about."

I gape at her, my mind now running a million miles a minute. She looks at me, completely oblivious.

There. I swear I can see it in her eyes. A light gleam. A flash of color. A beam of hope. But that can't be right, because if this was...Clarice, then I'd know. She wouldn't have cried, she never craves cheese, she would've begged for tarts...I swear I saw it - saw her, but I can't let that hope bloom yet. Not when we're walking into a trap that could have her losing everything all over again.

"Here." Mak's voice snaps me out of my thoughts, and I realize my mouth has been hanging open. I snap it shut and look up at the orange-haired wild woman. She offers Clarice a waterskin while watching me carefully. "You okay, Kat?"

I look between her and Clarice. "Fine. I just...fine."

"Okay," she says slowly, giving me another once over before turning to Clarice. "Nilsa says you need to stretch and move your muscles before we leave again."

Clare nods, standing while stuffing the last of the cheese in her mouth. "Talk to him," she points to me, and then they both walk off to where Darius and Rohana are already in a series of killing machine movements.

Sometimes I wish I was like them. Strong, dangerous, and handy with and without a blade. I'd totally do it if I had the motivation for fitness, but I don't. I'm sure a few more lessons aside from the defensive ones Lance has taught me wouldn't hurt, but I'm severely out of shape compared to all of them. Sure, I have a nice body, but that doesn't mean I'm able to run a mile or even half that without wheezing. I do have stamina, however, as years of having to go up and down staircases and constantly be in motion thanks to servitude helps with that. But that...Saints no. I wouldn't last.  

"Quick question." I roll my eyes as Gabe and Ethan plop down on the same rock Clarice was earlier occupying. "Out of the two of us, who is hotter?"

I turn to them, slowly, wondering where in heathens my life went oh so wrong that I somehow became friends with these two imbeciles. "We're walking into a rather large trap where the chances of several kingdoms losing their rulers is exponentially high unless we somehow stop them, and you're worried about which one of you is hotter?"

"The ball isn't for another four days. This is now," Ethan defends. He leans in, attempting to sway me his way by smirking seductively. "So? Who's hotter?"

"Leave her alone," Amel says, walking up to lean up against the tree.

"It's a simple question, and we need a girl's point of view."

"And just like that, I'm twelve again," I mumble.

"Fine, then answer this question. Which one of us would your rather fuck?"

"What?"

"I am so sorry," Amel apologizes.

"Oh, come on. If good ol' Lance wasn't in the picture, which one of us would you fuck?"

"Are you asking between you and your boyfriend, or between everyone in the Bhaltayr?" Ethan smiles, knowing my question means I have an answer. I mean, really. Which girl hasn't thought about one of the Bhaltayr and getting into bed with them? It's a conversation in my mind that runs here and there, so, of course, I already know my answer to the question.

"That Bhaltayr," he answers, clearly intrigued. I bite the inside of my lip and pretend to look over every single one of them slowly.

"Well...if he wasn't already screwing Claritia's head servant, Laya, then I'd probably go with Benny."

"What?"

"What!"

I smile innocently up at the three men who clearly didn't know of Benny's secret love affair.

"Bernard Sander Achard!" Gabe yells. "Get your horny ass over here!"

Everyone looks at Benny with raised eyebrows, and for half a second I feel bad for outing him. He walks over slowly, brows bowed. "What do you perverts want now?"

"Laya?" Amel answers sourly, looking dumbfounded at his brother.

Benny stares at him for a second, then abruptly turns to me. "How did you know?" How did he know that I knew?

"So it's true?'

I ignore Ethan and shrug. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, please. Men are idiots and never notice. Women, however, never miss a damn thing - especially you. So how'd you know?"

"You two can't be in the same room together without having sexual tension, and no one notices because these two dickheads are rather loud with their own desires, and Rohana and Henry carry enough sexual tension to fill the entire castle and another," I explain.

"That's fair," Gabe agrees.

"How is that fair?" Ethan demands, turning his body to face said other dickhead.  

"You do make a lot of dirty jokes."

"I make a lot of dirty jokes?"

"Yes!"

"How could you not tell me?" Amel asks his brother as Ethabe continues with their petty fight.

"It wasn't important," Benny defends, weakly.

"And now it is?"

"I don't have to tell you every damn detail of my life, Amel."

"This isn't just some small detail, Bernard."

The arguments take off, and I take out the stash of cheese cubes I had in my pocket and start munching on them while I watch the chaos unfold.
It is all too easy to manipulate men. I see now why it's women who should rule the world and not the men. Us women - or at least half of us - won't stutter if a man pulls down his pants. A King, however, would bow and praise a woman should she walk into his bedroom naked. I take that back. Not every King slash man would. Darius wouldn't - unless it was Clarice.

Ew, dirty pictures in my head.

They bicker until it draws the attention of the rest of the Bhaltayr, and when they hear the news about Benny and Laya, the fight turns to nine against one. Ethan and Gabe still carry their own argument, and they tried pulling me back into it, but I got them turned on one another again and then snuck away once I ran out of snacks.

I'm walking over to grab an apple from one of the packs on a horse when I spot who's standing nearby.

Willdred Maron.

There's no way in all of Ker that I'll ever get used to seeing him. I've never actually met let alone spoken to the man, but I feel as if I've known him before and can't help the urge to claw out his eyes. It's probably from having heard what he did to Rose from Lance and the fact that he not only violated Clare's privacy not once but twice, that has anger rolling inside me.
Then there's the part of me that wants to talk to him to figure out why in heathens Clare spared his life but killed Eleanor and Charles. He has yet to say much that hasn't had The Bhaltayr or The Ginerva shifting on their feet and twitching to launch at him and end his life.

Saints, I can't just stand here and keep staring at the ground like an idiot forever though. I'm hungry, and I'm really craving an apple, but all the apples are in one pack meant for the horses to eat and they won't miss one. But I can't look over at him and debate it because then Lance will know exactly what I'm thinking and then go over to the apples himself to get one for me. Of course, he and Will would somehow find a way to bicker and then fight, and then the water wolves will have to separate them because everyone else would gladly watch Lance murder Will. But if I go over there, he could very well turn a blade on me and end my life or use me as a bargaining chip or hostage or his next plaything. I glance over at Nilsa, Dee, and Mak who stand nearby keeping an eye on the small training session going on. They'd mist in and stop Will should he do anything stupid, and Darius would likely pull all the air out of his lungs before he could tell anyone to not take a step, or else he'll slit my throat.

A small heated pulse runs horizontally along my neck as if imagining a knife there.

My thumb runs along the cold metal handle of the sheathed dagger in my waistband, and all the rushed thoughts slowly fade away. It's always slow as if the touch of the knife isn't quite enough to make it all go away with the snap of someone's fingers, but just enough to remind me that there are better things in my world now.

Heathens. I've lived my life keeping my head down and not taking risks out of fear that if I did, I'd end up hanging at the end of a rope, but then Clare and Lance came and showed us that there's more to life than manners and staring at the ground.
I've lived in a protective bubble for years now. Let's make it interesting, shall we?

I know Lance is watching me, which is why I move quickly and try to walk at a semi-casual pace without trying to run, though I am a little anxious about all of this. I catch Nilsa's eye as I walk around one horse. I shake my head once, hoping it's enough to send the message that I'll be careful and I don't need her or anyone else to babysit me. Her jaw works as it always does when she hates an idea but knows she can handle the complications of it, but she gives a small dip of her chin and I want to smile broadly in victory. I feel her eyes bore into my back as I keep my whole front side facing him. I'm not going to let him sneak up behind me, though something tells me he still very well could.

Reaching into the pack to fish for an apple, I watch as he feeds some slices to the horse he's been riding. One hand holds the slices he feeds to it one by one, the other holding the small knife as he strokes its mahogany neck. I watch the hand with the knife closely, as well as trying to read his demeanor.

Saints, where are the fucking apples?

I keep digging, then move on to the next pack. The horse shifts on its feet as if annoyed that I'm trying to find some food.
My eyes move to his face, as they always do when curiosity hits, and I can't help but inspect the scar across his face. At first, I was happy that he feels that pain, but then I realized that scars don't hurt, they're just reminders. I hope he remembers that he deserved that pain, and much, much more. But now I can't help but wonder what Lance means when he says he has to finish the scar. I mean it's just a jagged diagonal line across his face. What's there to finish? Defacing him?

A chill runs up my spine at the resulting image if he did do that.

Then there are his eyes. I don't know, they're just...odd. They look ancient - not in the same way that Willa's does. Willa's look full of wisdom and strength. His, however, look old and worn, as if he's lived his life and he's just waiting for death to claim him peacefully in his sleep. It's strange, seeing how when Clarice is near him they tend to look a little bit clearer. I remember yesterday after they all left, his whole body seemed to deflate. It's odd. The closer she is, the more alive he seems. If she's far, he suddenly loses his life without actually dying.

What's wrong with him? He's supposed to be hateful and murderous and a thing I can easily hate and not wonder if there's some resemblance of a kind human still inside him. I hate him. He killed Rose, he tortured Clarice, and he's a demon mutt. I hate him. I loath him. He's hurt me and the people I care for. He doesn't deserve the benefit of the doubt. Heathens, he deserves nothing. He's owed nothing.

So then why did Clarice spare him?

It always comes back to that question. Why did she do it? What does she know yet not seem to fully remember?

"You're staring."
I blink, trying to figure out if he actually spoke, or if it's just the voice in my head. He glances at me, raising an eyebrow as if waiting for an answer. I'm going to go out on a limb and say he was actually talking to me.

I could answer, but my eyes snagged on how the scar scrunched when he raised his brow and I can't seem to help but wonder, again, if it hurts when he does that or if the skin just feels tight and pulls at the edges like another reminder of what's there and how he got it.

"And you're speechless. I must say, that's the first time in a long time that my mere presence has done that."

"And the last was when Clare and Arthur found you standing over Rose's bloody corpse," I snip harshly.

Something small falters in his expression, though the smirk stays in place and even tugs upward a bit. "Nope. They both had plenty to yell that day."

I've never heard him admit it - killing Rose. My eyes go back to his hand with the knife sitting easily between two fingers while he still strokes the mare's neck. She doesn't even flinch or is aware of how close he could be to ending her life.

He used that hand to carry a different blade that killed Rose and both her parents and hurt Lance in a way he didn't deserve. Jealousy led him to kill her. Jealousy about how she was fated with someone else when he loved her. I suppose you could relate if you thought about it that way, but then there's the fact that he slept with Clarice and killed Rose the next morning. That's not necessarily the way to tell a woman that you're still hung up on your ex. That's no way at all to do anything, really.

Fucking demented man.

"You look like her. Like Rose." My eyes snap up to his, both fists balling up. There's sadness in his eyes, but I don't give a fuck. He's the cause of his own pain and the seriously far more destroyed pain of others. What the fuck is he sad about? He did it.

"Shut up," I whisper. They seem to be the only words I can currently get out.

The corner of his mouth twitches up, scrunching the scar again. "I suppose Arthur has a type."

"Shut up." My words come up clearly and hard this time, and it catches his attention.

"Sorry." He looks back at the ground. "I'm still getting the hang of appropriate small talk."

"Clearly."

He stares at me for a moment, then his eyes roam to my arm which is partially disappeared within the saddlebag. My hand is too busy trying not to swing at his pretty face to keep searching for the apple, so it's just me standing slightly on my toes with half of my arm in a bag. Some badass I must look like.

"If you're looking for the apples, they're in the last bag." He nods to the third bag that I would've moved onto next, only now I'm not so sure that's a good idea. I glance at the bag, then over to him and down at his feet. It's a short distance between him and the bag. Too short.
He follows my gaze to his feet, and mine snap back up to his face, keeping an eye on his shoulders for a tell that he'll move for me. I have little confidence that I'll be able to find it before he moves, but I'm still going to try.

A small laugh comes from him when he notices that I've taken note of his close and dangerous distance to the third pack. "I suppose I'd be a little disappointed if Arthur's new girl wasn't cautious of just how close she got to me."

I try not to let my anger completely lash out at the sound of his voice saying 'Arthur's new girl.'

"Don't flatter yourself. You'd be a corpse before you could so much as brush my skin." He looks over my shoulder where everyone else who isn't sparring has gone rather quiet. I don't have to look to know that they're all watching him and his every breath right now. They're all overprotective bastards, but they're my overprotective bastards.

"So it would seem." He moves, but it's slow. I flinch out of instinct, thinking he was going to make a move against me. Instead, he raises his right hand, palm exposed to me. His other hand with the knife goes to the horse's mouth. "Hold this for me, would you?"

I almost lose it when the mare takes the handle of the knife in her mouth and holds it there. Then she turns and walks off. Never in my entire life would I have believed you if you told me that I would one day see a horse casually walking about with a knife in its mouth. Let alone obey someone's askance of taking it from them.

A sudden movement has my head snapping back to Will, only he's backing away, not walking toward me. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"First off, don't talk to me like some scared stray dog. Secondly, I don't trust a single word in that sentence, and I'm smart enough to know that even with you that far away, you'd still get to me before I could turn and raise a finger to stop you from stabbing me in the heart like a cold-hearted asshole."

He opens his mouth, but then decides against it and closes it. For a moment he looks sad again, but then a tentative smile plays on his lips. Gods, it's hard trying to follow how quickly his emotions change back and forth.

"I see Clarice rubbed off on you. She always had that effect on people. She showed them how strong they really were, and then made sure they embraced it."

"She's not dead."

"No shit," he says flatly.

"Then stop using the past reference when talking about her. She's not gone."

"Even if you somehow got her memory back, she will never be the person she was. Parts of the old her may come back, but never the whole. What happened to her...what I did...that changes someone."

"I know that." He nods, and I fist whatever hard object is in the bag and imagine it's his throat. "Though I wouldn't have to know that if you had just died two years ago."

"Three."

"What?"

"It was three years ago," he corrects, expression turning distant. "Well...three years and four days, to be exact." My confusion must be written on my face. "It was three years and four days ago when Rose...when it happened. She died on Polvis of the third cycle in the month of Brumous. Four days ago."

Four...Gods and their Saints. That's why Lance has been distant.

"You didn't know?" I shake my head in answer to Will's question, not knowing what to say. I want to turn around and apologize to Lance and tell him that I'm here for him and that it was probably stupid of me to give him serious deja vu and walk anywhere near Will at this point in time. "Sorry. I...I thought he would've told you."

I have the urge to snap at him, but my guilt overrules it. "He didn't," I say with no bite in my words. "I mean, he said it was two years ago when we met, but I forgot..."

"Funny. I never forget." I look up at him then, finding his palms still held up and his eyes on mine. There's that sad look again, and I keep waiting for the small smile that follows, but it doesn't come.

I wonder if the part of him that loved Rose was different than the man he became to murder her. It's a stupid question, really, as someone who loves someone else could never murder the other, but what would drive him to do it? Jealousy is the obvious choice - heathens, I accused it of being minutes ago, but there has to be something else.

Jealousy aside, he supposedly fell in love with Clare after Rose and Lance were fated, so what was with the whole stabby bad guy switch overnight? The man standing here, looking me in the eyes with pain as he thinks about that day three years and four days ago - someone who keeps track of the exact date, - doesn't look like someone who would've willingly killed a woman he loved. Call me crazy, but that's just what my guts say, even if my mind is telling me that he's an unhinged psychotic who could be easily playing with me and toying with emotions to get me to feel sympathy for him.

Saints I'm going to get another headache.

His whole body tenses in a second, his eyes drifting behind me. My own body locks up, ready for his attack and praying that Nilsa will mist in front of me and save my sorry ass.

"Duck," he says, still staring behind me.

"What?"

His eyes go wide. "Duck."

The urgency and panic in his voice have me moving on command, falling into a crouch, and throwing my hands over my head. Something whistles over me and the sound of dirt rustling has my eyes opening. I spot his shoes in front of me, and I launch upward, hoping my skull will