled it back or put on a hat. You looked up, and your hair whipped around your face like tendrils of kelp." He waggled his finger to demonstrate. "You looked like you only decided that you would go at the very last minute, then ran to harbour only half-set. I recall you stopped to turn around three times, bent down to pick something up from the ground. Then you turned three times the other way, flew up the plank in a rush and were gone. "


    She smiled faintly against his skin. "You really did watch. It''s an old superstition. You turn three times to the left to say goodbye to the home you''re leaving. You take a handful of dirt or gravel"¡ªshe flexed her fingers slightly, as if feeling phantom stones in her palm¡ª"so you always carry some of Eysa with you. Then you turn three times to the right, to you memorize the home you''ll return to."


    Torsten was silent for a long time. Then he said, very quietly, "I watched until your ship was over the horizon and I couldn''t see it anymore. I counted every day you were gone." He swallowed. "One thousand four hundred and fifty-four days."


    She closed her eyes, remembering. She had known. She had felt his eyes on her as she boarded the ship, as she left Eysa behind. She had looked back, squinting up at the keep''s high balcony, and she had seen a dark figure standing there, barely more than a shadow against the stone.


    "I saw you," she admitted. "You waved goodbye."


    Torsten shifted, lifting his hand between them. He kissed his palm, then turned it toward her, fingers slowly curling into a fist as he brought his hand back to his chest.


    Ingbord swallowed hard.


    She knew that gesture too.


    Come back, come back safe, and return my kiss to me.


    She took his hand and pressed her lips against his knuckles, sealing the promise between them.


    For a long time, neither of them spoke.


    Then, quietly, Torsten asked, "Did you hate it?"


    She didn''t need to ask what he meant.


    She exhaled, fingers flexing against his ribs.


    "I hated it."


    A small, pained noise caught in his throat. Not surprise. Just confirmation.


    "I was like a duck away from water. I was homesick every day. I missed home horribly. I missed you more. I counted the days backward¡ªthe days until I could come home. They say the mainland is all sunshine and flowers, but I hardly got to see it. Students at the university live like monks. We got up early, ate cold food in the dark, worked like churls at chores, studied until after dark, then dropped into bed hungry. I slept in a cold, hard little bed with no heat and no room for company. Not that many were even willing, anyway. I was a lumbering barbarian in a sturdy wool dress, while the other girls had silks and pink ribbons. They made fun of my accent. My boots. My lack of... culture. They mocked me for being too quiet. They mocked me for not being quiet enough. I never fit in. I was never quite right."


    Torsten''s arms tightened around her. He didn''t quite laugh, but something close to it. "Ingbord," he murmured. "Pretty feathers they may have had, but those silly little mainland girls could never be more than a clutch of waddling, quacking ducks."


    His fingers brushed her cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.


    "A cygnet," he said, voice quiet, reverent. "That''s what you were."


    She stilled.


    Her throat tightened.


    Even when she had felt lowest and loneliest, even when she had been across the sea, she had always known Torsten was thinking of her, and that he had always thought the best of her.


    Ingbord pressed closer, pressing her lips against his collarbone, against his pulse, against anything she could reach.


    Fifty days or more away. A trifle compared to the thousand and a half she had already endured.


    Eoin tipped his tankard, watching the amber liquid swirl before draining the last mouthful. The pub was dim inside, with bright patches of sunlight spilling in through the open door and windows. A cool breeze mingled with the warmth of the volcano''s breath, wheezing through the large vent on the back wall. It was, all things considered, a rather pleasant place to drink oneself into oblivion.


    He lifted his empty tankard along with his eyebrows, casting a hopeful look toward Jorunn. She answered by setting a fresh one down in front of him with a faint sniff.


    "You''ll eat something before I bring you another," she said.


    Eoin lifted the tankard and took a slow, deliberate sip, making a show of savoring it. "I didn''t know I had a mother in you, Jorunn."


    "You don''t," she said, but without any real malice. "You''d have better manners if you did."


    Eoin huffed a laugh, but it was hollow. Jorunn didn''t linger. She had better things to do than watch him drink himself into a stupor. When she returned a while later, setting a plate of steamed crab cakes down in front of him, the fresh tankard was already half-empty, and Eoin was staring emptily into the distance.


    "Eat." She nudged him with her ample hip.


    Eoin blinked at her, bleary-eyed, and obediently ate a crab cake. "My thanks," he murmured, slurring only slightly. "These are... delicious."


    Jorunn''s broad backside retreated, and Eoin watched with only dim interest before lowering his head onto his folded arms and closing his eyes.


    Fucking Eysians.


    An Eysian could go his whole life without knowing a day''s hunger. And if he did, all he had to do was mention it, and his fellow Eysians would trip over themselves escorting him to the nearest hearth and table¡ªor just as likely, pull chunks of bread, cheese, or dried meat out of their pockets and thrust them into his hands.


    The whole forsaken island was covered in grass. Grass, grass, and more fucking grass as far as the eye could see. A man''s eyeballs would practically fall out of his head in surprise if they happened to land on a tree. And the sheep¡ªendless, shaggy, stupid sheep, except where there were cows. Big, fat, dumb cows. With horns. Not that they had any use for horns. Eysa didn''t have anything bigger than a fox to trouble them.


    More than once, Eoin had seen Eysian herders singing to the cows. Singing. Their music was terrible, their songs were worse¡ªlong-winded, nasal epics of seafaring and battle, of raiding and adventure. As if they had any ships. As if they had any swords. They didn''t even have enough metal at hand to construct a still.


    It was possible to get properly drunk on Eysa. But you really had to apply yourself to the task. Downing tankard after tankard of their piss-weak ale.


    Eysians had no fucking ships. Just tatty little reed boats they used for fishing or visiting other islands to¡ªwhat else? ¡ªeat, drink their weak ale, and sing their horrible songs together.


    They had all the food, all the wool, all the clothes and songs a man could ever want.


    So long as that was all a man ever wanted.


    Fucking Eysians.


    An Eysian could go his whole life happily thinking his shirt was wondrous fine, his house wondrous warm, his wife wondrous cheerful, and his belly wondrous full, right up until the day he died.


    Other men might boast about the strength of their arm or the length of their prick¡ªat least giving a man an opening to best him at wresting, or to seduce his wife. But an Eysian? He would boast about how succulent his roasted lamb was, or how fine his shirt was, or how tender his crab cakes were. And then¡ªinevitably¡ªhe would insist that you eat the lamb, taste the crab cakes, wear the shirt. And damn it all, the lamb would be succulent, the crab cakes would be delicious, and the second-best shirt he lent you would be warm and fine and soft as silk.


    They lived their lives herding, farming, spinning, weaving, tailoring, fishing, cutting reeds, weaving boats, carving vents for their volcano, cooking, sharing, and singing. Until¡ªinevitably¡ªthey died, and the rest of them would gather to sing their wretchedly long, nasal funeral songs and then hurl the body into their precious fucking volcano. And then¡ªsadly gather for the inevitable feast.


    Fifteen long, dull, pointless years. During which, Eoin was certain he had seduced every seducible woman in Vardvik, and half the seducible men. If he wanted any novelty at all, he''d have to cast his net further afield, outside the city¡ªmaybe even outside Eysa itself.


    As if. Hoping to get off the island was pointless. He wasn''t getting free of Eysa. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in seventy years. He took another slow pull from his tankard, swallowed, and let his forehead drop against the worn wood of the table with a dull thud.


    He wished he had never heard of Ingbord Feyrune. Four long years he''d heard about her. Four long years of Torsten pining, of Torsten speaking her name with a quiet, aching reverence. Four years of listening to him go on and on about the strength of her heart, the magic in her breath, the comfort of her love. How he could gladly bear the weight of Eysa''s crown if only Ingbord could be his queen. Ingbord, apparently, floated like a swan on the surface Torsten''s every waking thought.


    And damn it, Eoin had listened. He should have tuned it out. Should have let the boy spill his longing into the dark and not let it settle inside him. But he had listened, hadn''t he? And hadn''t he gone and half fallen in love with her before he even laid eyes on her?


    Eoin was bound to Torsten as surely as if by key and collar. That was a weight Eoin had made uneasy peace with. But Ingbord? Ingbord was new layer of misery entirely. He wished to hell and back again that he''d never met her.


    And now? Now that he had? She had struck chords in his heart and rang them like bells. She tasted of a new dawn, stirred the breath of spring in his chest, and left the bright tang of cold silver hanging on his senses. He wanted her with a gnawing, aching hunger he could not shake.


    She was Eysa, right down to the marrow of her bones, down to the blood she used to fuel her magic. If she floated on Torsten''s waking thoughts like a swan, then in his dreams, she must swim like a -


    Eoin set the tankard down with a resigned sigh.


    Like a siren.


    Eoin had been wrecked on Eysa''s rocks once before. And now, with awful certainty he knew - he was going to be wrecked on them again.

 In Ale Veritas

    Eoin drank steadily. Lift, sip, swallow, set down. Repeat. He kept his head down, elbow braced on the table, fingers wrapped loosely around his tankard. Drink. Breathe. Drink again. His thoughts settled into a hazy stillness, where he could half-forget his station. Edges blurred enough that that collar around his soul didn''t chafe so much and he could pretend, just for a bit, that his life was his own.


    He was comfortably slumped over the table, head pillowed on his crossed arms. He was not yet drunk enough to stumble. But he was sunk in a leaden, hazy stupor that made the world quieter and his own thoughts bearable. That was all he wanted. Numbness and a little peace.


    He didn''t bother opening his eyes when the weight of a body settled across from him. A whiff of fine soap. A whisper of fine wool. The familiar sense of Torsten.


    "Go away, Torsten!" he muttered, voice thick with drink. "Can''t you see I''m busy?"


    And then, the tang of silver. Cold and bright beneath the wool. Eoin''s gut twisted. He cracked an eye open and groaned, slumping deeper into the table. ""Go away, Ingbord! He muttered. "Can''t you see I''m not fit company?"


    After a long pause, she said, "Torsten has orders."


    Eoin sighed dramatically and dropped his head onto his arms. "Of course, he does."


    "He''s sending us to Ilroya."


    Eoin went very still. The words drifted down through the fog of drink, cutting through the heavy, slow crawl of his thoughts. He blinked at the table, slow and deliberate, letting them settle. Then, at last, he lifted his head, fixing her with an unfocused stare.


    "You''re serious?" he said.


    She nodded. "Yes."


    Eoin blinked again, slower this time. He scrubbed a hand down his face, willing the words to make sense. "Ilroya." His tongue rolled over the syllables tasting them. "As in, across the sea, on the mainland, Ilroya?"


    "As in, Ilroya," she confirmed.


    Eoin shook his head in blurry confusion. "Why?"


    "There''s a map in Ilroya that Torsten wants very much. He''s sending us, well me, actually to go and get it for him. You''re to accompany me. We''re to island-hop to Othmark and then from there hire passage to Ilroya." Ingbord tilted her head slightly. "Are you sober enough to be taking any of this in?"


    Eoin sniffed and tried to clear his head. "Probably not, no. This makes no sense." He blinked, tallying up the distances, the weather, the craft and coins Torsten had as his disposal. "Do you know how far it is to Ilroya? Do you have any idea how much a trip like that will cost? Torsten just snaps his fingers and decides that we''re going to all the way to Ilroya? To buy a map?" He let out a low, disbelieving sound. "That''s madness. He barely has enough money to buy passage! It will take weeks, months even to get there and back again. Tell me you''re joking."


    "I''m not," Ingbord said simply.


    Eoin dropped his head forward, rubbing his palm down his face. He looked at her¡ªreally looked at her now¡ªand there was no amusement in her expression. No smirk. No teasing glint in her eye.


    For a long moment, he just sat there, absorbing it, his thumb running absentmindedly along the rim of his tankard. "So let me get this straight," he said finally, tilting his head toward her. "Torsten wants us to take a fishing boat across to Othmark. Then hire passage on a proper ship. Then spend weeks on the open sea. Then what? Stroll into a foreign city and then somehow find this map he''s never seen, and buy it with what, sheer force of will?


    He held up a hand, expression incredulous.


    "Then, somehow, sail back to Othmark, map in hand, and from there, what? Wend our way from there to Eysa, by swimming?!"


    Ingbord nodded. "Something like that."


    "He''s gone as feeble minded as his uncle!" Eoin picked up the empty tankard again before remembering it was empty. "Or you''re one hell of a magician!"


    Yet, Eoin''s stomach tightened and his by swimming pulse ticked up. Torsten had actually ordered this.


    He hadn''t stepped foot beyond this wretched little island in fifteen years.


    Eoin rubbed at his jaw, processing. The open sea. The sun. A proper city, full of proper drink, and proper entertainment. Not a place where farmers compared sheep and textiles and debated whose lamb was the most succulent. His gaze slid across the table to Ingbord, taking her in, the sharp line of her profile in the dim light.


    Now that was a whole other problem. He shifted in his seat. Fifty days or more alone in her company. Weeks at sea, trapped on a ship with her. Sharing close quarters, sharing space, breathing the same air. Weeks of watching the way she moved, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she tilted her head when she was thinking. Weeks of resisting the aching hunger that coiled deep in his gut when she was near. Weeks of somehow not shoving her up against the nearest bulkhead and devouring her whole.


    Fucking hell.


    **********


    Eoin''s head ached dully. The morning light streaming through the narrow windows of the keep was a shade too bright for his liking. He had slept, tried to make sense of Ingbord''s absurd words, cleaned himself up, and was now in search of Torsten to hear firsthand what exactly the prince expected of him.


    He trailed his fingertips idly against the stone wall as he walked, trusting instinct to guide his steps.


    He found Torsten in one of the keep''s quieter chambers, standing at a heavy wooden table, studying a map of the mainland. At the sound of Eoin''s approaching footsteps, he looked up, lips pressing into a thin, unreadable line.


    Eoin spread his hands. "Torsten," he drawled. "I hear I''m summoned for yet another errand. Ilroya, this time, no less. Do enlighten me¡ªIngbord gave me the rough sketch last night, but frankly, I can''t believe half of it."


    Torsten controlled the urge to roll his eyes, as he sometimes did when Eoin was in a mood. Instead, he nodded, meeting Eoin''s gaze steadily.


    "I do want you both to go to Ilroya," he said. "There''s a map there, and I need it. It''s very important. I need you to accompany Ingbord and help her bring it back." He huffed out a breath, tracing a finger down the path a ship would need to take from Othmark to Ilroya. "It won''t be easy. You''ll have to row, island by island, to Othmark. From there, you''ll need to buy passage on a ship. Let Ingbord tell you what she needs along the way and make sure she gets it."


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    He paused, licking his lips, then added, "I don''t need to tell you how important Ingbord is to me. Keep her safe, Eoin. Bring her back."


    Eoin squinted against the lingering ache in his head and rubbed at his ear, as if that might somehow make sense of this absurd scheme. "Why not just send me to fetch your godsdamned map?" he asked, more seriously now. "Why put Ingbord at risk for this?"


    Torsten traced his finger once more across the route. "I don''t know what it looks like. I''ve never seen it. I couldn''t tell you what you''d be fetching. Ingbord has seen it in a Seeking. Only she knows which one is the map I need."


    Then Torsten lifted his gaze, sharp and steady. Eoin didn''t like that look.


    "It is my fondest desire," Torsten said, his voice even, measured, "that you accompany Ingbord on her journey and deliver her safely back to me here in Eysa."


    Eoin felt the words settle over him like a weighted rope being draped across his shoulders. It itched. He scratched the back of his neck as the binding took hold. He nodded, pressing his lips into a thin line of reluctant agreement, accepting the burden.


    "You''ll need this." Torsten pushed a leather purse across the table. Eoin caught the scent of gold, copper, and silver before even touching it. Heavy, but not too heavy. Enough to get them there and back¡ªbarely, if they were careful.


    "Ingbord will determine what is needed along the way. It is my wish that anything she asks from you, you provide. It''s not a lot of money. What she needs, beg, borrow, or steal - even buy it if you have to. Whatever she needs to complete this trip, she will get."


    The words coiled around Eoin like a second rope, binding tighter knots around the first.


    He inhaled slowly, carefully. The shape of the geas pressed against the back of his closed eyes.


    Torsten let the silence stretch before adding, just as measuredly, "Finally, it is my wish that you return home from Othmark with three chests of rocks."


    Eoin''s eyes snapped open.


    He stared at Torsten. Blinked.


    Then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Are you serious? Three boxes of rocks?"


    Torsten nodded once.


    Eoin knew the difference between a request and a command. These were commands. All of them. Bring Ingbord home. Give her everything she needs. Bring back three chests of meaningless rocks.


    He narrowed his eyes at Torsten, searching his face for something¡ªsome explanation, some flicker of humor, some indication that this wasn''t an absurd joke being played on him.


    Torsten remained impassive.


    Eoin clicked his tongue against his teeth and sighed. "You know, I really hate it when you do that."


    Torsten''s lips quirked. "I know."


    Eoin exhaled sharply. "Three boxes of rocks." He let the words hang between them again, as if they might somehow make sense the second time. They did not. Muttering under his breath, he added, "Torsten, if you wanted to make my life difficult, you could have just ordered me to stop drinking."


    Torsten snorted. "Would that even be possible?"


    Eoin gave him a look so dry it could turn the tide to salt. "And what am I supposed to tell Ingbord about this little... mineral obsession of yours?"


    "Nothing," Torsten said smoothly, shaking his head. "Accompany her to Ilroya. See that she has whatever she asks for. Bring her home. And when you do, bring me my three chests."


    Eoin dragged a hand through his curls, already regretting everything about this.


    "Utterly ridiculous," he muttered.


    Torsten remained silent.


    Eoin scowled at him, then sighed one last time, then turned on his heel.


    "Fine," he grumbled. "I''ll go pack."


    *********


    Retracing his steps to his chamber, Eoin ran his fingers along the stone walls, feeling the rough texture catch against his skin. Little unseen hitches here and there, tiny, unexpected snags making the path of his fingers dance. As he walked, he turned Torsten''s words over in his mind, rolling them like river stones, testing their edges, searching for the places they fit together¡ªand the places they didn''t.


    Torsten, he admitted to himself, was no longer a clever little princeling. Not only had he grown tall and broad, but he''d also grown sharp and patient. Eoin could sense it now¡ªhe wasn''t just setting geasa like a man thinking plain. He was playing with fate. Weaving it. Trying to shift the balance of the world with the careful pull of a thread here, a little push there. Eoin had seen men try to break fate before. They always failed. The clever ones learned to bend it instead.


    And Torsten? Torsten was learning.


    In the years they''d been bound together, Torsten had come to understand what geasa Eoin must obey and what he could ignore, discard, or reinterpret. Some requests Eoin could put off indefinitely. Some itched at the back of his mind like a persistent worry. Some felt heavy, like a chain laid across his shoulders. Some were painful. The only way to relieve the itch, the burden, the pain¡ªwas to obey. Torsten had chosen his words carefully. These were commands. Eoin almost had to admire it; Torsten wasn''t just giving orders¡ªhe was setting a board. And though Eoin could practically smell the scheming on him, he couldn''t quite see the plan.


    He climbed the narrow stairs to his chamber, anticipation and exasperation twining together in his chest. Fifty days, at least. Fifty days away from the mind-numbing boredom of Eysa. Fifty days of hard travel with Ingbord within arm''s reach.


    For most of the journey, he''d have to pose as her husband¡ªcarrying her things, doling out coin into her palm, playing the dutiful spouse. Rowing a godsdamned boat all the way to Othmark. He huffed a laugh at himself as he pushed open the door to his chamber. Fifty days of discomfort, in close quarters with Torsten''s heart''s fondest desire, and a set of three heavy geasa knotted tight around his ribs.


    He tossed open his chest, pulling out shirts, boots, a coat¡ªtravel-worn, practical things. Then, unfastening the purse from his belt, he rolled it over in his palm before tipping the contents onto his bed.


    Coins spilled in a muted scatter. Copper. Silver. Gold.


    A shiver crawled down his arms, prickling at his fingers. His breath caught¡ªshallow, quick¡ªas his hand ghosted over the scattered coins. It had been years since he had touched gold. Real gold. Years since he had heard it sing.


    The little copper pieces hummed, a quiet, steady sound, warm and familiar. The silver trilled, sharp and bright¡ªa quick, clever whisper. But gold¡ªgold thrummed deep and low, like the first note of a bow drawn over taut strings. It curled in his chest, filled his lungs like the scent of honey on a summer wind.


    Ah, gold. Gods, how he had missed gold.


    Eysians hardly used coin. They hardly had coin. Hard to tell if they didn''t use it because they had none; or if they had none because they didn''t understand its value. Instead, they bartered, and their barter was a tangled, impossible thing¡ªbuilt not on numbers, but on feeling. Value was not fixed; it was fluid, shifting with need and sentiment. The concept of mine and yours was a thing of soft edges, defaulting to ours unless something was truly claimed.


    Except when it wasn''t.


    Metal things¡ªblades, tools¡ªwere mine, except when they were needed more by someone else, at which point they became yours. Clothes, boots, even the very shirt off an Eysian''s back¡ªmine, until someone admired it, and then it became yours. Unless someone admired it too much, in which case it stayed mine out of sheer stubbornness.


    The balance in Eysian barter all relied on what felt right.


    In fact, Eoin had never, not once, paid money for his debts at Jorunn''s tavern. He simply drank until his need was met, and when all was said and done, Torsten would arrive¡ªeventually¡ªto count out copper coins into Jorunn''s hand, slow and deliberate, until she closed her fist, satisfied that the debt was settled. Or she set Eoin to fetching and carrying, to mending and thatching, until she felt the balance was even.


    Eoin flicked a gold coin between his fingers, feeling the weight of it, the resonance of it vibrating up his bones. Delight curled in his chest as he rolled the coin over his knuckles, then flicked it into the air, catching it again with a flick of his wrist.


    He began counting, stacking, weighing options in his mind. Passage would take the lion''s share. Food and lodging in Ilroya would bleed the rest away before they even thought about the return. There was no room for comfort, no room for mishaps. There was just enough¡ªbarely¡ªto make the trip if they were very careful, and nothing went wrong.


    In Eoin''s experience, something always went wrong.


    He reached back into his chest and retrieved a thin leather pouch. His smirk deepened as he loosened the tie, letting a set of dice tumble into his palm¡ªexquisitely made, ivory and bone, their pips inked in fine, near-imperceptible detail. A work of art. Expertly balanced. Expertly unbalanced.


    He added the dice to the stack of belongings.


    It never hurt to nudge fate a little.

 Eastward Bound

    Eoin had long since perfected the art of making himself comfortable in uncomfortable places. A reed boat on open water, however, tested even his patience.


    The raqqa was a sturdy little vessel, bobbing over the waves like a cork; its bundled sea cane frame creaked with every swell. There was little else to do but row and watch the sea stretch out endlessly¡ªthe horizon a smudge where water met sky. Days blurred into one another in a monotony of steady oars, salt-crusted skin, and silence broken only by the lap of waves against the hull. The constant smell of brine mingled with the ever-present taste on their lips. The only sounds were the creak of the wooden oarlocks, the occasional call of seabirds wheeling overhead, and the soft splash of oars dipping into the water.


    It took them the better part of ten days to reach Othmark. The raqqa made good time, skimming over the waves, and when the wind favored them, they rigged a simple sail to spare Eoin the sturdy wool blankets.


    Eoin handled the oars with lazy efficiency, guiding them through the shallow coastal waters where Eysa''s reefs and rocky shoals gave way to the open sea. Ingbord sat opposite him, her long legs tucked beneath her, hands folded neatly in her lap. She looked calm and inwardly focused¡ªexcept for the way her fingers occasionally flexed against her thighs, as if resisting the urge to take over rowing herself.


    Eoin smirked. "Something wrong?"


    Ingbord''s lips twitched. "You row like a man who has nowhere in particular to be."


    "Ah, but we''re in no hurry," he drawled. "It''s a fine day, the sea''s behaving, and I quite like the view." He let his gaze flick lazily over her, as if admiring more than the horizon.


    She sighed, shaking her head. "It''s a wonder Torsten puts up with you."


    Eoin''s grin widened. "Torsten doesn''t put up with me¡ªhe positively adores me."


    Ingbord snorted but made no move to argue.


    Eoin had started the morning in his shirt. The spring sun was pale at first, filtering through thin clouds, but as the hours stretched on, it broke through, leaving the sky an endless blue. The warmth built gradually, seeping into his skin and making the fabric of his shirt cling damply to his back and chest. He sighed, flexing his fingers around the oars, and finally gave in. With a fluid motion, he peeled the sweat-dampened wool from his head and tossed it onto a small pile of belongings, letting the breeze cool his overheated skin.


    Ingbord watched, her gaze drawn despite herself. She had seen men before¡ªseen them work, strip to the waist when it got hot, haul nets, and cut sea-cane. She fancied herself a keen judge of a man''s form, and Eoin, for all his laughing ease, moved like as though honed for more than a simple farmer''s life. His body was taut and lean, not bulky like the herders and fishers of Eysa. His shoulders flexed, and his back rippled as he worked the oars. Though she usually held her gaze with discretion, she found herself staring now. Her fingers twitched, and she swallowed, tearing her gaze away and fixing it instead on the endless stretch of sea. Yet the image lingered, settling into the corners of her mind, refusing to be banished.


    "It''s a pretty view, isn''t it?" Eoin said, gesturing with his chin toward the expanse of flat open water, with a faint hint of coastline behind them.


    "Pretty enough," she replied smoothly. "Nothing I haven''t seen before."


    His grin was quick and knowing, but he let it pass. He rowed a few more strokes in silence before she spoke again.


    "I can row."


    Eoin arched a brow, glancing sidelong. "Can you?"


    "I can," she said defensively. "Like any child on Eysa, I grew up rowing and fishing." A fond smile played on her lips as she recalled, "Torsten and I used to row out to a nearby island just to be alone together before..." Her voice trailed off. "We thought we were being clever, sneaking away, unaware that everyone was watching, ensuring our safe return."


    "Well, then, by all means," he said, letting go of the oars and spreading his arms with a teasing flourish. "Prove it."


    Ingbord scooted forward, brushing past him as she took his place. The oars were warm from his hands, the wood smooth beneath her fingers. She rolled her shoulders, set her grip, and pulled.


    It came back to her easily¡ªthe rhythm, the feel of the pull in her arms, the satisfying churn of water against wood. She let out a dry laugh and kept rowing, choosing not to dignify his challenge with a verbal retort.


    For once, Eoin didn''t press. He simply watched her¡ªand silently regretted letting her take over the oars.


    He couldn''t help but admire her: her sleeves pushed up to her elbows, exposing the smooth skin of her forearms¡ªa striking contrast to the dark wood of the oars. Her shoulders moved with graceful strength, and with each stroke, her body flexed in a lithe, honed rhythm earned through effort and endurance. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, gathering in the hollow of her throat before disappearing beneath her collar. Eoin''s unbidden gaze followed the trail, lingering longer than he intended.


    Her thighs, pressed against the motion of the boat, tensed and flexed with every pull. The curve of her waist was accentuated by her movement. She sighed, her breath growing heavier, and Eoin''s heart clenched in response.


    Gods, he thought, he was an idiot for letting her row. For a man as practiced as he was in self-control, this was a special kind of torment.


    It was only when he noticed the raw pink of her palms that he spoke again.


    "Ingbord."


    She ignored him, pulling another stroke.


    "Ingbord," he repeated, quieter this time.


    She hesitated, her hands tightening around the oars.


    "Let me," he said, reaching out, his fingers brushing over hers.


    She exhaled, long and slow, and finally let go.


    Eoin took her place, and the oars, glancing pointedly down at her hands. The skin was blistered, small beads of blood welling at the broken places. A sharp, unexpected ache lodged in his chest.


    She tucked her hands quickly into her pockets, as if to hide them from him. Her fingers closed around something solid, cool against her skin. She stilled. Torsten''s ring, she had never given it back after the ritual. She pulled her hands from her pockets again.


    His own hands, she noticed, were even worse than hers¡ªcracked, calloused and blistered, the palms rough from days of rowing.


    "I''m Torsten''s tool and so are my hands." he said, as if reading her thoughts. "They''re meant for this."


    She glanced down at her own hands, at the blood seeping from the torn skin.


    "And mine?" she asked quietly.


    He met her eyes, something unreadable in his own.


    "Yours," he said, "are meant for something softer."


    A beat of silence stretched between them. Then, his voice lower, he added, "Perhaps if you wanted to serve Torsten, you might consider giving them to him."


    Ingbord curled her fingers tightly into her palms.


    "I never intend to marry Torsten," she said, the words soft but steady. "He can''t have me."


    Eoin blinked, a faint shadow of surprise crossing his face. She held his gaze, waiting for him to press further. But he only nodded once, filing the knowledge away and said nothing more. That was certainly a stone that didn''t quite fit, but he was patient enough to know that not every mystery can be immediately solved.


    By the time they sighted the green cliffs of Othmark, Eoin''s arms ached, his back was stiff, and his patience for the little boat had frayed. The moment they stepped onto solid ground, he stretched with exaggerated satisfaction, and groaned. "Remind me never to set foot in one of those again," he declared.


    *********


    In Othmark, Ingbord¡¯s uncertainty showed on her face and the way she held her body. Skeld, Othmark''s capital city, was larger and busier than she had expected it to be. Skeld was a crush of bodies and a relentless bustle compared to Vardvik.


    Eoin took her hand and placed it on his arm. "Play along with me, wife," he said with a wink. "We are but a humble couple from Eysa, hoping to try our luck at trading in the wider world outside of Vardvik." He waved his arm, indicating the stalls, the carts, the throng of people comprising Skeld''s port. "A little na?vet¨¦ and awe will serve us well." He paused. "But let me do the talking."


    He led Ingbord along a corridor of crushing bodies and buzzing voices. Her gaze drifted over everything¡ªstacks of goods, crates and barrels, all made of wood. So many goods! So much glinting, flashing brightness. In Skeld, people strolled the streets bristling with blades and buckles, tools and trinkets fashioned from all kinds of metals. While she should understand speech in Skeld, the voices were hard to follow¡ªheavy with commerce and sprinkled with unfamiliar terms of trade and possession. Coins twinkled on palms, slipping between fingers, exchanged as though conversations were conducted with coins rather than words. Unease prickled beneath her skin as she noted how each coin seemed to carry its own story of value, of demands far beyond her own understanding. In Othmark it seemed, every promise was measured in the cold glimmer of metal.


    They reached a stall where a wiry trader''s eyes flickered over them. Eoin''s voice was low and smooth as he slid into the exchange, his tone a blend of charm and determination. "Passage to Ilroya," he said, the syllables weighted with the necessity of their journey. He touched his belt, indicating he had the money to pay.


    Eoin''s senses sharpened as he bargained. A flick of the trader'' wrist here, a squint of an eye there. Eoin keenly judged the man''s willingness ¨C and limits - to dealing. He gauged the coins he had to make the trip there and back, and pressed hard against the man''s limits. Ingbord watched the alien dance of currency of commerce; and the language full of unspoken rules and burdens.


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    Eoin''s eyes were rarely left the trader''s face as he negotiated the fare. He offered more coins, his fingertips brushing over the glinting metal, and the trader''s gaze softened just enough to suggest a deal.


    Ingbord''s heart beat faster¡ªthe sum offered was a fortune, a significant portion of Eysa''s treasury, yet here in Skeld, it was shrugged off as a mere trifle.


    Catching the doubt in her eyes, Eoin offered a gentle smile. "It''s done," he murmured. Once again, he laid her hand on his arm. "Let''s go make ourselves comfortable in our sumptuous cabin, shall we?"


    Ingbord trailed pensively beside him, noting that the citizens of Skeld trod lightly. Not once in the packed street did anyone step on her foot or jostle her in passing.


    *********


    The cabin was little more than a cramped box. It held a bunk and a shelf and little else¡ªexcept Ingbord''s pressing boredom and a weight of hot, humid air. Eoin had been expecting this and bore it up with as much cheerfulness as he could. Ingbord sighed, sweated, and shed her boots, opting instead for the relief of cool, bare feet. She padded about with her pants and sleeves were rolled up, revealing smooth, pale limbs suited for cooler climes. The warmth of Ilroya''s climate was a new thing to her¡ªa languid, almost languorous heat that made every breath feel sticky, every movement slow.


    In the tight space of the cabin, Eoin''s presence was impossible to ignore. Every time she shifted, every casual step brought her into contact with him. Their bodies would brush in fleeting moments¡ªa gentle press of a hand, the accidental grazing of a shoulder. Eoin had expected this and dealt with it with as equanimity as he could, while Ingbord chafed at the confines.


    Boredom was relentless. There simply wasn''t much to do other than exercise patience as the ship cut through unending, sunlit waters to Ilroya. Ingbord read a little, but mostly paced the deck¡ªa huffy, bored figure whom most avoided. Eoin tried to keep his own spirits up, and tried to keep out of her way. He tried not to think about the press of her hip, or the grazing of her shoulder, or the soft weight of her breast pressed against him in those moments when the tight quarters forced them into contact.


    Occasionally, he diced¡ªcarefully, of course. Winning too much was not wise, but an extra coin or two added to their purse was always welcome.


    "You seem to have good luck," Ingbord remarked one afternoon, watching him play with one of the coin¡¯s he¡¯d won.


    Eoin gave her a quick grin. "You might say that," he said, making the coin vanish for her amusement.


    "May I see those dice of yours?" asked Ingbord.


    "You may not," Eoin replied quickly. "They''re mine," he said, a layer of meaning to the word that only an Eysian would understand.


    On another afternoon, Ingbord puffed out a long, huffing breath and remarked, "It''s warmer here than I expected."


    "Yes," said Eoin. "The heat rather does cling, doesn''t it? It''s as though the very air wants to hold you tight and wrap itself all around you." His eyes flicked to her bare feet, and to the trickle of sweat running down her neck before rising again to meet her gaze.


    Ingbord puffed out her cheeks and stamped off to pace the deck yet again.


    Eoin drew a long, slow breath watching her go. He recalled an image of the young, love-sick Torsten carving a little notch on the wall every day Ingbord was away. He tallied up the days he himself had yet to endure. He closed his eyes, hoping the motion of the ship would rock him to sleep¡ªif only the slow, rolling sway of the ship didn''t recall another kind of slow rocking motion.


    ************


    "Why won''t you give him what he wants, Ingbord?"


    "Give who? What?"


    "Torsten. The same besotted prince©\regent we both know and tolerate. What he wants most is you¡ªby his side as his queen, with his heirs growing in your belly. He has loved you with all his heart since he was a tot. For four long years while you were away, I had to listen to that love-sick boy pour his heart out, counting the days until your return. Four. Long. Years. He loves you."


    He spread his hands in bewilderment.


    "He has always loved you. You''ve always loved him. It''s obvious to anyone with even one eye and half a heart. So, tell me, Ingbord, please¡ªwhy is it that you will not marry him? Why won''t you give him what he so desperately wants? Why won''t you give yourself what you so desperately want, too?"


    Ingbord regarded him with a steady, measured gaze.


    "Torsten can''t marry me. He can''t marry me any more than he can marry you. I''m not rikerborn."


    "What!" Eoin burst out, "does that mean?"


    Ingbord''s expression remained calm in the face of his outburst. "You really don''t know, do you?" she said quietly, settling back on the bunk, ready to recite age-old tradition.


    "The line of royal descent in Eysa isn''t exactly linear. To be king¡ªor queen, for that matter¡ªyou must be rikerborn, descended from one of the few throne-worthy families. I''m not rikerborn. I know this. Torsten knows this. And we''ve both always known that. Regardless of where our hearts lie, Torsten can''t marry me." She shrugged softly, her tone even. "It''s always been that way."


    "But he''s going to be king, Ingbord! Can''t he just declare you rokerbunt?"


    "Rikerborn," Ingbord corrected gently. "And no. To be rikerborn, you must be born of rikerborn parents. It isn''t that we can''t be close; we simply can''t be married. Not if Torsten wants an heir. And Torsten needs an heir. If he doesn''t, his line...ends."


    Eoin slid down the wall in a crouch, resting his arms on his bent knees with his hands outstretched toward Ingbord.


    "That makes no sense! It''s entirely self-limiting," he declared, his voice rising with indignation. "By that logic, the stock of rikerborn families would shrink to nothing¡ªgrowing more inbred until the line completely withers away, leaving you with no one at all to rule over your little kingdom of sheep! Of course, his line ends. ALL your lines end!"


    "Well, not quite," Ingbord replied in a measured tone. "The law does allow for people to become rikerborn."


    Eoin buried his head in his hands, his voice muffled between his fingers. "And how does that work exactly?" he muttered.


    "By ancient tradition, a person can become rikerborn by winning glory in combat¡ª"


    Eoin shot her a piercing look. "Or by going raiding and returning with great treasure for the crown."


    "Ingbord," Eoin pressed, his tone dripping with incredulity, "your people haven''t been warriors or sailors for centuries! How can anyone possibly go raiding? You haven''t got any ships! How could anyone win glory in combat? You don''t know how to fight and you don''t have swords. You''ve got no ships, no timber, no ore, no steel, no money, and no means to get any! Eysa is nothing more than a far-flung pebble, an isolated little rock. You and your people, your stories and your traditions¡ªyou''re slowly suffocating like fish trapped in a pool at low tide!"


    Ingbord''s eyes remained steady, her calm unbroken. "It''s law," she said evenly. "Torsten needs a rikerborn heir. To get one, he''ll have to marry one of the three suitable women available to him. But it can''t be me."


    Eoin''s eyes narrowed, and with a heavy sigh of exasperation, he pushed himself away from the cramped cabin wall. "I need some air," he muttered. "Maybe some sense, too." He ducked out of the cabin and went above decks, leaving the muggy heat of the cabin behind him.


    The next day was no better. Low grey clouds, lingering heat, and the monotonous rocking of the ship made the day a long and exacting exercise in patience.


    Eoin lay on his back on the creaking wooden floor of the cabin, idly playing with his coin, rolling it from knuckle to knuckle in a loop. He caught it against his palm, spun it with his thumb, and flicked it into the air to catch it quickly and start it rolling in a loop all over again. The coin danced over his fingers as though it had a mind of its own.


    Eoin wasn''t even thinking about it. Not really. He was thinking about her. He was thinking about Torsten. He was thinking about all the things he wanted to ask and knew he shouldn''t. Ingbord wouldn''t marry Torsten. Fine, she couldn''t marry Torsten. But why wouldn''t she take what she wanted? Why wouldn''t she please herself? Why wouldn''t she take what Eoin was so plainly offering?


    Ingbord wasn''t watching him. Not really. She was focused on the humid air, on the heat pressed against her skin, on the slow trickle of sweat at the nape of her neck. But when Eoin flicked the coin higher than before, sending it turning lazily end over end, her eyes snapped to the spinning gold.


    "If you drop that..." she said flatly.


    "Never!" Eoin sat up, catching it with a flourish. He twisted his fingers, and the coin vanished. A beat later, he grinned, showing Ingbord the coin between his teeth.


    Ingbord sighed, dragging a hand over her collarbone, trying to cool the damp heat gathered there. "If you swallow that..." she began.


    Eoin stilled the coin and stood to tuck it away. He leaned against the cabin wall thoughtfully. After a moment, he asked gently, "You say Torsten can''t have what he wants, but what stops you from taking what you want?"


    Ingbord paused her fanning and leveled him with a steady, direct stare. Eoin tilted his head, curiosity and something softer flickering in his gaze.


    "Oh now," he said, glancing around the cramped, stifling cabin. "There isn¡¯t any room in here for pretense. I see the way you look at me. You feel it too."


    Her lips parted for a heartbeat, then closed.


    "So, tell me, Magician," he murmured, voice low and intimate, "why won''t you take me? Why is it you won''t share a bed with me?"


    She inhaled. "Torsten¡ª" she began.


    "Because of Torsten?" Eoin interrupted with a dry, incredulous laugh¡ªan echo of every love-stricken word he''d been forced to listen to from Torsten for four endless years.


    Her jaw tightened, but her tone remained calm, almost distant. "It isn''t¡ª"


    "It isn''t what?" His voice rose, frustration and disbelief mingling. "He can¡¯t marry you, but you¡¯re setting yourself aside for him anyway? Do you think that you¡¯re his, even though he¡¯s not yours? You''re your own self, Ingbord. You can make your own damn choices. He doesn''t hold you ¡ªno one does."


    "That''s not what I meant," she said softly.


    Eoin''s brow furrowed as he pressed, "Then what did you mean?"


    She hesitated, then replied, "I meant you. Torsten¡ªyou''re his... aren''t you?"


    Oh. That tangled, shifting set of Eysian rules defining ownership¡ªwhere the boundaries of possession blurred and nothing ever truly belonged to anyone except when it actually did, of course¡ªhad woven its own strange logic. Ingbord had come to believe, almost instinctively, that Eoin was solely for Torsten, and was his alone. Oh, how fascinating that notion was¡ªand how utterly untrue.


    "I am Torsten''s creature, yes," he admitted slowly. "And I know what people say about me." He took a slow step forward and, with deliberate grace, folded to his knees in front of her. He lowered his gaze to the floor. "They say I''m his shadow, his dog, his plaything."


    He raised his eyes and held Ingbord''s gaze with a slow, knowing smile. "I won''t deny it. I will say, though, that I am a very, very good plaything."


    Tentatively, he laid one hand on her knee. "Torsten won''t mind. He really won''t. He''d share his toys with you." Whisper-soft, he trailed the fingertips of his other hand over the instep of her bare foot, tracing slow, gentle circles around her ankle.


    She watched him with dark, steady eyes, a mixture of amusement and growing desire.


    "You do want to play with me, don''t you?" he asked.


    She lifted a brow. Slowly, with deliberate subtlety, she widened her knees, encouraging his hand to move further up. The heat in the confined space deepened, each breath heavy and measured. The space between them narrowed until, in a swift, decisive moment, Ingbord rose.


    She reached out and drew Eoin upward until he found himself pressed against the wooden wall. Their eyes met in the close, charged atmosphere of the cabin, and without another word, she leaned in. Her lips met his with a fervor that stole the breath from his chest. Her kiss was deep and insistent, demanding.


    Eoin found himself surprised, but not unwilling. He returned the kiss with equal heat and surrendered himself completely to her desire.


    *********


    The cabin was still stifling, the air thick with the scent of salt, sweat, and sex. Eoin lay sprawled on the narrow bunk, hair damp, chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm. He hadn''t bothered to cover himself, unbothered by the humid air or the closeness of the space.


    Ingbord sat up, stretching slightly before swinging her legs over the edge of the bunk. She moved with quiet efficiency, gathering her scattered clothing from the cramped space and smoothing them back into place. As she twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head, she sat back down on the bunk, her weight pressing against him. He hadn''t moved, save for the lazy drift of his fingers across his stomach. His eyes were open, watching her.


    She studied him for a moment before asking, ¡°What does he have over you anyway?"


    "He says you''re a shipwrecked sailor". She shrugged. "And maybe so. But you chafe at being in Eysa. Why have you lingered all this time? Why haven¡¯t you just left before now? You had the perfect opportunity in Othmark. Why not just leave me there, take his coin and go? You owe him something.¡±


    She paused. ¡°Or he has some hold on you that neither of you will speak of." She snorted, rising. "You act like he knows your true name or something"


    Eoin went still.


    His entire body tensed, the shift so sudden, that it sent a prickle up the back of her neck. His breathing shallowed and his pupils shrank to pinpricks, his face going blank in an instant.


    Ingbord, who knew the words to every saga, every legend and every half-forgotten tale of Eysa, stilled suddenly too. She exhaled, a long slow beath, not quite a whistle. She felt the shape of it fall into place, the stories shifting in her mind, assembling themselves like a puzzle she hadn''t realized she was piecing together.


    She stood silently for some moments, studying his face in shocked surprise.


    "Oh Eion," she said after an eon of silence. "Can that really be? There¡¯s a True Name for you and Torsten knows it?"


    Eoin still hadn¡¯t moved. Numb shock still painted on his face.


    She knelt down beside him. "How?"

 Eoins Eastward Tale

    The first thing Torsten did upon learning Eoin''s name was try to release him.


    Rolly had been dying for months, his decline slow and drawn out. Torsten had spent those months moving about Vardvik in a fog of unhappy anticipation. When he was younger, he had imagined his uncle Harald would recover from his injuries, reclaiming his place as the rightful ruler of Eysa. Torsten would have served beneath him, a prince with no greater burden than learning what it meant to govern. But the world was not so kind.


    His parents had been carried off by a winter plague before he was old enough to understand death. His uncle, once hale and strong, had been shattered by a fall that left him both crippled and feebleminded. Harald had no heirs. He would never rule. After Rolly, Eysa itself would settle onto Torsten''s shoulders. He had long known the shape of it, looming on the horizon. But seeing was not the same as being ready. Rolly had prepared him, tutoring him with wisdom, lessons in power, and provided glimpses of the kind of king he might need to become. Even knowing this day would come, Torsten had allowed himself the quiet, selfish hope of wishing it wouldn''t


    A servant of Rolly''s, a man he couldn''t recall meeting before, had come for him one evening near dusk.


    "Your grandfather wishes me to bring you to him." He''d murmured.


    And so, accompanied by the servant, Torsten had made his way through the keep''s dim corridors to Rolly''s chambers. The room smelled of death, of tallow and old linens, of the bitter tinctures meant to dull pain. Rolly lay in the great bed, thin as a crow, his sharp, age-spotted fingers resting atop the coverlet.


    A chair had been pulled close to the bedside, and Torsten sat.


    "Grandfather," he said, his voice quiet.


    Rolly let out a rattling cough, his shoulders shaking with the effort. Then, with a sigh, he settled, turning his sharp, hooded eyes onto Torsten. "Torsten, my boy." His voice was weak but still carried that familiar note of dry amusement. "I''ll be leaving on this evening''s tide, I think."


    "Before I go, I have something for you."


    He lifted a bony hand and gestured toward the servant standing in the shadows.


    "I''d like you to meet my fetch, Eoin Brocker."


    The servant¡ªEoin¡ªstepped forward, and for the first time, Torsten truly looked at him. Tall and lean, sharp-featured, carrying the quiet wariness of a man who had learned not to expect kindness.


    Rolly smiled thinly. "And I''d like you to know him by his true name."


    Then he spoke it.


    The name spilled from Rolly''s tongue like honey, liquid and alien, syllables that did not belong in a human mouth.


    Torsten felt it settle into his head like an unbidden thought. A tumbling sensation sent his stomach lurching. The name was inside of him, he owned it now, and in doing so, owned the man standing in front of him. The dawning horror of what the name it meant crawled beneath his skin, leaving behind a sick wrongness¡ªa violation, the theft of another man''s soul. He recoiled as if burned.


    "No," he whispered. "No." He turned to Eoin, as if he could undo what had just been done, to force the name out of his head and into the void where it belonged. He repeated the name desperately, sickened by the way his lips and tongue spilled out the same rolling syllables his grandfather had used. "I release you! Take back your name!"


    The old man cackled. "It doesn''t work that way, boy." He gave a dry, ragged chuckle. "You''re stuck with him now. He''s stuck with you. It''s like you''re married."


    Torsten snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, turning sharply to Eoin, but the sight of him struck the breath from his chest.


    Eoin made a choking sound, and sank to the floor, his arms wrapped around his head, his body folded in on itself as if he could somehow unmake what had just happened. "No. No. No. No." The words were soft, hopeless, unraveling into something shattered.


    When he lifted his head, his eyes were red-rimmed and wet, reflecting the same horror that gripped Torsten''s gut like a fist.


    Eoin shook his head. "It doesn''t work that way." His voice was hoarse, raw with despair. "I''m bound to you. Until the day you die. You can''t release me."


    He turned sharply to Rolly, white fury flashing across his face. "It''s not like being married!" he snarled. "I never gave him my name! I never agreed! He is as unwilling as I am!"


    He rose in one fluid motion, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, his whole body coiled tight with rage.


    "You bastard!" he spat, voice rising to a shriek. "You forced this on us both!"


    Spittle flew from his lips, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his whole body vibrating with the urge to do something, anything to break the chains now locked around his soul.


    Then realization punched through his rage, driving the breath from his lungs. Eoin was bound to Torsten now. He was no longer bound to Rolly.


    He took one step forward, past Torsten, toward the bed where the old man lay, his expression shifting¡ªunreadable, dangerous.


    "Don''t!" Torsten''s voice cracked like a whip. "Don''t kill him!"


    But it was too late. Rolly had already died.


    ********


    Eoin''s hands curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing into the creases of his palms. His heart beat like a drum beneath his ribs, too fast, too sharp, the edges of the world suddenly too loud, too clear. The taste of magic still lingered in the air, thick as iron, bitter as bile, settling into something colder, something final. The old bastard was finally, finally dead.


    For a single breath¡ªone exquisite, fleeting moment¡ªEoin had felt the weight lifting. The binding loosening, unraveling from his bones, letting him feel the full breadth of the world again, the endless reach of the horizon calling to him like the whisper of an old lover. And then, just as swiftly, something else had slammed into its place.


    The weight had not disappeared. It had only shifted.


    His gaze snapped to the boy across the room¡ªbecause that was what he was, wasn''t he? A man by law, but only just. Too young, too lost, too grief-stricken to even comprehend what had just been handed to him.


    Torsten had fallen to his knees, his face buried in his hands, his whole body trembling. Eoin could almost pity him. Instead, all he felt was cold, sick suffocating rage. Ten years. Ten years, he endured and survived on this damned island, biding his time, knowing that one day, his name would come back to him, and he would be able to slip free like fog on the tide. Now, instead of freedom, instead of finally being unshackled¡ªhe had been handed off like a trinket to a child. His name had passed from a dying man''s lips and fallen into the hands of a grieving, lost boy who had never asked for it and did not understand what he now held.


    Eoin''s throat burned and his vision blurred at the edges. His pulse thrummed hard against his skull, a heavy, shuddering thing. The weight of it pressed down on him like an ocean above his head, crushing the breath from his lungs. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He couldn''t stay here. He couldn''t even breathe here. Eoin turned on his heel and walked out.


    ***********


    Rolly''s body slumped in the great wooden bed, mouth half-open, eyes clouded and empty. The blankets had fallen away from his chest, baring the thin, wasted frame of the man who had once ruled Eysa with a bitter heart.


    Torsten sat staring at his hands. He ought to move - ring the death bell, close the old man''s eyes. Open the door, and call for his uncle. He sucked in a shallow breath. The weight of it all pressed down on him. His grandfather was dead. His uncle was a ruined thing, lost in his broken mind. His parents had long since been consigned to the volcano. Now Eysa, its poverty, its isolation, its uncertain future, rested on his shoulders. As did the burden of owning another man''s soul.


    He swallowed hard, forcing down the grief that gripped him. He wished longingly that Ingbord was here. He might, he thought, be almost willing to stand up, to move, and act like the king he was expected to be if she was.


    He could see her in his mind''s eye¡ªthe sharp arch of her brow, the deep, knowing pull of her gaze, the way the wind lifted tendrils of her hair wild and unbound. He thought of the way she touched his wrist when she wanted his attention, the way her mouth curved in amusement, the fierce steadiness of her heart. The way her presence filled a space in his world that no one else ever could.


    Torsten clenched his fists, as though sheer will could hold him together. He pressed his eyes shut, as if that might ease the hollow ache in his chest. The grief only surged up, unstoppable as the tide.


    For the first time since he was a child, he surrendered to it.


    The first tear fell hot against his skin. Then another. And another. His breath caught, his shoulders quaking¡ªthen, the dam broke. He curled in on himself, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes as if he could force it all back. But there was no stopping it. He was alone. Completely, fathomlessly alone. And all alone, he wept.


    *********


    In the days and weeks that followed, Torsten waded through the motions of duty like a man walking through water.


    There was a funeral. They carried Rolly''s body to the cliffs, wrapped in a shroud of undyed wool, The procession wound through Vardvik in silence, the people gathered along the stone streets in grief. At the summit, Torsten stood still as Rolly''s body was tipped into the glowing, fiery heart of the volcano. If he spoke any words, he did not remember them.


    There was a visit to his uncle. Two days after the funeral Torsten went to see Harald. His uncle was propped up in a chair by an open window, wrapped in furs, staring out to sea. He had sat there for years now, his right hand curled uselessly in his lap, his left twitching now and again. His once-sharp eyes drifted toward Torsen, his head swiveling slowly as he entered. A small, uncertain smile touched his face.


    "Torsten." his uncle whispered. "Good to see you, boy. What news?"


    Torsten swallowed. "Uncle," he said, kneeling before him. "Rolly is dead. You''re king now."


    Harald stared at him, the smile fading from his face slowly. With great effort, he laid his shaking left hand on Torsten''s. The silence stretched. Then, after a long pause, his uncle''s lips parted, his voice dry as wind through dead grass.


    "Be good, lad."


    Torsten swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He clenched his jaw and nodded, though his uncle had already turned away, his gaze lost again to sea. Torsten stood there a while longer, waiting for something - a word, a blessing, a sign, anything. But there was nothing.


    Finally, he turned and left, leaving his uncle to his ghosts.


    There was a ceremony to endure. The great hall was packed wall to wall. Every citizen of Eysa that could find standing room had come to see it done.


    A heavy silver chain was placed around Torsten''s neck. Words were spoken. Oaths were sworn. Torsten repeated them back without hesitation. His back was straight. His hands steady, his face unreadable. The weight of the words and the chain settled on his shoulders. He was regent now, and would be king. It was a mantle he could never shrug off. He was just barely a man, and there was no one left catch him if he fell.


    Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Later, there was a feast. The hall was too warm and too loud, the air thick with the competing scents of roasted lamb, spiced fish, fresh cheeses, and rich stews. Ale was poured freely, and Torsten was toasted heartily, his name lifted on every tongue.


    Torsten ate nothing. He drank little. He smiled when he ought to. He spoke when custom required.


    He could feel them watching him. Assessing. Weighing. Without words, a question lingered in every look every gesture and every cup raised in his honour. His grandfather had been a hard, sharp man, a man who had known the weight of a kingdom. Would Torsten be the same? Would he be enough?


    He made sure they saw nothing at all. When the moment came, when eyes turned elsewhere and backs turned away, he rose quietly and left the hall.


    His chambers were blessedly still and silent when he entered, the heavy door shutting behind him with a reassuring thud.


    The silver chain around his neck suddenly felt unbearable. He pulled it over his head and let it drop onto the table. He sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together. His body ached with exhaustion, but he knew sleep would take a long time to find him.


    His thoughts drifted, unbidden, across the sea¡ªto a mainland city where Ingbord was studying at magic, learning the ways of levers and pulleys, magnets and lenses. Herbs and tinctures, and honing her talent for Seeking.


    Did she think of him? Did she lie awake at night, counting the days as he did?


    He stood abruptly and crossed to the wall. With the tip of his knife, he carved another mark into the stone¡ªa tally of days since she had been gone. Then he kicked off his boots, lay back on the bed, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow would come, as it always did. And he would wake, as he always did. And the world would expect him to carry on.


    ****************


    Torsten had not seen Eoin since the night his grandfather died.


    At first, he had been too numb to care. Then, too busy. There had been too many things that needed doing¡ªpetitions to hear, food stores to account for, flocks to monitor, new vents to approve. Torsten''s days weren''t filled with grand diplomacy or high politics¡ªjust the small, ceaseless, grinding work of keeping Eysa alive. His days and his duties blurred into one another, obligation spilling into obligation, until he barely remembered there was anything else.


    He had hardly even thought about Eoin until today. The realization came suddenly, slipping between the cracks of his daily routine. He had signed his name to an account ledger, handed it back to the steward, and then¡ªjust like that¡ªhe had realized he had no idea where Eoin was. He hadn''t seen him. Hadn''t heard a word about him.


    Which was strange.


    Torsten frowned. Whatever Eoin was, he had to spend his days somewhere, doing something. He had to sleep somewhere, didn''t he? While Torsten had little idea what it truly meant to have someone bound to him, it stood to reason that he bore some responsibility for the man who had no choice but to remain at his side. A flicker of guilt settled in his chest. With a sigh, he pushed back from his chair and set out into the streets of Vardvik to find the faerie he had, however unintentionally, abandoned.


    He found him in the first place he looked.


    Stepping into the tavern, he spotted Eoin slumped in a corner, fingers loosely curled around a half-empty tankard, his head pillowed on his other arm. Jorunn, the tavern''s matron, caught Torsten''s eye, shook her head resignedly, and left him to it.


    Torsten hesitated, then crossed the room, sliding onto the bench opposite him.


    Eoin did not look up.


    A long moment stretched between them. Then, finally, Eoin exhaled a slow, weary breath.


    "The little prince graces me with his presence," he murmured, voice thick with drink, though not quite slurred. "To what do I owe the honor?"


    Torsten shifted. "I was wondering where you''d gone," he said hesitantly. "I was wondering why I never saw you before Rolly told me your name." When Eoin didn''t respond, the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "You can''t stay here and drink yourself into the grave day after day."


    Eoin scratched his ear absently. "Of course I can," he said. He lifted his head, his gaze dry, unreadable. "What else do you expect me to do?"


    Torsten stiffened. "You shouldn''t just¡ª"


    "You shouldn''t worry about me, princeling," Eoin interrupted, quieter now. "I am what I am. And you have a whole island to worry about, don''t you?"


    Torsten didn''t know what to say to that.


    But he returned the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that.


    It became a habit before he even realized it¡ªhis feet carrying him toward the tavern whenever his duties allowed him a quiet moment.


    At first, he told himself he was only going to put coins in Jorunn''s hand until she counted herself settled for the inconvenience of having Eoin in her tavern. But then he found himself standing for a few moments before making his presence known. Then he would sit, and try to start a conversation.


    "How''s the ale?" he had asked once.


    Eoin had snorted, barely glancing up from where he traced circles in the condensation of his tankard. "Weak."


    Another time, he had tried something else. "You could work, you know," he had suggested lightly. "You could mend nets or thatch roofs, or¡ª"


    Eoin had exhaled sharply, lifting his head just enough to pin Torsten with a look of quiet disbelief. "Mend nets?"


    Torsten had shrugged. "Why not?"


    Eoin had let out a breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and muttered something in his own tongue before taking a slow drink.


    Other times, Torsten had let silence stretch between them, waiting to see if Eoin would speak first. He never did.


    It wasn''t that Eoin refused to engage entirely. There were times¡ªrare, fleeting¡ªwhen something Torsten said would stir him enough to answer. But more often than not, Eoin seemed content to sit there in silence, as though he had been carved from stone.


    One afternoon, Torsten sat down at Eoin''s table and studied him.


    He looked worse than usual. Unshaven, eyes shadowed, his coat hanging a little looser over his frame. The drinking was taking a toll.


    Torsten let out a slow breath and leaned forward. "Eoin."


    A flicker of something¡ªannoyance, maybe, or just exhaustion¡ªpassed across the fae''s face before he lifted his head, just enough to squint at Torsten. "What do you want, little princeling?" His voice was hoarse, like he hadn''t spoken much that day.


    "I want to understand," Torsten said. "I want to understand what you are." His voice was measured, but there was tension beneath. "I want to know how Rolly came to have your name."


    Eoin tilted his head, considering him. For a long moment, he said nothing.


    Then, finally¡ª


    "Come with me, princeling," he said. "You''ll need to hear this tale where it began."


    Eoin led the way out of Vardvik, following a narrow path that wound north along the slopes of the volcano before turning eastward along the cliffs. The town soon disappeared behind them, swallowed by the rise of the land, leaving only wind and sea and the sound of their boots against loose shale.


    Torsten followed in silence, placing his feet carefully. The path was treacherous¡ªlittle more than a suggestion in the rock. Below, the sea churned against the cliffs, deep and endless, a restless thing gnawing at the black shoreline.


    Ahead of him, Eoin walked easily, despite his drunkenness.


    Torsten narrowed his eyes against the wind. "How much further?"


    Eoin didn''t answer at first. He only glanced skyward as a pair of puffins wheeled above them. Then, with an absent sort of amusement, he said, "Scared of heights, little prince?"


    Torsten set his jaw. "No."


    Eoin hummed as if he didn''t quite believe him. "Then you''ll manage."


    The path veered suddenly toward the cliff''s edge. Torsten hesitated. It wasn''t so much that feared the height, so much as it was the knowing that a misstep could send a man tumbling down the sheer cliff face without so much as a shout.


    Still, he gritted his teeth and stepped forward, following as Eoin slipped through a jagged break in the rock. What had seemed like nothing more than a fissure in the cliff face opened into a small, hidden ledge. And just beyond it, carved into the stone itself, was a tidy little pocket of a cave. A vent near the roof trailed a thin stream of vapour making the air the air inside was warmer than outside.


    Torsten turned slowly, taking it in. "You met Rolly here? In a cave? That doesn''t make much sense. He stood at the edge of the cave mouth, resting one hand against the rock, staring down at the black rocks below. The drop was dizzying. The tide surged far below, white foam swallowing the jagged shoreline. From this height, the waves looked almost gentle, rolling in smooth swells before they shattered against the glassy stone.


    He whistled softly. "It is rather a long way down," Torsten said craning his neck, to take in the full extent of the vertical drop.


    Standing behind him, Eoin tensed.


    "If a man fell from here..." He knocked a loose pebble free with his boot, watching as it tumbled in a slow arc down to the sea. "He would surely be dashed to d¡ª"


    Eoin moved adder-fast. One sharp motion, and he had Torsten by the belt, yanking him back into the cave.


    "Don''t," he hissed, tiredly, "Tempt me like that."


    Torsten staggered slightly, startled, eyes flicking to him.


    For a long moment, neither of them moved.


    Then, slowly, Eoin ran a hand over his face. He folded legs and sank cross-legged to floor. He stilled, tilted his head back against the wall of the cave, half-closing his eyes as he gazed out at the sea. Then, softly, he began.


    *********


    "Listen well," he said, "for this is no common tale. It is a story of worlds and waves, of pride and ruin, and of a fool who thought the sea would love him forever.


    I was born to another land¡ªa place much like yours in rock and river, in slope and sky. But it is not this world. You call it the faery realm, though it has many names. Its mountains stand where your mountains stand, its cliffs mirror your cliffs, its tides rise and fall as they do here. But the two are sundered, and only where the veil thins can one pass between.


    I was a sailor in my world. Free as the wind, I skimmed the water in silver-flecked boats, swift as thought, dancing over waves that lifted me like a favored son. The sea knew me. She held me, carried me home a hundred times and more. My blood was salt and foam, and I was hers.


    I had heard whispers, stories and half-forgotten legends of an uncharted island where the veil frayed thin¡ªa place where a man might cross between worlds and return to tell the tale. Eysa, you call it here. A ghost of your world in mine, a twin in stone and current. I thirsted to see it with my own eyes, to lay claim to the impossible.


    So, I sailed. The sea was kind. She bore me to the shore of my world''s Eysa, unpeopled, wild. I climbed the cliffs. I felt the charge in the air. And then I found it¡ªthe cleft in the rock, the narrow place where one world bled into the next.


    One step. A single breath. And I was through.


    I emerged onto your cliffs in triumph. Below me, Vardvik''s harbor curved against the water, the volcano slumbered behind it. And I, a bold and reckless thing, though myself clever standing atop the world, believing myself a conqueror.


    But your world did not welcome me.


    The earth trembled. The volcano shuddered in its bed. The rock beneath my feet cracked like a splitting skull. I had no time to shout, no time to curse, before the ledge gave way beneath me.


    One moment, I stood victorious. The next, I was falling¡ª


    Falling into a sea that did not know me.


    I have never met a sea as hungry as yours. It took me in its jaws and shook me. It hurled me against the obsidian teeth of the rocks below. I fought, I clawed, but the waves dragged me under, dashed me against the cliffs again and again, tore my flesh to ribbons, splintered my ribs, choked me with salt until my vision blurred and every breath was fire.


    I tried to climb, but the stone was slick with blood and tide, the surf relentless. The tide took me, spun me, pulled me down into the dark. I would die there, broken and unmade, my body scattered into the deep.


    I thought for a fleeting moment that I should not fear drowning, for no faerie drowns at sea. But this, this is not my sea, and she does not love me.


    Your old king Rolly¡ªbitter, sour, and steeped in old tales¡ªsat in this very cave and watched me. He saw me walk out of the cleft and knew no one had entered. He saw me fall, saw the sea claim me. He climbed down the rock path in time to find me battered nearly to death, my breath rattling in my chest, the life leaking out of my veins. Cunning old crow, he knew what I was and he climbed down from his perch, crouched at the edge of the waves'' reach and offered me a choice, ''Tell me your name, faery, and I will save you''.


    A faery''s name is his soul, princeling. It is the key to our being. To speak it is to surrender it. To give it away is to be bound, wholly and irrevocably.


    I was dying. My ribs were broken, my hands were raw to the bone, the waves dragging me deeper with each passing breath. I had a choice¡ªto surrender my life to your sea or my name to your king.


    I chose the king.


    Make of that what you will, princeling. Rolly''s legacy is yours. And I... am no longer the man I was."


    They sat in silence. The wind whistled through the cave mouth, and below, the sea boiled and surged against the rock face.


    Torsten swallowed. He could see it¡ªEoin, bloodied and drowning, broken on the shore. And Rolly, swooping down like a carrion bird to snatch him from the rocks.


    Torsten frowned. Very cautiously, he craned his neck toward the cave mouth. "If that''s where you came through¡ª" He gestured to the point, barely visible between the rocks below where Eoin indicated the cleft was. "Why don''t you just go back?"


    Eoin let out a dry little breath that might have been a laugh. "Look closer, princeling."


    Torsten did. He studied the jumbled collection of rocks below. A chaotic tumble of splintered obsidian rocks formed the foot of the cliff. The point Eoin indicated would be well buried deep beneath the waves at high tide. A madman might risk wading chest-deep and being dragged under and gnashed to ribbons on the rocks at low tide. Except, near as Torsten could tell, there was no spot to wade to.


    "There''s no way in," Torsten realized. "The earthquake shifted the rocks."


    Eoin nodded; his voice quiet. "The only way back is the way I came in. Perhaps, one day¡ªif my binding to you is broken¡ªI could chase another legend and search for another portal. But there''s no promise it would lead me home. Just as likely, I would step through and find myself in another mirror-world¡ªone like this - close, but not my own.


    Torsten exhaled, slow and soft. After a moment, he said tentatively, "Maybe the volcano will shift the rocks again someday."


    Eoin looked past him as if he was gazing at something that had slipped through his fingers long ago, and then was ground to dust while he watched helplessly.


    He levered himself to his feet. "Come along, princeling. You''ll find these cliffs are no less treacherous in the dark. And I find myself bone-tired and unwillingly sober. I believe you said something about a place of my own for me in your keep, no?"


    ********


    Torsten simply said that he had been Rolly''s man, shipwrecked, with no route home. The people of Vardvik took that to mean "exiled" and "washed up on Eysa''s shores with nowhere else to go." And if the young prince wanted to keep the handsome castaway close - especially while his boyhood love was away, before he got around to choosing a wife? Well, it certainly wasn''t unheard of, and there was no harm in it really. That Eoin drank too much and was often seen walking the cliffs staring longingly out to see? Well, what else did you expect an exiled man to do?


    Still, Torsten had put him to work. He was good at mending boats and mending nets. Eoin had a knack for finding lost things too. An uncanny knack some said. If you caught him a good mood, he was an engaging story-teller, quick witted, and just as quick with a bit of sleight of hand. Sly? Certainly. Flirtatious? Undoubtedly. But if a matron or two had a special job for him behind closed doors - well. There wasn''t really in harm in that either, was there? While the whispers about him weren''t entirely savoury, nor were they entirely unfounded, we weren¡¯t an entirely bad sort. Not really.

 Ilroya

    The city of Ilroya loomed before them as their vessel crept into the crowded harbor, its decks bustling with sailors shouting in half a dozen tongues. The salt-laden air was thick with the scent of spice, fish, and something sweeter¡ªroasting nuts, maybe, lush foreign flowers.


    Tall spires of white stone stabbed into the sky, their tips glinting gold in the late afternoon light. Bridges arched over slow-moving canals; their edges lined with merchants hawking wares to well-dressed buyers who barely gave the ships unloading at the docks a passing glance. The sheer wealth of the place clung to everything¡ªbright fabrics, gleaming copper cups stacked high on wooden stalls, the sharp glint of coin passing from hand to hand.


    "Not Eysa, is it?" Eoin murmured; voice pitched low as he flicked a glance toward Ingbord.


    Ingbord didn''t answer right away. She took her time, gaze sweeping the city, measuring it before stepping in. Then, finally, she exhaled. "No," she agreed. "It''s not."


    They disembarked into a sea of movement¡ªporters hauling crates, vendors thrusting goods toward passing travelers, sailors laughing over cups of something dark and strong. The sheer noise of it pressed against them. Eoin was accustomed to slipping through crowds unnoticed, but here - where his sharp-featured face and Ingbord''s unmistakable height marked them as foreign ¨C he felt exposed.


    They moved deeper into the city, past tangled alleyways and broad, sun-bleached avenues lined with towering arches. Their ears caught fragments of speech¡ªrapid, rolling syllables, clipped consonants. None of it familiar.


    "Definitely not Eysa," he murmured, his voice low and amused.


    "No," Ingbord agreed again, eyes scanning the city''s towering arches, the slow-moving canals, the fine silks snapping in the wind.


    Eoin tilted his head, listening to the voices and conversations weaving through the crowd. He caught only fragments, but it was enough to place some tones, rhythms, the weight of meaning behind unfamiliar sounds.


    He grinned. "I just need a few more words and a drink."


    Ingbord glanced at him, skeptical.


    Eoin just shrugged. "Give me a day or two." His grin sharpened. "And a drink or two to loosen my ears."


    Ingbord exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "This is going to be a problem."


    "We''ll manage," Eoin said.


    They found an inn near the river, a three-story building of sunbaked brick with a faded blue banner hanging above the door. The common room was crowded with travelers, all speaking in the same quick, fluid tongue.


    Eoin leaned against the counter, attempting his most winsome smile at the innkeeper¡ªa short, weathered man with keen eyes and an air of impatience. "A room," Eoin said, tapping two fingers on the wood.


    The man blinked at him, unimpressed. "Qaan¨ª?"


    Eoin sighed. He pointed up, mimed sleep, then held up two fingers. "Room. Two people."


    The innkeeper''s gaze flicked between them, lingering on Ingbord''s broad shoulders and foreign-cut clothes. He said something¡ªtoo quick, too fluid for Eoin to grasp¡ªbut the tone was questioning.


    Eoin turned to Ingbord. "He wants to know if we''re married."


    She laid a firm hand on Eoin''s shoulder, gaze steady.


    The innkeeper huffed. Eoin fished out a few coins and laid them on the counter, then tapped two fingers against his chest, then against Ingbord''s shoulder. He laced his fingers, tilting his head in a mockery of domestic affection.


    The innkeeper snorted but scooped up the money. He jerked his chin toward the stairs. "Er?nk¡ªt¨¢hlan."


    Eoin had no idea what that meant, but he inclined his head as if he understood.


    Their room was small, but clean. A heavy wooden bed, a basin of cool water, a single window overlooking a narrow street bathed in golden light.


    Eoin tossed their satchel onto the bed and stretched. "Well. That was easier than I expected."


    Ingbord shut the door behind them and exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "We should figure out how to ask for food before we starve."


    Eoin flopped back onto the bed, arms behind his head. "I think we''re just going to have to point at things until they give them to us."


    She gave him a long, dry look. "We are supposed to be subtle."


    "Ah, but subtlety won''t keep me from starving," he said with a grin, then patted the empty space beside him. "Come lie down, wife. We''ll plot our next move after we rest."


    Ingbord scoffed but sat beside him, tugging off her boots with a sigh.


    Outside, the hum of Ilroya rolled on¡ªunfamiliar, unknowable. But for now, they had a place to rest. That was enough.


    *********


    The market was already alive by the time Eoin and Ingbord stepped into the sun-drenched streets of Ilroya the next day. The air was thick with salt and fish, and a press of bodies and the heaviness of too many people breathing the same air. A hundred foreign scents clashed at once¡ªspiced meat sizzling on iron griddles, brine-soaked crates of gutted fish, the sharp rot of something left too long in the sun. Sweat, perfume, and filth mingled into something both pungent and chaotic. A buzzing chatter of voices overlapped in a dozen unfamiliar tongues. Silks billowed from wooden stalls, gold glinting in the hands of merchants, the hum of trade a steady undercurrent to the city''s heart.


    Ingbord''s Seeking had left tendrils of memory in her, echoes of knowing thrumming in her blood, guiding her with sure memory. Ink and parchment curled into her lungs, familiar before she had ever truly known it. They wove through the crush of bodies¡ªtraders arguing over weight and measure, sailors weighed down with sacks of grain, couriers darting between stalls with messages clutched in ink-stained fingers. She laid her hand on Eoin''s arm, trusting him to weave them through the crowd, while she followed the pull in her veins.


    He glanced at her once, barely tilting his head. Which way?


    She blinked, the weight of the Seeking settling over her, pressing through her limbs like a current pulling her toward shore.


    Left.


    He turned smoothly, as though it were the most natural choice in the world, posture easy, stride unhurried.


    Right.


    Another turn, and the air changed¡ªthicker now, rich with the scent of parchment, leather, and drying ink.


    And then, there it was.


    The half-shaded stall was a chaotic jumble of goods¡ªcareless stacks of books and scrolls teetering beside trays of tarnished jewelry, carved trinkets, and forgotten oddities. The scent of ink curled in the hot air, mingling with the tang of metal and dust. The map would be inside, waiting.


    Ingbord recognized the stall it instantly. It was a memory made real, past and present, memory and reality coming together with a satisfying click.


    Eoin stopped beside her, his attention drifting lazily over the stall, to all intents, a simple man taking in the sights of a foreign market with curiosity. Only Ingbord could feel the sharp, focused attention through the skin on his arm.


    The map was exactly where she had Seen it, wedged in with a scattering of other rolled parchments and skins between a stack of cracked leather-bound books and a locked iron case. A careless thing, forgotten in the chaos of the stall. She stiffened slightly, her fingers curling at her sides. Even if she had the words to ask, even if she had the skill to haggle, Othmark and Ilroya had shown her she didn''t have a tenth of the coin needed for it.


    She swallowed, mind working fast.


    Then¡ªjust beyond the books¡ªher eye caught something else. A battered dusty torc, made in the Eysian style. A mere trinket made from tarnished copper and barely held together by frayed twists of leather.


    She exhaled sharply and grabbed Eoin''s arm, squeezing once before stepping forward, hand already reaching.


    "This!" she declared, seizing the torc in both hands and holding it aloft as though it were a relic of kings. "This must be the Torc of Roric!"


    The merchant looked up, blinking.


    Eoin''s eyes went wide, his hands flying to his head as though Ingbord had just unearthed a treasure beyond price.


    "The Torc of Roric?" he exclaimed, half a question, half a revelation.


    Ingbord''s voice rang out, rich with reverence. "Roric the Bold, discover of our islands and volcano - he founded our very home! She clutched the torc to her chest, eyes shining with wonder. "And it has survived all these years? In a simple merchant''s stall? Here? What luck!"


    The shopkeeper, who clearly understood not a word of this, narrowed his eyes. Suspicious, but interested.


    Eoin pressed closer, fingers grazing the torc with exaggerated awe. "It is magnificent," he breathed, shaking his head. "But is it real?" He turned on the merchant, brows furrowing, lips pressing into a skeptical line. Then, with a grand sweep of his arm: "I must know its history!"


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    The shopkeeper, catching the scent of a sale, sniffed, straightened, and launched into a rapid, rolling explanation in Ilroyan, his own hands sweeping through the air in grand, practiced gestures.


    Eoin nodded along, understanding none of it, but responding as though each syllable was a revelation.


    "Ah," he murmured knowingly, tapping his chin. "Yes." He shot a glance at Ingbord. "Do you hear that, wife? Incredible."


    Ingbord pressed a hand to her heart, eyes misting. "Unbelievable," she whispered, shaking her head. "You must buy it for me."


    Eoin turned back to the merchant, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Price?"


    The merchant wrote a number in chalk on his counter.


    Eoin recoiled as though struck, staggering backward. "Thief!" he bellowed. "I am robbed!" He clutched at his chest, at his belt, at his very soul. "That price would beggar a king!" Angrily, he snatched up the chalk, crossed out the numbers and wrote a much lower figure.


    The merchant scoffed and scribbled a counteroffer, jabbing a finger at Eoin''s chest.


    Eoin gasped, affronted. "Are you mad? Who could meet such a price!"


    The merchant threw up his hands, snapping something sharp, frustrated.


    Eoin turned to Ingbord, hands splayed wide. "He insults us!"


    The merchant bellowed something back.


    And so the game began.


    They haggled extravagantly¡ªEoin gesturing wildly, sighing dramatically, the merchant shaking his head, slamming his palm on the stall, his voice rising, his face darkening with the sheer audacity of this ridiculous foreigner.


    As they bickered, Ingbord moved toward the back of the stall.


    Eoin paced in exaggerated frustration, dragging his fingers through his hair, and in doing so, took half a step back¡ªfilling the space between Ingbord and the stall keeper¡¯s line of sight.


    She sidled sideways toward the stack of scrolls. Slowly, she reached for the map, fingers fumbling at the vellum. She nearly knocked the stack over, caught her breath, hastily pressed them back upright. Heart hammering, she adjusted her grip and pulled.


    The scroll crinkled, loud as thunder.


    The rest of the stack settled, slithering and hissing into a new arrangement.


    Ingbord stiffened, then shoved the map beneath her jacket under her arm. She took a swift step away, and stood, breathing quickly.


    Eoin''s arm brushed her wrist¡ªwarm, steady, his fingers curling firmly against her skin.


    "Final offer," he said firmly, dropping a handful of coins on the stall keeper¡¯s counter with a nod.


    The merchant huffed, muttered, then snatched up the money with an irritable wave.


    Eoin beamed. "A pleasure." He pushed the battered loop of leather and copper into his pocket and then hustled Ingbord out into the street and away from the stall, past the riot of voices, past the sharp-eyed merchants and the weight of too many watching eyes.


    ********


    Only when they were three streets away, breathless and fast-footed, did Eoin finally murmur, "Gods, Ingbord. That was painful to watch. Have you never stolen anything before in your life?"


    She exhaled hard, pressing a hand over her ribs where the map sat, crinkling and safe. "Certainly not," she said primly.


    Eoin huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Painful."


    Ingbord shot him a glare. "But done."


    His grin widened. "Truly terrible."


    But his fingers were still wrapped around her wrist, firm and warm, shielding them both as they melted into the city beyond.


    The market swallowed them whole, a shifting, restless thing of voices and movement. Eoin''s fingers ghosted over Ingbord''s wrist¡ªa touch so light it barely registered. The eyes that might have flickered toward them before¡ªmerchants sizing them up, traders noting their passage¡ªnow slid past them as though they were nothing. Not invisible, just unremarkable. A pair of ordinary travelers, faceless in the crush of bodies.


    Returning directly to the inn was out of the question. To leave, visit the market, and return within the span of an hour? That would set tongues wagging. Eoin led them deeper into the market, slipping into the rhythm of the city with practiced ease. The market stretched in long, winding avenues, spilling into sun-drenched courtyards where fountains trickled cool streams of water into stone basins. Cloth awnings flapped overhead, striped and bright, shading the vendors below.


    Ingbord slowed before a sprawling stall laden with colors she had never seen in nature before¡ªgold, crimson, deep violet, bright green. The air was thick with scent, heavy with sweetness, ripeness, something almost intoxicating in its richness.


    She had eaten apples, pears, even once an orange from an Othmark trader. But this¡ªthis was something else entirely.


    She touched a dusky purple globe with the tip of her finger. It was soft, almost delicate, its thin skin yielding slightly to pressure. Beside it, another fruit, round and deep red, its surface smooth as polished stone. And something yellow¡ªcurved, ridged, not round at all.


    She looked at Eoin. "What are these?"


    Eoin grinned. "You don''t know?"


    She shot him a dry look. "If I knew, I wouldn''t have asked. Are they edible?"


    His grin widened. He turned to the vendor, tapping his fingers against the wooden stall, then held up three fingers. The merchant¡ªa wiry, sun-baked man with keen eyes¡ªrattled off something in Ilroyan, then scooped up a handful of fruit, trading it for a few of Eoin''s coins.


    Eoin turned back to Ingbord, juggling the unfamiliar offerings in his hands. "Alright, let''s start easy." He held up the small, deep-purple fruit. "This is a fig."


    She took it from him, turning it between her fingers. The skin felt soft, almost alive. "And?"


    "Bite into it," Eoin said, amused.


    She did, breaking through the delicate skin, her teeth sinking into something almost honeyed. It was soft inside, richer than any fruit she had ever tasted, tiny seeds crunching slightly as she chewed. The flavor burst across her tongue, deep and syrupy, unlike anything from home.


    Her brows lifted. "That''s..." She swallowed. Licked her lips. "That''s very good."


    Eoin laughed. "That''s one."


    He handed her the smooth red fruit next. "This one''s a plum."


    She bit into it. Tart and sweet, juice spilling down her chin before she caught it with the back of her hand.


    Eoin barked a laugh. "Oh, beautifully done."


    She shot him a glare and licked the juice from her wrist. "It''s very juicy."


    "Mm, yes, you''ve demonstrated that thoroughly."


    He handed her the last one¡ªthe strange yellow curve.


    Ingbord turned it over, frowning. "And this?"


    "Banana," Eoin said. "You have to peel it first."


    She gave him a look. "Peel it?"


    He took it from her, split the skin with a flick of his fingers, and pulled it back to reveal pale flesh. "Like this." He broke off a piece, popped it into his mouth, then handed it back.


    Ingbord mimicked his motion, peeling it carefully, then took a hesitant bite.


    She chewed. Paused. Chewed again.


    Then frowned. "It''s... strange."


    Eoin grinned. "You don''t like it?"


    "I don''t hate it," she said, still chewing. "It''s just..." She swallowed, searching for words. "It''s mild."


    Eoin laughed. "Mild?"


    She considered. "Figs are decadent. Plums are sharp and bright. This just is."


    Eoin shook his head, grinning as he took the half-eaten banana back from her and finished it himself.


    "You have very strong opinions on fruit."


    "I do now."


    She reached for another fig, biting into it with far more confidence this time, savoring the burst of sweetness. The tension in her shoulders had eased¡ªjust slightly. The market, the stolen map, the weight of risk pressing against her ribs¡ªit was all still there, but the world had softened around the edges.


    Eoin wiped his fingers, watching her.


    "Well," he drawled, "now that we''ve expanded your culinary horizons... tell me, Ingbord¡ªhave you ever had wine?"


    She gave him a look. "Of course I''ve had wine. I''ve had it a handful of times."


    He grinned, cocking his head. "Oh, but I mean real wine."


    Her brows lifted. "I''ve had real wine."


    "Mm," he murmured, unconvinced. "No offense to the fine vintages of Othmark, but I''d wager whatever you had from Othmark tastes more like vinegar than pleasure."


    Eoin grinned like a fox and steered Ingbord back into the moving river of people. "You''ve been deprived, and I simply won''t stand for it."


    He found what he was looking for just a few stalls down¡ªwine, dark and rich, sloshing into clay cups from a fat-bellied jug. The vendor, an older woman with silver-streaked hair and a shrewd gaze, rattled off something in Ilroyan, gesturing broadly at the wares spread before her.


    Eoin leaned against the counter, nodding along as if he understood.


    The woman gave him a questioning look.


    Eoin held up two fingers and the woman held out her palm for payment. Eoin handed over a coin. He turned, pressing one of the cups into Ingbord''s hands, then lifted his own in a toast.


    "To your education," he said, voice low, playful.


    Ingbord eyed him. Eyed the wine. Then took a sip. The taste bloomed warm and ripe across her tongue¡ªdeep, velvety, sweet. She swallowed, blinking. It was nothing like the thin, biting stuff from Othmark.


    Eoin was watching her with a knowing glint in his eyes. "Mm?"


    She took another sip, slower this time, rolling the flavor over her tongue.


    "Alright," she admitted. "Not like what I''ve had before." She paused. "Can we take some back with us?"


    Eoin sighed, blissful. "Finally. A victory."


    And with that, they stood in the golden light of Ilroya''s streets, sipping wine, blending into the endless hum of the city.


    The two of them stumbled into the inn''s entryway with all the clumsy enthusiasm of a young couple several cups deep in wine. Eoin''s arm was wrapped low around Ingbord''s waist, fingers splayed wide against the small of her back, pulling her close as though he couldn''t bear the thought of a single inch between them. Ingbord, not to be outdone, had her arms slung around his shoulders, fingers tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck.


    They were laughing, though over what exactly was unclear¡ªEoin''s voice rich and low, murmuring nonsense into the curve of her ear, while Ingbord smirked, tilting her head back invitingly.


    To anyone watching, they were exactly what they needed to be, a young couple, drunk on wine and each other, eager for the privacy of their room.


    Eoin waved grandly at the Innkeeper, his movements loose, exaggerated. "Ah! Master of beds!" he declared, sweeping the wineskin in his free hand as though bestowing a grand honor. "We return to you victorious!"


    The innkeeper barely looked up from counting his coins, unimpressed.


    Eoin leaned heavily into Ingbord''s side, grinning against her temple as he pulled her toward the stairs. "Come, love," he murmured, voice thick. "Shall we retire?"


    She sighed like a woman long-suffering but indulgent, carding her fingers through his hair. "Before you embarrass yourself further? Yes."


    They made a great show of half-stumbling, half-dragging each other up the stairs, Eoin''s hands roaming in a way that looked indecent but was, in truth, nothing but careful stagecraft. At their door, Eoin fumbled with the latch like a man too drunk to function, laughing under his breath.


    They tumbled inside, the door clicking shut behind them, locking out the world.


    And in an instant, the pretense dropped. The laughter died.


    Eoin set the wineskin down with deliberate care, his movements suddenly sharp, sober.


    Ingbord pulled the stolen map from beneath her jacket.


    They stared at it.


    "Should we wait for Torsten?" Eoin mused.


    Ingbord didn''t look away from the roll of vellum in her hands. "Should we?" she murmured. What if it''s not the map?


    Neither of them moved.


    Her fingers tightened around it. She met Eoin''s gaze.


    And unrolled the map.


    Relief hit her like a wave the moment she spread it open. The shape of Eysa¡ªfamiliar, unmistakable¡ªetched in crisp, inked lines. The chain of Eysa''s smaller islands was beautifully rendered, along with the complete shape of the main island. All of it, the jagged coastlines, the rivers, the towns nestled in their valleys, and at the heart of it all, the volcano. Small. Smaller than she had expected. A remote cluster of islands in an ocean far larger than she had ever imagined.


    "It''s Eysa," she breathed, shoulders sinking as tension drained from her spine. "It''s really Eysa."


    But then she blinked.


    The map had more lines than she had expected. Whorls, delicate as a fingerprint, wrapped around Eysa and traced intricate webs on water. Depths, ridges¡ªpatterns she didn''t understand. And as she looked, the land shifted in her mind''s eye, rising, falling¡ª


    Not changing. Not moving.


    She was simply seeing it properly.


    Her breath hitched.


    The volcano stood out in concentric rings, marking its height, its shape. The valleys dipped; the ridges lifted. She could see the island as if she were an eagle circling overhead.


    Eoin, watching her carefully, tilted his head. "What does this map suggest to you, Ingbord?"


    She traced her fingers over the tight lines surrounding the volcano, the narrowness of the harbor, the sheer walls of stone that held the island like a fist curled around its people.


    She swallowed. A shiver of goose-flesh crawled up her arms and made her scalp prickle.


    "It suggests," she said slowly, "that all of Eysa is a veritable fortress."


    Eoin hummed low in his throat, gaze sweeping the page, drinking it in with an understanding she couldn''t yet reach.


    To her, it was a fortress. To him¡ªa sailor, a navigator¡ªit was that and more. His fingers followed the delicate web of lines stretching beyond Eysa, out into the vast, unknowable ocean. Depths. Currents. Unseen pathways traced in ink. What was written here was worth more than gold.


    Carefully, he rerolled the map and solemnly pressed it into Ingbord''s waiting grip.


    "It''s priceless," he said quietly. His fingers lingered over hers, pressing the vellum into her palms.


    She held it carefully, fingers tightening around its texture.


    Eoin met her eyes, solemn now.


    "Guard it with your life."

 In Vino Veritas

    The decision to leave Ilroya as soon as possible had been easy to make. With a stroke of luck, they¡¯d found a ship bound for Othmark, packed their few belongings and prepared to go. The map, they¡¯d agreed would be safest with Ingbord, hidden under her coat. While Eoin commented that she still walked like she had something stolen under her clothes, she was getting better at moving naturally with the map tightly rolled and wrapped against her. With little else to do but wait, they settled in together and continued Ingbord''s education in wine.


    She ran a finger along the rim of her tin cup, tracing its edge as her thoughts drifted, slow and unmoored. The wine had weight, its sweetness clinging to her tongue, but her body felt curiously apart from itself, a pleasant floating sensation like standing in deep water. She considered the feeling carefully, aware of its pull and the temptation to float deeper into it.


    Eoin sat across from her on the bed, one leg tucked underneath him, one arm draped over the footboard, his cup held loosely in his hand. He looked at ease, but she had already observed that about him¡ªhis ease was deliberate, flawless and practiced. Even now, sprawled with his back against the footboard, he was watching her. Weighing her, as she suspected he did everything.


    She took another sip of wine, rolling it across her tongue. The sweetness lingered. As did the detachment. She shifted, aware that some things are better left unasked and unanswered, and yet questions snagged, like the edge of a torn fingernail on cloth. There was foolishness in turning over stones to see what wriggled beneath. But curiosity is like its own kind of hunger, and mystery to Ingbord was an irritation. Sometimes, she reflected, a little air and space stopped something from festering. She hesitated, the weight of curiosity settling in her chest. The wine softened her thoughts and dulled her better judgment. Still, she exhaled and let the words slip free.


    "There are stories and legends of your kind. Fables of men and women who stepped away from our world and came back changed. Stepped away for a day and came back an old woman. Gone for years and years until their families thought they were dead and gone, only to return fresh faced and young. At the Hall we were taught that there are worlds upon worlds, stacked together like pages in a book. And that there are places between them, where the paper is thin and person might, by accident or on purpose, step off one page and into another. That it might be possible to skip from world to another, perhaps finding themselves in a story that follows different rules from the one they left."


    She flicked her gaze to him. Eoin''s expression remained unreadable.


    She took another sip of wine, pausing to weave her slow, lazy thoughts together.


    "Tales. Fables. Theories. Other worlds. Some perhaps, contain a seed of truth. But I think stories are only half-truths, that theory isn''t truth. And truth, truth is never as pretty as the tales would have us believe.


    She set her cup down.


    ¡°Stories tell of those who take a step too far and vanish - some return, some never do. Stories speak of strangers offering gold that turns into a handful of leaves. Stories speak of men who shift their shape ¨C borrow a seal¡¯s skin and in the moonlight and swim away.


    ¡°You, you bend perception. You shift and you twist. You move through the world¡­differently.¡±


    She paused, then said quietly, "What is your truth?¡±


    Eoin didn¡¯t move, but something in him sharpened. His fingers tapped once against his cup, thoughtful.


    For a moment, he said nothing. Just watched her, his thumb tracing slow circles over the side of his cup. Then, a quiet breath.


    "You assume," he murmured, tilting his head, "that I have any interest in giving it to you."


    She huffed a quiet breath of laughter, not unkind. "You assume I need your cooperation to find it."


    His grin faded, but the glint in his eyes remained. He took another sip of wine, then leaned his head back against the bedpost.


    "Truth," he mused, rolling the word on his tongue like she had rolled the wine. "Truth is an odd thing, Magician. It changes, depending on the teller."


    He set his cup down. A moment later his coin appeared between his fingers, and he rolled it, considering.


    "What of the truth?" he echoed, as if testing the weight of the words.


    "Some of what you think you know is true. Like I told you, I was born in another land, much like this one in size and shape - but different. The rules are shifted. Different rules govern up and down, fast and slow. Different magic, you might say, different physics we would say in my world. We have similar legends, you and I. On my world, we have stories of adventurers who slip through cracks between worlds and come to visit. Some go willingly and happily. Others, not. Some of what you¡¯ve heard is true. I was a sailor in my own world, and I came on purpose. I came here and was wrecked. Fetched on Eysa''s rocks and bound to serve the man who captured my name and the essence of my soul. That part, you already know.¡°


    The coin danced across his knuckles, leaping from hand to hand. His voice was lighter when he spoke again, but there was a weight beneath it.


    "And in Vardvik, you hear new stories, stories about me. That I''m a fetch, a shadow-walker. A thing that can slip between the cracks of men¡¯s attention, carry something away without having been seen to do it. Step through a door without ever having been seen to cross the threshold.


    ¡°Truth. I can twist perceptions if I choose, to shift my voice, shape my hands to fit the task."


    He smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Also truth; I am bound. A dog with a collar of words, and my master holds the chain that is my name."


    His eyes flicked to her, sharp, searching. "Does that satisfy your curiosity? Or shall I conjure a prettier tale?"


    A silence stretched between them while Ingbord weighed his words. Eventually, she nodded. Then looked pointedly at the coin flickering between his fingers.


    "Truth? That really is just sleight of hand?"


    Eoin stilled the coin, pinched between his left thumb and forefinger. Slowly, deliberately he reached for it with his right - then paused with a tip of his chin to direct Ingbord''s attention to his left hand. He tilted his left hand toward her, and tucked the coin firmly into the crease between his palm fingers.


    His left hand remained still while he shifted her focus to his right hand, seemingly closing around a coin that had never even been there. He turned his wrist with a fluid motion, then with a sharp flick snapped the fingers of his empty right hand open.


    He paused, looked at his left hand, then opened it, showing Ingbord the coin that had never left, tucked up against his fingers. Keeping the coin in place with his thumb, he turned his hand palm down and released the coin, letting it fall onto his bent knee. He looked at the coin for a moment, his hands still and empty, then directed Ingbord to his right hand with another flourish, holding his right hand out at shoulder height. His eyes flicked to Ingbord''s face, then back to the coin on his knee. With a sharp flick, he launched the coin into the air behind his back.


    The gold spun in a glinting arc high above his head before falling neatly into the palm of his open right hand. He let the weight of that settle for a moment before closing his fingers around it - then opening them again with a rolling motion revealing an empty hand. He held it there for the space of a few heartbeats, and then with a quick snap of his eyes to his left hand, the coin abruptly vanished. He brought both hands to his lap, and slowly opened his fists, spreading his fingers wide, showing the coin pressed between his thumb and his palm - exactly where it had always been.


    He glanced away to his left for a moment, and when Ingbord looked to his hands again, the coin was nowhere in sight.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Eoin closed his eyes briefly, his mouthing twitching in something too bitter to count as amusement.


    "Now, now. Fair¡¯s fair, Magician" he said. "Tell me - how is it you do your tricks?" Is it true you practice dark magic, demanding a man''s blood, his seed, and his breath in return for answers?¡±


    Ingbord tilted her head, regarding him in silence for a long moment. Then, without breaking his gaze, she reached for her cup and took a slow sip of wine.


    "If I did, Eoin," she said finally, "you''d be dead three times over. She set the cup down. "Yet here you sit, whole, unspent, and breathing. What does that tell you?"


    She met his eyes and her lips quirked. Very subtly, her shoulders shook. Eventually, Eoin realized, she was trying to hold back laughter. She broke, throwing back her head and laughing real, delighted laughter.


    ¡°At the hall, we called it physics too. And that''s most of what I learned while I was there - levers, pulleys, friction and weight. Lenses, magnetics and arithmetic. Most of a magician''s job is fixing things or unstopping stuck wells. There''s very little magic involved. You don¡¯t even need magic at all ¨C not really. It helps, of course. But it¡¯s not required.


    ¡°I watch, I see, but others listen. Some, like Sverri shape their Seeking into something tangible - a painting, a carving, something you can touch.


    ¡°Magic needs heat. When I seek, I gather heat from the room, heat from the people near me, and heat from within my own body. That heat is the fuel for the ritual


    ¡°Seeking is cold. The father I seek, the more heat is needed. And when it¡¯s gone, the connection to magic is severed, and I snap back into own ice-cold body.


    ¡°Blood - isn¡¯t needed. At least not anyone else¡¯s. A drop of my own blood launches the seeking, and serves as an anchor, a tether. Without that grounding droplet of blood, I might never find my way back to myself.


    ¡°A price must be paid. It has to be something precious, something intimately tied to the Seeker. As you put it, truth depends on the teller. So too, does the price depend on the seeker. The seeker must offer something of value ¨C not necessarily to me ¨C but of real value to them. If the price paid is fair, if the connection to the seeker is solid, I use that it to cast outward, to slip free of my body, and travel beyond what my eyes can see.


    ¡°A lock of hair, a childhood keepsake, a hundred coins, or just one-if it matters enough.¡± She shrugged. ¡°It all depends on what the seeker holds precious.¡±


    He considered the thought, a price for a price. ¡°And if the seeker has nothing to give?¡± Warily, he reached for his coin. He danced it from hand to hand, considering. ¡°What if their offer isn¡¯t enough¡±.


    Ingbord tilted her head, studying him. ¡°Then they risk disappointing a magician. Not wise.¡±


    He turned the coin once more between his fingers, watching the glint of firelight on gold. A thing of value. Something given, something taken.


    ¡°What of Torsten''s price?¡± he asked. ¡°You go to his bed, do you not?¡±


    She leaned her chin on her hand, eyes following the flicker of gold between Eoin¡¯s fingers ¨C watching, considering.


    "Torsten¡¯s price is his to give, not yours to count." She said finally.


    She took another sip of wine, meeting Eoin¡¯s gaze over the rim. "But if you must know¡ªno, I do not go to his bed." A deliberate pause, letting the words settle. "I take him to it.¡±


    She swirled the wine in her cup, watching the deep red, dark as blood, catch the light.


    ¡°He offers himself. He gives his body, his essence, his strength, his fervour. He comes to me hard, urgent, rampant, full of power." She tilted her head, gaze unwavering. "And when he is spent¡ªwhen he is soft and trembling, when his strength has run out¡ªwhere do you think it goes?"


    She let the words hang between them, a deliberate pause.


    "He gives it to me," she said simply. "And I receive it."


    ¡°And what of you? She asked archly. ¡°You sleep in his bed, do you not?¡±


    Eoin grinned, lazy and sharp.


    "Oh, I sleep many places, Ingbord." He took another sip of wine. "Couches, floors, the occasional warm hearthside."


    A pause. A flicker of something in his expression.


    "And, yes. His bed, too."


    Ingbord went still, fingers tightening momentarily around her cup. She tilted her head and stared at him unmoving for the space of several heartbeats.


    Eoin had meant to sting ¨C just a little. But now he wondered if he¡¯d cut deeper than intended.


    She was too still. Pupils just a shade too wide. Her fingers were tight around her cup, but it was the flush of red that bloomed on her neck and cheeks that gave him pause. There was heat building in her. Not anger¡­but something else.


    Oh.


    That was interesting.


    Eoin kept the coin moving through his fingers, a casual dance of gold and shadow. But his mind was already shifting, adjusting. He leaned in just a fraction, just enough to see if she¡¯d move away, or if she¡¯d let him close the space between them.


    "You¡¯re thinking about it, aren¡¯t you?" His voice was soft, almost thoughtful.


    He flicked the coin, caught it without looking.


    He cocked his head, and showed his teeth, tongue pressing briefly against one. "Tell me, Magician." A pause, deliberate and weighted. "What exactly is it you see?"


    Ingbord drew a sharp breath. There was flicker of her throat as she swallowed, but otherwise she held ground, neither retreating or leaning in. She looked up from the coin¡¯s slow dance, her gaze sharp.


    ¡°Mm. You meant to surprise me. Congratulations. I am surprised at how sharply I see it. I do wonder how it is. Do you take him apart with your clever dancing fingers? Does he pin you beneath the weight of his body and shake you with the strength of it? What¡¯s it like? Do you have a choice?¡±


    The question hung thick between them. Humming with truths unspoken.


    Do you take him apart?


    Or does he take you?


    She had meant to rattle him. And for the first time in a long time, Eoin felt it.


    He exhaled, slow and measured, rolling the coin between his fingers¡ªbut the motion lacked its usual ease.


    "Both," he said finally.


    He set the coin down, pressing it flat against his thigh with his finger.


    "Sometimes I take him apart." A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his expression. "Sometimes he takes me."


    His gaze lifted, met hers, dark and sharp and too honest.


    He let the coin go, watched it slide onto the rumpled blankets.


    "I could say no, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking."


    A pause.


    "But I don¡¯t."


    Eoin watched the way Ingbord sat with that truth. Watched the slow sip of wine, the slight shift of her breath. If she had meant to rattle him, then fair was fair¡ªhe had rattled her right back.


    She set her cup down, fingers tapping idly against the rim, a measured rhythm¡ªthinking, calculating.


    "Good to know," she said at last.


    Her voice was smooth, but something flickered behind it, something still burning.


    She tilted her head, slow and deliberate.


    "What it is like for you?" Her eyes gleamed, assessing. "What is it like to be kept?"


    Eoin stilled.


    "That depends." His voice had lost its edge, had turned quieter, flatter. ¡°On which master you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    He picked up the coin again, turned it slowly between his fingers, watching how it caught the light. A flick of his wrist, and the coin disappeared.


    "By Rolly?" He huffed a quiet breath, shaking his head. "Dull. Cold. Lonely."


    "Fifteen years, invisible." The words came easily, but something about them carried weight. He let them settle, feeling their shape before continuing.


    "That was the rule. Blend in ¨C disappear. I was a ghost when he needed me, and nothing when he didn¡¯t.


    "I was his spy." He held up a hand momentarily. ¡°Not, that there is ever anything worth being overheard in Vardvik.¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t beaten, or starved. Just kept, like a tool to be picked up and used.


    He leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him.


    "No room, of course. No place to belong to. No door to close. No bed of my own. I slept where I could. A storeroom one night, a bench in the kitchens the next. Some warm corner by a vent.


    "I think the worst of it wasn¡¯t even that." A pause. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering. "It was the loneliness. The kind that crawls inside you, gets into your bones."


    He chuckled.


    "I used to seek him out, you know. Rolly. In the evenings."


    He said it lightly, as if it were a passing thought.


    "Not for orders. Just to speak and be heard to speak myself."


    The coin reappeared between his fingers, spinning effortlessly.


    "Imagine that. The old bastard wouldn¡¯t even look at me half the time, but I went anyway. Just to have someone to talk to."


    "Fifteen years."


    A quick smirk then, and he returned to an easier, lighter tone.


    "Boring, really. "I don¡¯t know if you¡¯ve ever tried being someone else¡¯s problem, but gods, it¡¯s tedious."


    Her voice was quieter when she asked, "And Torsten?"


    Eoin¡¯s fingers stilled against the coin.


    "I still belong to him. But it¡¯s different."


    He exhaled, turned the coin over once more.


    "I have a room in the keep, for one. Not a bad one, either.


    "Torsten¡ª" He hesitated. "Torsten finds use for things. He turns them in his hands, weighs them, figures out where they fit." He glanced at her, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "He found a place for me." His voice was different when he said it. Softer. "He turns to me."


    Another flicker of his coin, slower now.


    "He trusts me."


    He rolled his jaw, shaking his head.


    "Torsten talks, you know."


    A pause.


    "And when he talks about you¡ª oh gods, Ingbord, he goes on and on ¨C enough to make a bard weep."


    He rolled his eyes, but there was no real exasperation behind it.


    "I had to listen to him blather on about you like a lovesick poet¡ªuntil I wasn¡¯t entirely sure who was in love with whom."


    A flick of his wrist, and the coin vanished.


    "By the time I met you, I was already drowning."


    He let out a slow breath, then shifted¡ªrolled onto his side, stretching out along the bed, facing the wall. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped loosely over his ribs.


    A long moment passed, then another.


    Ingbord didn¡¯t move at first, only watched him.


    Then she lay gently down beside him and pressed herself to his back, the length of her fitting neatly against his, her arm sliding around his waist.


    She felt the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch.


    "I don¡¯t need your pity, Feyrune." The words came quiet and flat. Resigned and almost bored


    Her fingers tightened over his ribs, her body pressing closer, the warmth of her breath brushing the outside of his ear as she murmured¡ª


    "Liar."


    It cut. Clean, effortless, right down to the bone. So sharp, he didn¡¯t even feel the pain right away.