Terror was a good emotion on Yethyr. The sound of every ragged breath and the silence of every skipped heartbeat was a symphony I delighted in cataloging.
Yethyr had miscalculated in raising my father's corpse even for such a brief conversation.
Shards of broken steel tools and weapons littered the floor.
With a single laugh, Daened had ruined his own workshop, depriving Yethyr of the privilege of looting it untarnished.
“How did he even do this?” Jaetheiri shook out pieces of her warfang from its sheath with a scowl. “Fangs are hardly metal.”
“There’s iron in the hilt,” Yethyr said hollowly; he did not look at her.
Jaetheiri wrinkled her nose. “Only a little bit.”
“Enough.” Yethyr stared at my father’s dead mad face. “Enough for him.”
“He had no right!” she snarled. Her anger was to cover fear. Through our stretched bond, I knew she was almost as frightened as Yethyr was.
It was delicious.
She took a calming breath. “What did he say?” I wanted to laugh. She didn’t even understand Datrean and still she feared.
“He refused my offer.”
“That is plain, my prince. I am asking why you look like a cornered deer.”
Yethyr had no idea how to answer that. “He…does not believe he is beaten.” His mouth could not form the rest of the words. He could not bring himself to repeat what my father foresaw.
“False words meant to rattle you, surely. Creatures such as him rarely admit defeat.”
“That is true...”
Yethyr’s instinct had told him otherwise. The animal within him had heard Daened’s proclamation and had known it to be real.
But his was the mind of a man, full of plots and poison. It took only a minute before he soothed his instincts and told himself that it was the last bravado of a dead man.
Good. Think that. The less guarded he was the better.
Yethyr was interrupted from his musing by footsteps. “My prince?”
The hunter that had brought them there was back. He gawked as he stepped through the now-ruined door. My father’s laugh had twisted the metal beyond recognition and I felt a pang at the loss.
And then I was startled to realize that the pang was Yethyr’s just as much as mine.
The hunter stepped aside to reveal another Brinn stepping through the ruined doorway. “I present to you: Mullir. Second archer in Numar’s Hunting Party.”
This new man, with a great war bow slung over his shoulder and a warfang at his hip, was the quintessential Brinn: all dark curls, and blue eyes.
“My prince.” The archer saluted nervously. “Notch code 773487548. You requested me?”
“Do you know why you are summoned?”
Mullir stopped before Yethyr warily. “No, my prince.”
“Then allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a hunt few could even dream of.” Yethyr pointed to my father’s body. “Your arrow has slain Daened of Datrea.”
My mood somehow managed to sour even more. This pasty pale-eyed bastard killed my father? He was the most average Brinn I had ever seen. It was an insult!
Mullir seemed just as surprised. “Maethe’s blessings.” He looked down at Daened’s body and I could catch the exact moment that awe turned to greed. My father’s black jacket, sleeveless to keep it out of the way of his work. The intricate gold bands that adorned his bare biceps, a perfect match with the golden hoops piercing his ears.
As far as the Brinn were concerned, this archer had a right to it all.
I wanted to gut him right then and there for the audacity.
Yethyr turned me toward the ground, clasping my hilt with both hands so that he could dip his head and bow, ever so slightly at the waist.
“Respectfully, I challenge you for his spoils.”
Mullir’s face went slack with horror before he threw himself to the ground. “I concede! Please, my prince, you need not—”
“Get up,” Yethyr said coldly. “Do not needlessly dishonor yourself so. I’m not so cruel as to punish you with the prospect of facing me. The Lady Jaetheiri no doubt would prefer to face you herself.”
“Obviously,” she said.
Mullir lifted his head and looked at Jaetheiri in relief. “Ah…of course.”
I was at first puzzled by that relief. Surely, he was just as likely to lose against Jaetheiri as he was against Yethyr. Then I realized that it was not failure, but death that concerned Mullir so.
Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!
Yethyr was a deathsinger. His talents were always primed to kill. He couldn’t subdue; he couldn’t disarm. Anyone he defeated could only ever die. Jaetheiri, dangerous as she was, could spare her opponents.
“In that case,” Mullir rose to his feet, “I am honored.”
He unsheathed his warfang. Jaetheiri made to do the same and at that moment, both she and Yethyr remembered that her warfang had shattered.
She had started a Brinn challenge without a weapon.
Mullir charged and Jaetheiri dodged, narrowly avoiding the crimson flash of his swing.
She looked around, desperate for a sword in the ruined forge, but there was none.
My father had seen to that. All that remained were jagged pieces of steel.
Yethyr squeezed my hilt. His heart was pounding.
Jaetheiri picked up a remnant of my brother, its steelsong now broken, but its edge still sharp.
It sliced her palm as she used it to parry Mullir. It was too small to do much else. Mullir would always have more reach.
Only then did Mullir realize his target was vulnerable.
Hope and glee lit up his face. I wanted to cut that smile off him. He had killed my father. I wanted—I needed to cut this Mullir down.
So did Yethyr. His hands at my hilt were shaking.
I assumed it was this rumored Brinn honor that was holding him back. Fragile thing. Certainly, it was something I could push him to break.
Regardless, I had to try. If I could get him to kill Mullir I would be avenging my father and binding Yethyr to me in blood with a single strike.
Mullir attacked Jaetheiri with new fervor, urged on by the blood dripping through her fingers with every clash.
“She could die if I don’t do something,” I said in Yethyr’s voice, and for once, he did not notice. “I have to kill him first.”
Jaetheiri was losing ground and Yethyr did not move. Within, he waged a battle against me and my bloodthirst, against himself and his honor, against my curse and his greed.
I did not understand why Yethyr bothered to fight at all when he just had to “kill Mullir.”
His greed alone was insurmountable. Greed had brought him to Datrea’s gates and greed was the very thing that my curse made stronger.
His struggle was futile and so was Jaetheiri’s.
A loud clang made the Prince jerk up his head.
Jagged metal had at last slipped through bloody fingers, but even unarmed Jaetheiri would not relent.
Her lips curled back in a snarl, feral and desperate. She kicked Mullir as he was poised to strike.
Yethyr met Jaetheiri’s wide frantic eyes and his greed crystalized into a new shape.
He threw me to her.
Without hesitation. Without thought.
I sailed through the air blind until I was caught by a cut-up bleeding palm.
Through Jaetheiri’s eyes, I saw Mullir, the murderer of my father and my fury melded with her desperate survival.
We parried Mullir’s next strike as one. We swung and he was immediately backing up.
Facing Jaetheiri with a proper sword, Mullir stood no chance. Facing Jaetheiri with me…
Mullir was a dead man.
Jaetheiri did not think so. She swung me at Mullir’s neck with every intention of stopping just before I broke skin.
She expected me to spare my father's killer.
Heaven would make peace with Hell before I let that happen.
Her momentum was on my side. Her instincts were on my side. When she began to hold me back, I threw all my will into carrying that energy through. I was not trying to compel much, just a slip of a wrist, just a lapse of judgment, just a sliced open throat.
Mullir.
I felt his name as I cut him open. Red tendrils leapt from his falling body and into me. Gleefully, I drank up his violent pathetic life.
It was delicious.
So was Jaetheiri’s horror as she looked down at Mullir’s blood dripping from me. The blood was just one more link in the chain now binding us together.
Yethyr jerkily rushed to her, his bone glove already around her wrist.
“Let me see,” he whispered. It was just a pretense to get Jaetheiri to let go of me. I knew it. She knew it.
She let go anyway. It was easier this time, now that I was not actively trying to stop her.
It felt strange to be passed between them. Jaetheiri killed with me twice now. I could feel the sticky blood dripping down her callused hand as if it were my blood. She was bound to me, and Yethyr wasn’t. He had not killed with me. He had not even let me into his very thoughts. I was in hostile territory, a hostile mind vigilant against any attempts to conquer it.
I did not try. I would be patient.
Now through Yethyr’s eyes, I saw Jaetheiri’s cut palms. It made him furious.
“Hunter,” Yethyr called to the man who had been running to and fro on the Prince’s orders. It amused me that none of us had bothered to learn his name.
“Yes, my prince?”
“Get bandages.”
As soon as he left, Yethyr looked Jaetheiri in the eye.“What in Maethe’s name was that?”
Jaetheiri didn’t know. “My hand slipped.”
“Your hand slipped?” Yethyr blinked incredulously. He glanced down at me with suspicion. “Jaethe, you haven’t slipped since your second summer with Ettisar.”
Jaetheiri glared. “And in that time, my prince had never made a challenge while I was unarmed. That was—”
“Moronic. I know.” He squeezed her wrist. He was not strong enough to apply any more than the lightest pressure, but there was an apology hidden in the gesture.
Jaetheiri’s eyes softened. “Well,” she huffed. Her lips did not so much as curl upwards, but Yethyr could hear her smile. “So long as you know.”
Yethyr gave one final faint squeeze, before stepping back. “You should take Mullir’s sword then,” he said wryly. “Before I feel compelled to do something foolish again.”
They looked down at Mullir’s body and their humor dimmed.
“Punishing a hunter for his glory feels like an affront to Maethe,” Yethyr said.
“Maethe will forgive you,” Jaetheiri pried Mullir’s warfang from his fingers. “You have claimed Daened’s forge in the name of her Great Hunt, and now the spoils are yours.”
“Indeed.” Yethyr hummed. “First, I’ll attempt dialogue with every smith I can. There’s no telling how long I have before Z’krel will stand in my way to keep them in Hell.”
His deathsong stirred and then—
“My prince.” There was that hunter again at the ruined door, gasping for breath.
Yethyr sighed. “If this is anything other than Lady Jaetheiri’s bandages, I would rather not be interrupted”
“But…” The hunter swallowed. “Your father’s hunting party has been spotted approaching the city.”
Thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate all the support I have gotten during the transition to move this story to Royal Road. Do tell me what you think! I love comments and often respond to them
I will be posting a chapter every day until July 30, 2025. Make sure to follow the story and come back to read more!
Do you think Daened's stuff is worth dying for?
