My condition had been necessary for my survival once. But continuing to pay that price now? Brutal. It leaves me with the worst fucking hangover I’ve ever had.
And even after I had rested a few short hours, I was thrust into the proverbial frost again. I think of the man outside Arlet’s home, the one who had the audacity to call himself her husband. A flash of fury burns through my mind.
I hadn’t seen her all day and she hadn’t made it to the councilmeeting. Sadness can take hold of her quickly, but it wasn’t like her to avoid her duties.
Too many men try to claim her.
Another vaimpír charges, and I anticipate its feral actions, twisting around and cutting its head clean off. It falls to the snow, useless.
I take in a fresh, clean breath. Nothing like a fight to clear my head.
Except, all my head wants to think about is Arlet and thatman. I thought we were past this after Joso, who, in his short-dicked, half-baked wisdom, tossed Arlet aside like a half-chewed bone at a feast.
"Lord Vann!"
I tear my eyes from the gore soaking the snow as Ner'Feon strides toward me, his deep blue skin streaked with drying blood. Like all of the ocean-risen, he carries the cost of survival in his broad frame, his body shaped by the depths that once held him captive. His silver hair is cropped short—something unusual for us enduares. It is damp with sweat, and his sharp features are marked with wrinkles around his mouth and eyes.
He gestures toward the meager battlefield, his brow furrowed. "Fuck," he mutters. "How many did you kill?”
"Three," I grunt.
"Shit," another one of the men starts.
"You could fell an entire army of these damned things!” Ner’Feon exclaims.
I huff a short laugh.
“I am not so impressive. I’d wager no more than ten at once,” I say.
They don’t laugh with me. Ner'Feon looks to the side, gauging the expressions of his comrades before meeting my gaze again. "Forgive me, my lord. I meant no disrespect."
They don’t joke like I do.
"No offense taken." I inhale sharply, then grit my teeth when the breath does nothing to ease the tension in my shoulders.
It is nice to speak exclusively in my native tongue for a few hours. It used to be like this every day, but now the city has fractioned intosmaller groups speaking in dialects of enduar or human, with the main tongue transitioning to the common language. A shared language didn’t make these men my brothers. Not yet, anyway.
Unfortunately, most of the men I would normally spend my time with have become preoccupied. They have families, daughters, sons, partners. Everything.
And I? I have nothing. My woman died long ago. We knew, even then, that we would never have a family.
Unbidden, a shock of red hair flits into my vision. The memory of a bright laugh sings from a pair of full red lips. My mouth goes dry. I picture grabbing the back of her neck, cutting off that incessant, soothing voice with my mouth.
Arlet.
Fucking Arlet.
Get out of my head.
I exhale through my nose, forcing the thoughts away.
"Where would you like the fire?" Ra’Salore asks.
I don’t respond, still staring at the blood pooling at my feet.
"My lord, we usually—” Ner’Feon starts.
As it has my entire life, I feel a touch on my shoulder. It is a small gesture, merely the weighted sensation of a palm flush against my armor. It is almost fatherly—and I have never admitted its occurrence to anyone. Even Teo.