Page 34 of On Broken Bonds

“I said it in there,” I say as I gesture in the direction of the throne room. “I made my choice.”

“It seemed possible that you only said that… for them.”

I shake my head. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.”

He lifts a brow. “You don’t?”

I sigh. That’s not true.

“I think I understand why,” I admit. “Your father isn’t exactly universally like, nor are the demi-gods, their, frankly, bratty offspring. But you should know that my reasons for potentially hating you go deeper than that. Your father made my family’s life a living nightmare. He cursed us because my mother refused him. Every hardship we’ve endured since can be traced back to him. I should look at you and see Valtor. I should hate you simply because you’re his son. But I don’t. My father taught me to judge people by what they do, not who they’re related to, and everything you’ve done since we met has been to prepare me, protect me, and give me the best chance of surviving these Trials. You’re nothing like your father.”

For a long moment, Thorian says nothing.

His expression doesn't soften. If anything, it hardens, his jaw tightening as he looks away toward the city below.

“You don't know me well enough to say that,” he says quietly.

“Maybe not,” I concede. “But I know enough.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, almost as though the words cost him. When he finally looks back at me, his expression is unreadable.

“..But?”

“I don’t think we’re going to make it out of the Trials alive with secrets between us. I, for one, am not a good enough fighter to forgo information. There should be trust. I certainly shouldn’t be blindsided in a room full of asshats and then have to pretend I already knew your secret.”

Thorian, to his credit, sports pinked cheeks, like he’s only just imagined how that might have felt for me. Then he grinds out the words, like he’s not used to saying them, “I apologize for that.”

I dip my head. “Let’s agree to share anything the other would deem relevant. And if we’re not sure, we share it anyway.” Thorian’s face hardens like I knew it would. He’s not a man who likes to talk about himself. Aside from his name, his dislike for his father Valtor, and now the fact that he’s competed before. “Should there be anything that our opponents could use against us, I believe the other should know. It is a matter of life and death, after all.”

His eyes shift from mine once more, moving so quickly I almost miss it. It’s a microcosm of the way his body moves, swiftly, with an impossible grace. Finally, with what appears to be a certain level of pain, he forces out, “You have my word, Lady Nyx.”

The sound of my name on his lips is disarming. I ignore it.

We stand together, the weight of this agreement settled firmly between us. Perhaps now we’re more of a team than we were before. Or, perhaps, words are just words. I try to think of Ivor, what advice he might give me, but my mind’s so scrambled in Thorian’s presence that I can’t summon the fictional advice of my friend.

When I can’t stand the silence, I clear my throat and ask, “So why have you competed so many times?”

My own motivations make sense to me, and surely to Thorian and all the others. I want my sister returned safely to me. I want to ensure she’s not married off to a gaggle of men who would abuse and neglect her.

Which is why I’m risking my life. Mine for hers. It’s the only logical course of action.

But after entering the trials so often, is there really no other way Thorian could find to get the thing he wants? Does it make sense for him to risk his life so many times only to face failure again and again?

Thorian’s jaw tightens again, and I have to resist the strange urge to reach up and smooth away the tension gathered there.

There is a quiet vulnerability in him that makes me want to help, to ease the invisible strain that seems to accompany every difficult truth he forces himself to voice. I can see the effort it costs him, the careful way he turns each word over before allowing it to leave his mouth, as though speaking plainly does not come naturally to him.

I've noticed it over these past few days.

Thorian does not speak carelessly. Every sentence feels measured, chosen with deliberate precision, as though he is forever translating thoughts from a private language only he understands. And though the reckless part of me wants to fill the silence for him, to press or prod until the answer comes, I force myself to remain still.

Whatever he's trying to say will come in its own time.

So I wait, drawing in a slow breath and letting my gaze drift briefly back to the glittering city below while he gathers himself to answer.

Finally, after what must be several minutes, he lowers his hands down to the stone railing, gripping it for a second and letting out a long, suffering breath.

“I have my reasons for wanting godhood so badly. And as we know, this is one of the only ways a mortal can earn it.” He hesitates. “The other aspects of the winner’s spoils don’t interest me. Not the money, not the title, and not your sister. You could have all of that. I want divinity.”