Page 32 of On Broken Bonds

This revelation lands like a blade sliding quietly between my ribs, sharp in its clarity. I had spent days wondering why a warrior as capable as Thorian would willingly tether himself to someone as untested as me, searching for a hidden reason I could not quite grasp. Now I finally understand. It was never about believing in my strength or seeing potential in me. He chose me because no one else would have him. Because the curse, real or imagined by his history, hanging over him has made him untouchable, and I was desperate enough to accept the hand no one else would take.

Even as the bodies of his past partners appear and die, their limbs torn from them, one of them melting into a puddle of pink, gristle-y agony, my mind is working this into a different story.

One that Ivor would be proud of. I’m truly looking at the glass half-full. Because if Thorian has survived this many partners, it doesn’t just mean he’s never won the Trials. It means he’s done something unimaginable… entered the trials five times and never once died. It means he’s quicker, stronger, smarter than anyone else who has ever deigned to do it, including his partners.

I wish I could stop there.

I wish I could simply admire his skill and leave it at that.

But I can't. My mind has to work through the whole complicated thing.

His father cursed my family. Tried to force himself on my mother when she refused to become one of his countless lovers. Everything that happened afterward traces back to Valtor. Every loss. Every year of watching my family slowly unravel.

Logic insists that Thorian cannot be separated from that legacy. He is Valtor's son. The blood of that monster runs through his veins.

And yet...

I've always been good at reading people. Father used to joke that I could spot a liar before they'd even opened their mouth. Every instinct I possess tells me the same thing now.

Thorian isn't his father.

He's gruff. Irritatingly overprotective. Entirely too fond of barking orders at me. But beneath all of that is something solid. Honorable.

It's infuriating.

Because trusting the son of the man who ruined my family feels like the stupidest decision I could possibly make.

And yet I do.

“I’m not known for my mercy,” Valtor says, laughing at his own little joke as he turns to me, “But I’ll grant some to you now, girl. Consider this permission to break whatever agreement you have with my boy. You needn’t die for his little game, for his foolish, bull-headed, and falsely-placed confidence.”

“I appreciate that,” I lie, shaking my head. It takes all my effort not to drop his intense gaze. Like looking directly into the sun. A sun that I hate with every bone in my body. “But I’ve made my decision, and I have chosen my team. I plan to fight with Thorian at my side.”

A shocked hush rolls through the room, and I catch him relaxing slightly at my side. Not that he should really be that flattered. It’s not like I have a sea of other partners lining up to risk their lives for me. My feelings toward him are complicated right now, so I push them to the side, instead focusing on the gods.

Once the surprise wears off, they go right back to mocking us. Not that it affects me. The gods’ mockery means nothing to me.

“Alright, well, what should we name this team?” Aqualis asks, turning to Valtor.

“The Forsaken,” Terranis suggests, which makes Valtor laugh again, his meaty palm smacking against his throne.

“The Forsaken. I like it. How fitting. I’d wish you good luck, but not even a divine blessing could help you at this point.”

There’s more laughing, and the other teams join us on the floor, standing in their little huddles. Part of me wants to look, to see if I can catch Fenric’s gaze again, but if I move I might lose my composure. So I stay completely still as the gods go through the process of making their picks for who they think will win.

Terranis chooses The Ashen Hounds. Eryndor goes for the team of knights, and Valtor chooses the warlocks. Aqualis, apparently wanting an underdog, picks the Stone Serpents.

Only Soryn, god of the celestial realm, of light and sky, of the stars and moon, is left. She looks at the remaining teams with her chin in her hands, having skipped her turn twice already to let the other gods choose first.

Finally, with a movement that makes my body flush from head to toe, she turns her gaze to me. It feels like being imbued with a warm, glowing energy. It floods from my scalp down into the tips of my fingers, like my own magic but more effusive.

And then, to my shock, and to Valtor’s obvious displeasure, she speaks.

“My chosen team is The Forsaken. Thorian Valehart and Lady Nyx Nocturne, go forth and win with my name on your tongues.”

11

Nyx