Page 179 of A Vow of Blood and Tears

We were in a tower, so much like the Tower of Winter that I felt an immediate, nauseating tug of homesickness, the taste of tears in my throat.

The curved stone walls were piled with crates and barrels, weapons and provisions. Lanterns, burning a dirty yellow with animal fat, had been hung from the ceiling, illuminating the scene.

Miro had been brought to his knees, kneeling before a man with a thick tangle of dark hair, clan tattoos on his cheeks, and bright white pinpricks in the vast pools of his pupils. Two wargs panted over either shoulder, their hungry eyes focused on Miro, slavering bright silver strings of drool.

“Stand down,” Hakkon said calmly, moving me aside with ease.

I was torn, the vengeance in me screaming for him to be eaten, the human in me praying he’d be released.

Miro’s breath came in short, sharp stutters. “I was told… I should marry Cirrien lai Darran. I will help you gain a foothold in Veladar, and bring more wargs in—”

“There’s been a change of plans, laddie,” Hakkon told him with a broad smile. “You see, you haven’t committed yourself to Wargyr yet.”

“I worship Wargyr, as my father did,” Miro protested, but Hakkon leaned down to stare at him in the eye, each word whispered, yet pelting Miro like stones.

“You’re not one of us.”

I didn’t think a human being could turn the color Miro turned then, a waxen white like a corpse, gray mottling his lips. “I…” He looked from Hakkon to the tattooed guard and back, his glassy eyes traveling over the wargs. “I…”

“You,” Hakkon agreed. “You will give yourself into Wargyr’s embrace tonight. Prove that you’re a wolf in the soul—” He pounded a fist to his own chest. “And not a lamb hiding in men’s clothing. You must hunt or be hunted. Until then…” He smiled at Miro, showing his sharp teeth. “You’re only meat.”

Please, no, I signed.Please.

The same numb terror had come over me again; I was no more than a dreamwalker trapped in a nightmare, unable to wake up.

Hakkon gazed at me impassively; he picked Miro up by the collar, bringing him to his feet, then plucked my pen from Miro’s pocket and held it out to me with another winning smile. “This is yours, I believe.”

I took it, because there was nothing else I could do. My fingers wrapped around the cold metal; I thought about the pointed tip, how sharp it might be.

It was not a weapon, and I could only count on one strike.

“Cirri…” Miro breathed, his breath catching in his throat.

I shook my head. What did he want me to do? He had brought himself to this, and all of my thoughts had to go into how to kill Hakkon, to take down the leader of the pack, with a pen and the strength of a single blow.

I would be torn apart afterwards, no doubt, probably so fast I would be dead before I knew what had happened… but without Hakkon leading them, the wargs in chaos, Bane might stand a chance at taking most of them down.

So I tucked my pen safely in my bag, holding it close. It was all I had.

“But my father was Forian,” Miro cried, his voice cracking. “I’m one of you!”

Hakkon tilted his head, all tolerance gone from his brown eyes. “What makes you believe I give a damn, boy? Half my men are from Nordrin, Serissa… does that make them less in the eyes of Wargyr? My own mother was a Veladari merchant. That blood means nothing. It is only the blood blessed by the Great Wolf that matters.”

Suddenly and inappropriately, silent and hysterical laughter bubbled in my throat. I leaned over, letting out the breathy sounds, not even bothering to hide my mouth as I laughed and laughed and laughed.

“What amuses, redling?”

All that time, I said to Miro, my composure fracturing further by the second.All that time you whined and complained about your Forian father, thinking you were mistreated and abused for it. You had everything. Bane gave you a home and asked for the same work ethic he asks of all of us. You could have been a true artist, loved by all. But you had to imagine some terrible injustice, you had to sell every soul in the Rift, my own family, Lady rest them, for your own ego. You had it all and you killed them for nothing.

Hakkon translated my words to Miro, and the fracture inside me gaped wide open, spilling hate as the artist’s eyes widened and became liquid-soft, like the ashamed eyes of a little boy caught stealing.

You little bastard, I signed, and backhanded him across that pale, waxen face.

The sharp crack of my hand across his cheekbone filled the air. The pain in my hand, and the sight of the shock in Miro’s eyes, was so satisfying that I hit him again and again, until Miro was crying for them to stop me, and a hand took mine before I could rain more blows on him.

Hakkon raised his brows. “Ah ah ah, red one. Contain yourself. He is for Wargyr’s judgment, not yours.”

Miro sniveled, blood spilling from his nostril to coat his upper lip.

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