Page 165
Little Orzen peeked from behind the crate. Two men stood in the forge—rough, scarred leather armor catching the fire’s faint glow. Even in the dim light, the color was unmistakable. Crimson.
Dravek’s men. Crimson Brand.
He hadn’t understood what that meant as a child. The implication landed now—harsh and sudden—cutting through the weave like a knife. Shock. Rage. Betrayal.
He could end the memory here—she sensed the choice hovering; the knowledge he’d gained already enough to answer the question that had haunted him since this day. But he pushed the horror aside, driving toward what came next.
He needed to know. All of it.
“You’ve been a briar in Dravek’s side for too long,” the larger man said, stepping close enough that the heat of the forge lit the scars across his jaw. “Where’s the boy?”
The second man moved to shove past Brannon, but his father planted himself—solid as stone—between them and his son. A barrier made of nothing but love and sheer will.
“Get out of my forge.”
“Not without that kid,” the man sneered, eyes scanning the cramped space until they caught the alcove in the back. “He’s been watching your boy. Not many here with fire in their veins. Sooner or later, he’ll be Brand.”
“I said get out,” he growled, voice low and deadly. “Now.”
In a flash, the second man lunged. Brannon ducked aside, plunged his hand into the still-hot coals, and flung them into the man’s face. He screamed, clawing at his eyes, flailing backward.
“You’re gonna regret that!” the first man snarled.
He swung wildly, his fist slammed into Brannon’s shoulder, knocking him against the bricks. Brannon grabbed the poker and swung. He wasn’t a fighter; he wasn’t trained to strike weak points. Not a man built for reading defenses—only for shaping metal and protecting his son.
Little Orzen ducked behind the crate again, but it was too late. The burned man spotted him. His face blistered and bubbled, one eye nearly melted shut—but the other stayed fixed on the boy.
“There you are,” the man spat, lurching forward.
Orzen scrambled back, bumping hard into the wash basin. Fear surged and with it, a bloom of heat beneath his skin—small and scared—fighting for release. He darted past the man, rolled to his feet, and ran toward the exit. Brannon and the other man were locked in a struggle over the poker.
The fighter saw Orzen and grinned.
“RUN!” Brannon shouted, eyes locking onto his son.
One heartbeat of distraction. But it was long enough.
The man wrenched the poker free and swung. It cracked against the back of Brannon’s skull with a sickening thud, sending him reeling sideways.
Orzen skidded to a halt as his father fell.
Hands clamped onto his shoulders, dragging him forward.
“Let me go!” Orzen shouted, panic rising.
The fire swelled beneath his skin, boiling, fighting him. He’d been taught to cage it; told it was dangerous to show his weaving in the Row. He tried to contain it now—gods, he tried—but the man didn’t stop. Da was hurt. He needed him.
Heat burst through Orzen’s fingertips, scorching the arm that held him. The man hissed in rage, hurled Orzen across the room, and into the table’s edge. A gash tore along the ridge above his eye. Pain burst across his brow. Hot blood ran down his face, blinding him. He rubbed it away with shaking fingers, but it kept coming.
“Uncle wants him alive, you halfwit!” the first man snarled, grabbing his partner by the collar and shoving him aside.
“He burned me!”
Orzen swayed, vision swimming as both men advanced. He tried to stand but his muscles wobbled like they were no longer under his control. The room tilted around him.
Brannon pushed to his feet—unsteady, blood running from the wound on his head down his shoulder—still trying to reach his son. A brief moment of hope curled in little Orzen’s chest.
His father was there. He’d be okay.
