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“He didn’t die. He didn’t even flinch.”
Joss Brevyn remembered it differently.
As she watched Callan Ronen—lost prince, wanted prisoner—pacing back and forth in front of her, recalling what had happened to them earlier that day in the town of Raspshire, she remembered along with him but with a slightly different perspective. There was the town and its festivities, and then the moment when the hooded figure appeared in the distance and aimed his pistol at Callan. The prince had fled into a tavern; Joss bolted in on horseback and climbed up the stairs where Callan fought his attacker before the masked culprit fled, crashing into a window to escape. She remembered vividly how Callan mounted the saddle behind her, how they cleared the staircase while still on horseback, and when Callan fired at the figure in the doorway. But what she also remembered was how the stranger had flinched but didn’t fall, remaining on his feet. While a bewildering sight, Joss had been too caught up in trying to escape to dwell on it.
Now, against the darkening twilight with Callan pacing and Henrik Vanzant, her assistant, bent down to start a fire, Joss’s mind wandered to the memory of a different conversation.
I’m still going to find you when this is all over.
She clung to those words; she couldn’t help herself. Aric Kayden might be an assassin, but to her he was still that injured man on the side of the road, still a mystery despite how clear his intentions had become. Her eyes moved to the bandage around her hand, the green strip of cloth from the cloak he used to wrap around her bruised knuckle. Quietly slipping it off, she found her hand already on the mend and the cloth no longer needed. A bit disappointed, she slipped the cloth into the pocket of her vest, not able to part with it yet.
“Maybe you missed. Maybe you didn’t hit him but thought you had,” Henrik offered without looking up, striking the flint rock with his dagger to spark a flame.
Joss didn’t see how Callan’s eyes narrowed, insulted. “I don’t miss,” he said pointedly.
You swear? She could still hear those words escape her lips, laced in hope, something she hadn’t felt in an exceptionally long time.
On my life. The words were so simple yet the impact they left was startling, so much so that she felt them all the way down into her bones. Aric had made a swift exit right afterwards, but he left a heavy impression, one that weighed down on her hours after.
“He must have been wearing some kind of armor, then,” Henrik piped up, coming to sit near Joss, which brought her attention back. She brushed a strand of her short, dark brown hair behind her ear, trying to focus on the present rather than the past.
Callan was still pacing. “Obviously,” he grumbled, though the way he became lost in thought showed his tone was directed more towards his irritation of not being certain. “He was too fluid to be wearing anything from the armory,” he mused, and then he stopped. “Unless...”
Joss and Henrik both looked up, finding him staring out into the dark forest.
“That asshole.” It came out as a whisper, and at first Joss didn’t know if she heard him right until he spun around, his infamous glare plastered on his face. “He stole it.”
“Who? Stole what?” Henrik questioned, an eyebrow arched as he warmed his hands against the glow of the flames.
“Davien. He stole my idea.” Callan’s shoulders rolled back, his chest puffed out as if the threat had stepped in front of him, his body ready to act. He faced them, blinking, trying to pull himself together. “When I was in training, we wore these thick leather vests to help against attacks. There were a couple of blokes who were... less enthusiastic about following rules.”
“So, you had your fair share of bullies once,” Henrik smirked, amused. “That would have been entertaining to see.”
While a quiet snarl escaped, Callan answered carefully, “They didn’t target me. They targeted the weaker boys, or at least those they considered weak. One in particular.” His voice grew a little softer as he thought back. “They were ruthless to him, unforgiving. He was always being sent to the infirmary. I couldn’t personally intervene; the trainers wouldn’t allow it. So, I took his leather vest, stole some battered steel blades from the armory that weren’t being used, and I broke the blades and sewed them into his vest—”
“You sew?” Henrik gawked, cutting him off. Joss was also a little taken aback by it, her honey-colored eyes staring at the prince, trying to imagine him working a needle and thread.
“After learning how to sew open wounds, anything is fair game,” he replied, eyeing them both, knowing that out of anybody, these two would understand. “As I was saying, I tailored his vest, which became a rude awakening to those fools when they tried to combat him in a knife fight. A bullet would have also been blocked.”
“Do you think the person back at the tavern was him?” Joss asked out of curiosity.
Schemes can run long and deep sometimes. These were words spoken by Callan himself, back when he was a prisoner standing on trial. It had been poetic at the time but became a harsh truth the longer they knew him.
“It wasn’t him,” Callan replied, turning away to resume his pacing. “He died in my arms during our first battle at the border wars.”
Well, that rules that out, she thought, her gaze falling back to the flames. Her stomach growled, and at first, she thought the nausea was returning until she realized it was hunger. While they had already rationed the food for the evening, it hadn’t sufficed. The charcoal Henrik gave her after the poisoning had worn off and now her stomach demanded more food. It didn’t help that her side still felt bruised due to the punch from Master Greyson, the executioner who had betrayed them, an injury that had been overshadowed by both the poisoning and the adrenaline rush of trying to survive Raspshire. While no one would have objected if she took more food, Joss decided against it, taking a swig from the canteen instead.
“It could have been anyone at this point,” Henrik thought out loud, running a hand through his tousled brown hair, sleep pulling against the sides of his hazel eyes.
“No,” Callan replied. “The other man—the one I fought with inside the tavern—wasn’t wearing a vest like that. And neither was the man out in the forest who Aric shot.”
Joss swallowed the next sip of water hard, wishing Callan hadn’t said his name. She wasn’t used to being the hopeless romantic; that was her baby sister Celine’s forte, not hers. Stepping into her shoes felt awkward and out of place, though secretly she had always wanted a happily ever after, the kind her younger brother Oliver would sometimes write about.
“It had to have been Davien.” Callan practically snarled at the thought of his middle brother. “Since he knows I’m the better fighter, he would have copied the vest, that little shit.”
The conversation fell into silence, Callan’s thoughts keeping him company as he continued pacing, the warrior in him scheming what his next move would be. Henrik, on the other hand, settled down against his saddle, not wanting to fight the sleepiness that was coming for him.
That left Joss, whose gaze flicked periodically between the prince and her assistant. It had been a grueling day for all of them—the fight in Raspshire, the near death of Henrik by one of the masks. She took in a quiet but deep breath as she sat back against her own saddle. Twice, she almost lost Henrik, and while he was safe and sound asleep by her, she couldn’t bring herself to put her guard down. Even when a breeze rustled through and the crickets started up, or when the horses stirred in the background, content where they were tied, she couldn’t find it in herself to rest.
“I guess I’m not the only one.”
Joss looked up into Callan’s face as he finally decided to join them, sitting down on the other side of the fire where his saddle waited for him. In the fire light, the dark orbs of his eyes glistened against his umber skin, and he ran his hand through his short, curly black hair, his thoughts still overwhelming him. She didn’t have to wonder what he meant, already knowing what really happened to him back in those battles everyone thought had taken him. Sleep would never come easily for either of them.
“How’s your shoulder feeling?” she asked, catching him off guard. He’d almost forgotten he had a shoulder injury thanks to one of Aric’s arrows. The escape from Galmoor felt far away, given everything that had happened since then.
“Oh... it’s fine,” Callan replied, rubbing the area to make sure. With a nod, he confirmed everything was still healing well.
Joss grinned, glad to hear it. “Well, at least this is almost over,” she reminded them both. “One more night and you’ll be home.”
A smile was there, but it didn’t reach his eyes. While Joss thought for sure he would show some sort of relief, he seemed more hesitant. “Yes,” he finally spoke out, as if to finalize it.
Joss eyed him, seeing that while he sounded decided, the way he glanced down at his shirt and pants revealed how self-conscious he was. It didn’t help that Master Greyson’s blood had dried to a murky brown against his attire, making the clothes look even more dirty and worn.
“They’re not going to care what you look like,” she offered, causing his eyes to shift to hers. “They’ll be too happy to see you alive.”
She and Henrik, on the other hand, would be a different story. They hadn’t changed their clothes in days, ever since leaving their hometown of Galmoor to track down the prince who sat in front of her. A warm bath and clean clothes were luxuries she craved, looking forward to them once Callan was safely home.
Callan nodded, though he didn’t believe her. “I was hoping I’d have a chance to clean myself up at Raspshire; look a little more presentable.”
“It matches your story,” Joss reminded him. “A man of war missing for almost five years would look a little worse for wear.”
Callan’s smirk was fleeting. He played with the ends of his sleeves, making sure to keep them down enough to hide the markings on his wrists. “It’s just...”
Joss waited, listening to the fire crackle and a light snore escape Henrik.
“My wife,” Callan said softly, “I don’t know how she’s been. I don’t know if she’s... moved on.”
Joss knew that feeling all too well. She tapped a finger against the canteen in thought. “Well, you sent a trinket to her revealing yourself and she sent a pardon. Sounds like if she did move on, she didn’t move far.”
Callan thought it over. “I guess not,” he replied.
Joss watched him for a moment, and seeing him still troubled, decided to pursue one more conversation. “If you don’t mind me asking, what was the trinket you sent?”
Callan raised his gaze from the fire, and while the apprehension was still there, he let it go with a deep breath. Grabbing a nearby stick, he came to stand next to Joss, who sat up a little straighter.
In the dirt between her and the fire, he wrote, Leirum U Oye Voli.
Joss stared at the words as Callan went back to resume his seat.
“What does it mean?” she asked, causing him to smile in mischief.
“You’re smart,” he reasoned with a little grin. “You can figure it out.”
“You’ve caught me on an off day.” Joss smiled, her exhaustion long set in her eyes.
Callan’s smile deepened into a sheepish laugh. “It’s ‘I love you Muriel’ spelled backwards. When we were courting, I wanted to leave her notes without people becoming too suspicious. I’d leave those words on strips of paper, lay them in her favorite books or hide them among the flowers in a garden she visits. Granted, I was sixteen when the idea came to me, thinking I was the cleverest.”
Joss laughed a little at the sentiment, though deep down she thought it was cute. She remembered the green cloth in her pocket, a little trinket of her own. “You two courted for a while, then.”
“Young love,” Callan replied, smiling into the fire. “Everyone thinks we started courting after my training finished and I had a couple battles from the border wars under my belt. But it started when we were younger, secretly hiding those notes. I always knew it would be her.”
Joss watched him, feeling a pang of envy creeping in, though she tried to dismiss it as being tired. “That’s definitely a trinket worth remembering,” she replied quietly.
Callan’s smile didn’t fade but his enthusiasm did, still worried despite his best efforts to push it off. With nothing more to add, Callan nodded to Joss in good night before lying down.
Joss remained where she was, watching the fire as the night stretched on around them. Crickets fell in tune with the quiet snapping of the flames as the moonlight brushed silver against the treetops. Despite the peace, however, the heaviness persisted in her chest, the remnants of also being afraid that someone she loved would move on without her.
She thought over her last conversation with Aric again, trying to recall his tone, his sincerity, the way he looked at her when he had said it.
On my life.
She kept going back to that moment—over and over again—in hopes history wouldn’t repeat itself this time, that he wasn’t like all the others. He would come back; he would keep his word.
She kept going back because, deep down, that was all she had left of him.
