Archive of Our Own

Coen

“Steep, though I’ve climbed steeper.”

Coen took several paces backward, hands on his hips as he studied the rocky hill separating him from the dueling site near Maragir.

The abandoned monastery sat atop it like a dark, jagged crown against the night sky. Most of the old structure had long since fallen into ruin, leaving crumbling walls and the remains of a bell tower jutting from the summit. What little moonlight reached the landscape came and went behind wispy clouds, occasionally revealing scattered stars before swallowing them again.

Perfect for hunting, a voice in his head whispered. 

He ignored it. 

A cool wind swept over the hillside. Coen pulled his short cloak tighter around himself before letting it fall against his shoulders again. The chill barely registered through the unnatural warmth that seemed to live beneath his skin now, his blood poisoned by the fang lodged in his heart. In this form, his body no longer reacted to the elements as it did during the day. 

Adapting to the changes each night and morning was draining. If he could not find some balance between the two, it was going to become a serious problem.

He reached up to test the knot in his hair. He had worn it half-up since his days working in the mines, and it still served him well. Better than constantly fighting loose strands out of his face. 

His armor was equally practical: dark leather reinforced across the chest and shoulders, light enough that it did not hinder his movement. Even if he could have afforded something better (which he most certainly could not) Coen preferred what he had. 

He had been advised to dress his best tonight, but he had not come here to impress anyone. 

He had come here to kill a monster. 

Boyar Ambrus had chosen the place for their duel. 

Apparently, they were going to settle their “differences” like civilized Vrakhiri rather than uncivilized brutes, as Ambrus had once referred to him. 

The request itself was ridiculous. 

Ambrus had stood alongside Brencis and the other Vrakhiri who descended upon their valley. He had helped burn Laslea. Men Coen had known all his life had died in those mines before they had the chance to fight back. Friends he had shared meals with and worked beside in the fields were gone. 

Ambrus had been there. Then he had moved on as though the destruction meant nothing. 

Coen had not. 

The Boyar could dress himself in fine armor and speak of civilized behavior all he liked. There was still innocent blood beneath it. 

And now he wanted a civilized duel. 

Coen did not trust him to play fair. 

Ambrus was a former soldier with years of swordsmanship and combat behind him. Coen had been a Vrakhir for less than two weeks and had only a handful of proper lessons with a sword. His father had taught him what he could, but that was hardly the same as facing a man who had spent years preparing for war.

Ambrus knew exactly how uneven the match was. That was probably the point, Coen assumed. 

He could have killed Coen himself at any time during the past few weeks while Coen traveled alone through the wilderness. Instead, he had arranged a duel before his court and peers.

It was not merely about settling their differences or punishing Coen for disrupting his blood transports.

Ambrus wanted a show. 

Fine. 

Coen planned to give him one. 

Which was why he was late.

The poison ritual had taken longer than expected, leaving him no time for the winding path around the hill. He had been forced to take the steeper route instead, breaking through dense foliage and disturbing more than one woodland creature that seemed determined to take its displeasure out on him. 

He could have taken the path anyway. 

He also could have shifted into his shadowwolf form and made the journey in half the time, but after his last transformation left him stuck as a wolf, Coen was not eager to repeat the experience.

And he could not delay another day. 

Not when Ambrus had already decided to crucify innocent men simply because Coen had been late. 

So. Up the cliff it was. Even if he arrived an hour past midnight, the annoyance it caused Ambrus would almost make the trouble worthwhile. Besides, the climb did not look that bad. 

He could do this.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered. 

Coen lifted his arms, fixing his attention on the first boulder he intended to reach. Black mist and whispers swallowed him. 

A heartbeat later, he emerged atop the stone. His boots immediately began to slide. Coen caught himself against the rock before his feet went out from beneath him. The stone was slick with moisture. Moss covered the flatter surfaces, while exposed roots twisted through the cracks like blackened fingers.

He looked down. 

Moss. That was all. Nothing that should stop him. 

All he needed to do was watch his footing, avoid overshooting his jumps, and conserve his stamina. 

Again, he could do this. 

Coen raised his hands and dissolved into shadow once more, letting the darkness carry him toward the next ledge. 

The Guardsmen

High above, in the ruins of the roofless bell tower overlooking the wilderness below, a soldier dutifully surveyed the landscape.

A few torches sputtered in iron brackets along the broken stone walls, their flames bending whenever the wind reached them. Beyond the ruins, the countryside disappeared into darkness. The occasional distant glow of a hearth or torch marked the roads below, while the monastery grounds remained mostly silent.

Boyar Ambrus was expecting another Vrahkir tonight.

The other Vrahkir, a fledgling named Coen, had been a pain in everyone’s arse for days. Prisoner transports attacked. Blood camps ruined. Smaller outposts along the roads cleared out one after another.

At first, their Boyar had found it funny. He had even laughed at the young Vrahkir’s bold defiance.

Then three important blood camps went down and an entire supply line with them.

He stopped laughing.

Now every runner arriving with a sealed message made the men nearby go quiet. No one wanted to guess what new trouble the parchment contained, much less what mood it would put their Boyar in.

Ambrus was not difficult to read when he was angry. Surviving that anger was another matter. If they could just get rid of this Coen of Laslea, perhaps things would go back to normal.

Well. As normal as things ever were under Boyar Ambrus.

They would still have to watch their mouths and keep out of arm’s reach when he was in a foul mood, but at least they would not have some half-trained fledgling making that mood worse every other night. 

So when the soldier heard a curse from somewhere below, followed by the skittering of pebbles and what sounded like metal grinding against stone, he assumed the other men assigned to the ruins were finding some way to entertain themselves. 

He circled the tower and peered over the other side. His fellow soldiers were still lounging below.

Another scrape cut through the night. This time, he caught where it came from, on the far side of the ruins, where the hillside dropped sharply toward the glade below.

The soldier leaned over the broken wall. Then leaned a little farther. He rubbed his tired eyes.

The boy. Coen of Laslea.

The young Vrahkir their Boyar had spent the last several days cursing and, on occasion, inexplicably praising was currently attempting to scale the steep hillside upon which the ruins stood. 

“What in the bloody…” 

The soldier looked around as though someone else might confirm he was actually seeing this. 

What the hell was the boy doing? There was a path on the western side of the hill. Steep enough to make a man’s legs ache, certainly, but a damn sight easier than climbing the cliff.

Was he trying to sneak up on them? The soldier considered it for a moment. 

No. That made no bloody sense. 

Their Boyar had ordered them to wait until Coen rang the bell to announce his arrival. The toll would summon Ambrus to the ruins. And if the boy meant to sneak up on anyone, the only people waiting here were a handful of tired guards hardly worth the trouble. 

Still... 

Coen was a Vrahkir. He could bleed a man dry. Better not to take chances.

The soldier hurried to the tower stairs and leaned over the railing.

“Oi!”

The guard stationed near the entrance looked up.

“Get up here!”

The man below threw his arms out as if to ask what he was on about. 

“Oh, for the love of-! Just come!”

He kept his voice low enough that he hoped the fledgling clinging to the hillside would not hear him.

The guard seemed to shake his head before he disappeared through the doorway. It took him several minutes to climb the winding stairs, the weight of his gear not helping his climb. By the time he emerged, he was breathing heavily and already scowling.

“Fuckin’ hell. This better be worth it. Those stairs are one rotten board away from killing somebody.” 

The tower guard jerked his head toward the broken wall. “Come look.”

Grumbling, the other man crossed the tower and peered over the edge. For several heartbeats, he said nothing.

Then he straightened.

“There’s a man down there!”

“Aye.”

The guard pointed. “On the rocks! There!”

“I know.” 

“Then why’d you drag me up here?”

“Look properly.”

The guard did. His expression changed.

“Ah, shit. Is that him? The Coen fellow?”

“Aye. That's the Coen of Laslea.”

The guard stared down again.

“What’s he doin’?”

“Trying to climb.”

And trying was a very accurate word for it. 

Together, they watched as Coen suddenly disappeared into a swirl of black mist.

Both men had seen their Boyar do the same often enough. Ambrus could vanish into those shadows and emerge exactly where he intended, sometimes without appearing to give the distance so much as a thought. Blood moths fluttered in his wake, and every movement looked effortless. 

Coen... was another matter.

The fledgling reappeared just beyond a jutting rock he had apparently meant to land on. Both soldiers watched him drop. Claws scraped loudly against stone, and somehow, he caught himself. Coen hung there for a moment before beginning the humiliating task of hauling himself back up. 

Neither soldier spoke for several long beats. 

One scratched at the scruff on his cheek. 

“He’s kinda shit at it.” 

“Aye.” 

Below, Coen dragged himself onto the rock. He stayed there for a few moments before the shadows swallowed him again. 

“Too far,” the tower guard muttered. 

Coen reappeared past that of the next ledge and struck the rock hard enough that both men winced. 

“Knew it.” 

The fledgling caught himself before he could fall far, claws biting into the stone. A particularly explicit curse echoed up the hillside.

The two soldiers glanced at each other. 

Coen tried again.

This time he reached the ledge. 

“Huh. Would you look at that." 

“Think he’ll make the next one?”

The tower guard considered the distance.

“Not a chance.” 

Coen vanished.

He appeared atop the next rock, wobbled for a few seconds, then caught his balance. 

The guard frowned. “Well, fuck me.”

His companion snorted.

For a while, neither man moved from the wall.

The fear that had accompanied the first sight of Coen of Laslea had faded somewhere around his third failed attempt. The dangerous fledgling who had been attacking blood camps and disrupting transports was still down there, certainly. At the moment, however, he seemed to be losing a fight with a hill.

Another shadowstep. 

Another scrape of claws. 

Another curse. 

“The sun’ll beat him up here at this rate.”

“That’s six hours off.” 

“Aye.” 

They watched Coen pull himself onto another ledge.

“Might be close.” 

Silence settled between them again. Then the second guard shifted. 

“Should we tell the Boyar?”

Neither man answered. They looked down at Coen. Then at each other.

“You tell him.”

“Fuck off. You saw him first.”

Below, another curse rang through the darkness. Both men leaned over the wall again. Coen had somehow ended up several feet lower than where he had started.

The tower guard sighed. 

After everything they had heard about Coen’s ventures through the valley, and his apparent determination to make their Boyar’s existence as difficult as possible, one thing about the young Vrahkir had become painfully clear.

He was stubborn. VERY stubborn. 

The guard watched Coen steady himself against the rock and prepare for yet another shadowstep.

They really were going to be here all night. 

Coen

Coen cursed for what felt like the hundredth time. 

Who would have thought climbing a rock wall covered in various edges and handholds would somehow be more challenging than scaling a flat, ninety-degree wall.

He had thought, quite incorrectly and apparently far too cockily, that his newly acquired abilities would allow him to claw and shadowstep his way upward with little to no trouble. At least within the hour.

His leather armor rubbed painfully against his ribs as he shifted his weight against the cliffside. The straps that usually sat comfortably around his torso had become another irritation, digging into him whenever he stretched for the next handhold.

He hadn’t been practicing his abilities every night, afraid of becoming almost reliant on the increased speed and strength they granted him. The error of that was starting to become apparent. 

He had been scared to push himself. Never comfortable in his new skin. 

As a human, exhaustion had been something he understood. He could train around that. Knew what his body could and couldn’t do. 

As a Vrakhir, he had begun expecting his body to obey similarly. 

Tonight it was reminding him that it had limits of its own. 

Rock skittered past him and bounced the long distance below.

His arms shook. His claws seemed to lock involuntarily into the crevice where he had perched himself.

The wind curled around the cliff, cool and without the usual sting against his face like it had during the day. 

Below, the dark countryside stretched away beneath the drifting clouds. From this height the roads looked like faint scars across the land, his improved eyes able to make out where the occasional torch marked the movement of a late traveler. 

Prey, the voice came again. 

Coen groaned and looked toward the next jutting edge he had planned to jump to. It felt impossible now. His stamina was gone and he could go no higher. 

He did not fear the fall from this height. It was the thought of having to climb all the way back up that agitated him.

He was just about to release his hold and let his claws guide him down when he felt it.

A whisper of familiarity.

A connection that existed outside blood and flesh. A bond between him and another that was somehow stronger despite never receiving the proper nourishment such bonds should require.

A bond that had been forced upon him. Something he did not want. Something he could not break, no matter how badly he wished he could.

Black mist burst into existence to his right.

The air shifted.

An owl's song ceased mid-hoot.

The insects' chittering cries died down.

"If this is your idea of a grand entrance, brother, I’m embarrassed for you."

He looked up. 

And there was Ambrus. 

The Boyar crouched effortlessly on a ledge several feet above him, as though the sheer drop beneath his boots were of no concern at all. While Coen had spent the better part of the climb clawing his way up the rock face, Ambrus looked perfectly at home on it. 

His armor caught the moonlight whenever the clouds shifted, making it irritatingly difficult not to admire. Heavy chainmail covered his arms and shoulders beneath plates of dark metal edged in gold. More gold curled across the blackened chest piece in elaborate patterns, ornamental enough to border on vanity without making the armor appear any less formidable. Leather straps held everything close to his frame, and not a buckle or plate seemed out of place.  

It was beautifully crafted and unmistakably expensive. The sort of armor made by a smith who had been paid exceedingly well and probably feared for his life if the finished work failed to impress. 

The armor belonged to a soldier.

The quality of it belonged to a Boyar.

Ambrus wore both identities without distinction.

His shoulder length blonde hair spilled loosely around his face and over the armor at his shoulder plates, the long strands catching silver whenever the moon escaped the clouds.

His face was as arrogant as Coen remembered. The scars were harder to ignore at this distance. Burn scars pulled at the skin along one side of Ambrus's face, creeping from the bottom of his jaw toward his cheeks and disappearing beneath the edge of his hair.

They had not faded with time after his transformation into a Vhakir. They never would.

For all the fine armor and polished steel, there was still something in those scars that hinted at the poor human he had once been.

A lowly soldier. 

A man who had owned little.

A man who had eventually ceased being human altogether.

Ambrus had embraced what came after.

Coen had spent every waking moment hating it.

The difference between them felt enormous. And somehow, looking at Ambrus now, Coen hated him more for it.

His next decision was really a poor one, and Coen should have known better. Too bad his agitation was too high, and being in an extremely vulnerable position had pushed him into action.

So when he released his grip on the handhold to reach for his sword, he realized too late that his feet were not as steady as he had believed. 

His eyes went wide.

Gravity took hold.

Above him, crouched low on the ledge with his forearms resting atop his knees, Ambrus stared down at him with an almost disappointed expression, as though he expected more. 

Coen dug his claws deeper into the stone to slow his descent. His arms shook from the effort required to catch his weight. If he could still sweat in his Vrakhir form, his face would have been speckled with it, likely impairing his vision.

“I take it that wasn’t intentional.” Ambrus raised a pale, unimpressed eyebrow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Coen hissed. He exhaled deeply out of habit, trying to keep his anger in check. “What are you doing here?” 

“The same as you, I presume. Our duel.” Ambrus tilted his head. “Though perhaps my instructions were not clear about where this duel was to take place. Had I known you were illiterate, I would have drawn a pretty little map for you to follow.” 

Coen startled and itched to reach for his sword again when Ambrus suddenly shadowstepped behind him to a high oak branch stretching far from the trunk.

The branch swayed beneath his weight. Ambrus did not so much as glance down. He kept his distance while positioning himself at roughly the same eye level.

“I know how to read,” Coen snapped. “I was making my way there. If you want to fight here instead, then by all means. Just you and me. No audience to stroke your ego.”

Ambrus rolled his eyes.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. You are as insolent as you are brash. Forget the spectacle I promised my soldiers and consider your present dignity. You cling to this cliff like some coinless, unclothed soldier making a hasty escape from a noblewoman’s chamber before her husband discovers their romantic tryst, yet still you fancy yourself ready for a proper duel.”

It was such an absurd comparison that Coen was left speechless. The ache in his limbs became an afterthought as he tried to understand the similarities.

For the life of him, he could not.

How in the hell did Ambrus come up with that?

Unless…

“Is this from experience?” Coen could not help himself. The image of the powerful Boyar Ambrus as a human dressed in nothing but his underclothes, swaying helplessly from a clothesline while townspeople chortled at him below, was strangely amusing.

Ambrus had a twinkle in his eyes that Coen did not quite like.

“I never cared to conceal my escapades when I was younger. Where was the fun in that? Watching some highborn fool discover that a poor soldier had been fucking his wife was almost as enjoyable as the fucking itself. The outrage, the disbelief, that look on his face when he realized precisely who had put his hands on her - it was priceless.”

Coen scrunched up his nose. “You’re revolting.”

Ambrus took a step back to lean against the tree trunk, crossing his arms and shrugging as though completely unbothered.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was consensual, if that is what troubles you. She was quite willing, I assure you.”

Coen opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. Yes, of course it mattered if the woman had willingly participated. That simply had not been what he meant.

“I regret my curiosity on the matter,” Coen muttered. He reached for a jutting rock and took a leap upward, grasping it. “I would much rather discuss how we are both here to kill one another.”

“Are you really that prudish, or is it knowing a little more about your older brother that has you so uncomfortable? We are going to kill one another soon enough, Coen. Surely you can survive a little conversation first.” 

Coen did not bother looking over his shoulder at the other Vrakhir. The answer was more than obvious. 

“You are not my brother.”

“Oh, I see.” Ambrus sounded as though everything had suddenly fallen into place. “You think denying the truth of our rather sudden familial bond will make it easier for you to slay me. Understandable. The notion of brothers being forced to kill one another must sit rather poorly with you, especially after what happened to your first brother. You were the one who survived, after all. I imagine it is difficult to forget when you were unable to save him.”

Coen froze. 

“Little Alin.” Ambrus's voice softened almost mockingly. “Remind me of his age when you killed him. You may call it failing to save him if that makes sleeping easier.”

Coen’s claws dug deeper into the rock.

For one suspended heartbeat, he went utterly still. Ambrus had asked it so casually, almost lazily, that the words struck harder than any insult. Alin’s name tore through him, dragging the memory of his deceased  brother into the space between them.

He knew exactly what Ambrus was doing.

He was baiting him.

Coen didn't care.

His anger surged hot and vicious through his veins, drowning out exhaustion, pain, and every scrap of reason he had left. With the last bit of stamina, aided by his rage, Coen catapulted backward and shadowstepped midair toward where he knew Ambrus was standing.

His claws sank into the tough bark of the tree instead of his intended target.

Quick bastard.

Ambrus reappeared on the cliffside in a flourish of shadow. The corners of his scarred lips were already pulling upward. 

Coen hissed, baring his fangs as he tried to pull his claws free from the bark.

"Such fury. And I merely asked a question."

Coen's teeth ached with the urge to sink them into flesh. His entire body was drawn taut as a bowstring, every muscle straining against the fury building inside him. With a vicious tug, he wrenched one clawed hand free from the bark.

“Don't you dare,” he snarled, his voice trembling with barely restrained rage. “Don't you fucking dare speak of him. Or anyone in my family!” 

Ambrus tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he were making some halfhearted effort to suppress a smile. 

“Very well. Little Alin is forbidden. Your poor dead mother too, I suppose. Do let me know when I run out of corpses to mention.” 

Coen roared. 

He tore his remaining claws from the tree, sending splinters scattering across the rock, and hurled himself at Ambrus. 

The Boyar laughed. 

Coen’s claws swept through empty air. Ambrus had vanished into shadow an instant before they could find his throat.

“You wanted a duel, so stand your ground and fight me!”

Coen wheeled around, searching the darkness between the trees. His breath rasped in his ears. Somewhere above him, Ambrus’s laughter drifted through the branches, too faint to betray his position. 

Then the shadows gathered a few paces away. 

Ambrus stepped out of them, unhurried, his smile still in place. He made no move to draw his sword. He merely stood there, close enough to tempt Coen into another charge, with the infuriating ease of a man who knew he could disappear before the first blow landed. 

If he was going to underestimate Coen, then by all means.

Let it be his downfall.

Ambrus had one boot on a jutting edge and held himself against the rockwall with only his right hand.

The breeze caught his hair. He allowed himself to sway with it, utterly unperturbed by the height that he dangled. His armor should have been a hindrance in his movements. Instead, he moved as though he had been born wearing it. In fact, it could have been what he was “reborn” in. 

“I fear you have yet to grasp what a duel is meant to be. Though I suppose expecting refinement from one raised as you were is asking rather a lot.”

Again, Coen leapt.

Again, he caught nothing but a handful of smoke.

He quickly planted one foot and grabbed the handhold he had observed Ambrus use before the Boyar escaped yet again.

The blonde revealed himself higher up the wall.

“Too slow, Coen.” His smile widened. “Say, was this Alin older or younger than you? As your new brother, I would be taking his spot. I do hope I can fill that void.”

“I said that’s enough!”

Coen shadowstepped. He felt his body move faster than before, but he materialized just as Ambrus escaped again.

The last thing Coen saw was the amused gleam in the other Vrakhir's moon-reflecting eyes.

They continued like that for several minutes. 

Jumping through shadows. 

Taunting. 

Never landing a blow. 

Ambrus always came to a halt whenever Coen needed to recover his strength, then waited until the younger Vrakhir had regained enough stamina to continue their game.

The waiting irritated Coen almost as much as the taunts. Ambrus never attacked during those pauses. He merely stood there, watching. Observing. 

Coen's lungs no longer needed to work as hard as once had, yet he still found himself breathing heavily from habit. His body ached beneath the leather armor. Every muscle screamed from the repeated jumps.

Ambrus stood above him, scarcely winded. The night breeze stirred his blond hair, and a faint smile still lingered on his ruined lips.

Beyond his shoulder, Coen could see the cliff’s edge. The dark line of stone cut across the starless sky, close enough now that he could make out the tufts of grass bending in the wind.

One more jump.

That was all it would take. He would tackle the bastard, drag him down onto solid ground, and finally put an end to this wretched game.

Ambrus glanced toward the ledge, then back at Coen. His smile widened, eyes glowing, as though he were inviting him to try. The prick had not so much as bared his fangs. Not once. He wasn’t taking any of this seriously. 

Coen’s arms trembled with the effort of holding himself against the cliff. His palms stung where his claws had scraped through stone and bark, and each breath dragged cold air into his aching chest. He dug his feet into a narrow foothold and gathered what strength he had left.

One last jump.

He launched himself upward, boots skidding against the rock as he pushed away from the cliff face. Wind rushed past his ears. He reached for the shadows, felt their familiar chill close around him, and stepped through them at the very instant his momentum carried him toward Ambrus.

For a heartbeat, he thought he had him.

Ambrus’s smile vanished. His entire expression fell. The mirth was replaced by surprise. Then his eyes widened, fixing on something beyond Coen’s shoulder.

Something was wrong.

Coen felt it a moment later - the sudden absence of stone beneath his feet, the empty air where the ledge should have been. His jump had been too short. 

“COEN!”

The shout cut through the wind, tripped of its usual mockery. 

Coen turned toward the cry, but the cliff was already slipping away. An outstretched hand reached for him from above, its fingers closing on empty air.

His stomach lurched.

He was falling fast and heavy. 

Wind tore at his hair and whistled past his ears, swallowing the scrape of the tip of his boots against the cliff face. He reached for the shadows, but his exhausted body refused to answer. The whispers didn’t come. The last narrow ledge flashed past, far beyond the reach of his claws.

He had pushed too far away from the wall. Far enough that there was no ledge to catch, no branch to grab, nothing within reach if something went wrong.

And, of course, it had. 

He’d misjudged it. Badly. 

All because he’d been so damned eager to get his hands on that smug bastard. 

“Fuck!”

The word vanished into the rushing air.

Below him, the dark hillside rose to meet him. He could make out pale stretches of exposed stone between the trees, their branches shivering in the night wind. The ground looked horribly solid.

The fall would not kill him. At least, he doubted it would.

After such a spectacularly stupid mistake, he might have preferred that it did.

His new Vrakhir body had survived blades, claws, and teeth almost every night since his transformation. He healed faster now, but the wounds hurt no less for it. He still remembered every cut, every bite, every sickening moment before torn flesh began to knit itself together.

And this would be worse.

He had seen what happened to men who fell from the towers he had fought his way up to. He remembered the dull crack of bodies striking the earth, the limbs bent at impossible angles, the blood spreading beneath them.

Now the ground was rushing toward him, and there was nothing left to catch.

Coen threw his arms over his head. He knew it would do him no good. The ground rushed up to meet him. He caught a glimpse of pale rock, dark grass, and the crooked roots of a tree jutting from the hillside.

Then something struck him from the side.

An arm locked around his middle, wrenching him out of his fall. Before he could twist toward whoever had caught him, the air filled with whispers. Not the familiar murmur of shadows answering his call.

These voices were foreign, insistent, closing in from every direction.

Cold swallowed him. It sank through his skin and into his bones as the world vanished around him. His stomach lurched more violently this time. For one sickening instant, it felt as though his skeleton had been dragged sideways while the fleshy parts of him struggled to follow.

Coen tried to cry out, but the sound caught in his throat. 

Then the shadows released him. 

He struck the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth, though not with the bone-shattering force he had expected. Something solid was tangled around him, and the two of them went rolling across the hillside. Dry leaves crackled beneath his back. His shoulder clipped a stone, sending a fresh burst of pain down his arm, before they finally came to a stop in a patch of flattened grass. 

For several moments, Coen could do nothing but lie there in a daze. 

The night seemed to tilt above him. Wisps of cloud slid across the stars, and the dark outline of the cliff swam in and out of focus. He could hear the wind moving through the trees, the faint rattle of loose pebbles settling nearby, and someone or something moving at his side.

Coen tried to turn his head and a sharp pulse of pain made him think better of it. Warmth trickled past his temple. He lifted a hand and wiped at it, bringing his fingers away slick with blood.

Of course he had split his head open. He had expected worse, admittedly. A great deal worse. Still, he could have done without the sensation of his skull trying to tear itself in two.

He carefully felt along his scalp until his fingertips found a long gash near the crown of his head. The wound throbbed beneath his touch.

It would heal.

Eventually.

He would need fresh blood first. And before that, he needed the hillside to stop spinning long enough for him to work out what the hell had just happened. 

Coen groaned loudly and laid his left forearm across his eyes. A mistake, as pain shot from his wrist to his elbow, sharp enough to make him suck air through his teeth.  Broken, then. Wonderful.

“My sentiments exactly.” 

Coen lowered his arm. His eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up. Something cracked beneath his ribs.

“Fuck!”

He dropped back into the flattened grass, clutching his side as the pain spread through his chest. Another injury for the collection.

For a moment, he lay still, listening to the wind hiss through the leaves overhead. The damp earth smelled of crushed grass and moss. Somewhere nearby, a loose stone clicked down the slope.

Then he forced his aching neck toward the voice. 

Ambrus sat scarcely three feet away.

The Boyar’s armor had survived the fall better than Coen would have expected. Several plates bore fresh paint chips, and long scratches cut through their polished surfaces. One shoulder guard sat crookedly, its edge pressing against the dark fabric beneath it.

His hair, however, had suffered a far more grievous fate. Leaves and twigs were tangled in the blonde strands. A clump of moss clung stubbornly near his temple. Ambrus plucked it free, stared at it with open disgust, and flicked it into the grass.

“Oh, splendid,” he muttered, drawing another leaf from his hair. “Do you have any idea how long it will take to get this filth out?”

He ran his fingers through the tangled locks, only to catch them on a twig. His scarred face tightened with irritation.

Coen stared.

Ambrus was here. Sitting beside him, covered in dirt and debris, as though he had taken the same tumble down the hillside.

But that made no sense.

The last Coen had seen of him, Ambrus had been standing above the cliff. Then something had seized him in midair, and the shadows had dragged him sideways, and then -  

Coen looked at the dented armor. The ruined hair. The churned strip of earth where two bodies had rolled to a stop. 

He turned back to Ambrus, who was still trying to free the twig. 

“You…” Coen began. 

Ambrus gave it an impatient tug. 

Coen almost forgot what he had been about to say.

“How did you fall?”

Ambrus pulled a long twig from his tangled hair. Several golden strands came away with it. He stared at them then flung the twig into the darkness.

“I did not fall, you buffoon. You did.”

Coen frowned. That much he remembered, unfortunately. He also remembered Ambrus standing at the top of the cliff, well beyond his reach. 

Yet here he was, sitting in the flattened grass beside him. 

Coen studied the fresh dents in the Boyar’s armor. One of the plates near his shoulder had been knocked askew, and a dark stain was spreading through the fabric beneath it. 

He drew a careful breath. 

Blood. His own was sharp in his nostrils, but there was another scent beneath it, mingled with damp earth and crushed grass. 

Ambrus was bleeding. 

Coen looked from the damaged armor to the Boyar’s face. Ambrus had been safely above him. He should still have been there, looking down with that infuriating smile. Instead, he was down here, injured, and apparently more concerned about a few lost hairs than the fact that he had just…?

Coen rolled onto his side to face him, pain flaring beneath his ribs. He hissed and stopped moving. 

Ambrus’s glowing eyes flicked toward his chest. 

“By all means, keep doing that. I am certain your ribs will mend themselves out of sheer irritation.” 

“You were at the top,” Coen said through his teeth. “I saw you there.” 

“Your eyesight has not suffered, then. How reassuring.” 

“And now you’re here. Your armor’s damaged. I can smell your blood.” 

Ambrus glanced down at the stain beneath his shoulder plate. His mouth tightened before he looked away. 

“Very observant, dear Coen. Shall we spend the rest of the night naming things you can see and smell, or do you intend to arrive at a point?” 

Coen let his thoughts go back to the fall. The cold. The violent wrench of being dragged through someone else’s shadowstep. His gaze dropped to the torn grass between them, then returned to Ambrus. 

“Did you… catch me?”

Ambrus’s expression soured.

“Don’t sound so astonished.” He glanced down at the dirt smeared across his armor with growing disgust. “If you hadn’t flung yourself halfway into the valley, neither of us would be sitting in the dirt.

Coen wiped the blood from his brow with his sleeve. A few strands of dark brown hair had escaped his half-up bun and stuck to the wet skin beside his eye. He shoved them back, then propped himself on his good elbow.

“Stop avoiding the question, you pretentious prick.”

Ambrus brushed a clump of dirt from his breastplate. It left a muddy streak over the golden swirls across the once-polished metal.

“I was under the impression that I had answered it.” 

“You told me I missed the jump.”

“And what a spectacular miss it was.” 

“I know I missed it!” Coen snapped. His ribs protested the effort, and he lowered himself a little before continuing. “I’m - ugh! I guess I’m asking why you came after me!”

Ambrus went still.  

Only for a moment. Then he examined the scrape across his breastplate as though it were a far more pressing concern. 

“Because you fell, you witless little fool.” 

“That isn’t an answer.” 

“It is the only one you’re getting.” Ambrus sneered. 

Coen stared at him.

The Boyar’s pale face was set in a scowl. His blond hair, usually falling in immaculate waves about his shoulders, was strewn with leaves and dirt. A thin line of blood had dried along his jaw, disappearing beneath the collar of his armor. 

Ambrus noticed where Coen was looking and lifted his chin. 

“Had you shown the slightest restraint or used your thick skull, I would still be standing on that ledge, and my armor would not look as though it had been dragged behind a plough.” 

“You could have stayed there.” 

“Yes. I could have.” 

The answer came so quickly that Coen had nothing ready to say. 

A breeze stirred the grass between them. Somewhere up the slope, the voices of men carried over. Had they known where their Boyar had gone? What would they say at his current state? Coen could still smell Ambrus’s blood beneath the damp earth and the sharper scent of his own. 

“You knew the fall wouldn’t kill me,” Coen finally spoke up. 

“An excellent reason not to make such a fuss over it, then.” 

“But you came after me anyway.” 

The muscle in Ambrus’s jaw flexed. He looked toward the cliff, its dark face rising above the trees, then back at Coen. 

“And now I have the pleasure of sitting here while you recount my evening to me. Have you finished?” 

Coen hadn’t. Not even close. 

He remembered being snatched midair, the foreign shadows wrenching him sideways, and the impact that had left them both sprawled across the hillside. Ambrus had taken that risk to spare him the worst of the fall. 

Coen would have survived without him. They both knew it. 

Which only made the question harder to dismiss. 

Why had he bothered? 

For a while, neither of them spoke. High above, a man called out from the cliff.

“Boyar Ambrus!”

A second voice answered from farther along the ridge. Torchlight moved between the trees, briefly illuminating the pale stone at the cliff’s edge before slipping out of sight. 

Ambrus’s men were looking for him. 

Coen glanced at the Boyar. He made no move to answer.

That was yet another thing Coen could not make sense of. 

He had spent nearly two weeks thinking of little else but killing the Vrakhir beside him. Ambrus had helped burn Laslea. He had mocked Coen’s dead family and taken pleasure in every wound his words could reopen. 

None of that had changed. 

Yet when Coen had fallen, Ambrus had gone after him. 

Coen planted his good hand against the ground and pushed himself upright. The leather across his chest pulled tight against his injured ribs. He managed to get one boot beneath him before his ankle gave way. 

“Shit-!” 

He caught himself on one knee. The buckle of his bracer struck a buried stone with a sharp click. So much for standing… 

He stayed where he was, unwilling to give Ambrus the satisfaction of watching him fail a second time. Or would it be a third? 

“Were you attempting to leave?” 

There it was. That insufferable tone again.

“I was attempting to stand.” 

“A distinction without much consequence, apparently.” 

Coen looked up, ready with a reply, but Ambrus spoke first. 

“Not even a thank you for - ”

“I still want you dead.” The words came out sharper than Coen intended. He held the Boyar’s gaze, determined that whatever he said next would not be mistaken for forgiveness. 

Something stirred within the bond that tethered him to Ambrus and Brencis. It was a brief, unsettling pull beneath his breastbone, separate from the ache of his broken ribs. 

Ambrus’s eyes narrowed. For an instant, Coen wondered whether he had felt it too. 

“But…” Coen stopped.

Fuck. Why was this so difficult? 

Another shout came from the ridge. The men were spreading out now, their torchlight appearing at intervals through the trees. The wind carried the faint smell of smoke and sweat down the hillside. 

Coen forced himself to continue. “I appreciate what you did.”

Ambrus rose. 

Coen immediately shifted his weight onto his good leg, ready to push himself up if the Boyar reached for him. 

But Ambrus made no move to attack. 

He stood over Coen in his battered armor, pale against the dark hillside, his disordered blond hair falling about his scarred face. His gaze pierced Coen for a long, thoughtful moment. 

Then a thin smile spread across his lips. 

“Well, well. There it is.” 

Coen frowned. “There what is?”

“A little gratitude. I was beginning to fear you entirely incapable of it.” 

“Don’t make me regret saying it.” 

“My dear boy, you have already given me ample cause to regret this night.”

Ambrus glanced at the scratches in his breastplate, then down at the dirt clinging to the hem of his shoulder cloak. “All that trouble because you could not manage one final jump. A rather poor showing for someone so determined to kill me.”

Coen’s fingers curled against the earth. He could barely stand, and the bastard was already gloating. “I’ll manage it next time.” 

“Hmm, see that you do.” Ambrus’s smile widened. “I should hate to have to come after you again.”

Above them, one of the soldiers shouted his name. Ambrus lifted his head toward the sound, visibly annoyed by the interruption. He gave Coen another once-over. His gaze lingered on the arm held awkwardly against his side, then dropped to the ankle that had nearly given way beneath him.

Whatever he thought of the sight, he kept it to himself. 

He turned toward the cliff. 

“Our duel?” Coen reminded him before he could leave. 

Ambrus continued walking.

Coen pushed himself to his feet. His ankle held this time, though a sharp pain ran up his leg when he put his full weight on it. He straightened anyway, refusing to call after the Boyar from his knees. 

“I know you heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you.” Ambrus stopped beside a low outcrop of stone. “Do read the room, Coen. Your dignity has suffered quite enough for one evening.”

“I can still fight.”

“Yes, you have made that abundantly clear! You can also misjudge a jump, break half your bones, and hurl yourself off a cliff in pursuit of an opponent you cannot yet hope to catch.” He looked Coen over. “You are scarcely two weeks into your new existence, and you wield your gifts with all the finesse of a child swinging a sword too heavy for him. Yet you insist on behaving as though you have already mastered them. Look where that has gotten you!”

Coen’s jaw tightened. 

Ambrus turned just enough for the moonlight to catch the dirt and dried blood on his pale face. A faint silver gleam traced the crooked edge of his shoulder plate. 

“A duel ought to be fought on equal footing,” he said. “Killing you in front of my men while you can scarcely stand would be a pitiful spectacle. I have no intention of granting you the honor of dying by my hand until you have learned to put your Vrakhir nature to proper use.” 

That…stung.

Mostly because the bastard was right. 

Ambrus was faster, stronger, and far more practiced with his abilities. He had spent two years mastering the very nature Coen had fought against since his unwilling transformation less than two weeks ago.

Two years. It might as well have been a lifetime. 

Ambrus bent beside the outcrop and lifted something from the grass. Coen’s sword.

His hand went to his hip and found nothing there. He must have lost it during the fall. The leather scabbard was scuffed, and a clump of earth clung to its tip.

Ambrus drew the blade. Steel whispered against leather, briefly catching the distant glow of the soldiers’ torches above. He inspected its edge, turned it once in his hand, then gave a disdainful click of his tongue.

“To think you intended to kill me with this.” He slid it back into its scabbard. “I've gutted fish with sharper knives. Have some fucking pride, Coen.” 

He tossed it over. Coen caught the scabbard against his chest with his good hand. The jolt sent pain through his broken arm, but he managed not to drop it. 

Ambrus looked faintly disappointed. 

“Find yourself a better blade before we meet again. Something worthy of the tale you intend to tell when you have defeated me.” 

Coen secured the sword at his hip. Ambrus had returned it without hesitation, then turned his back on him as though the weapon, and the man carrying it, posed no threat at all. 

“Fine,” Coen snapped. “Next time I’ll bring one you’ll be proud to have cleave through your neck.” 

Ambrus continued toward the cliff. 

“See that you do. If you mean to take my head, brother, I expect you to make a proper job of it.” 

Coen meant what he had said. Perhaps he would not return tomorrow, or the night after that. He needed time to heal, to practice, and to find a way to close the distance between them.

But he would return. 

A hot ache spread through Coen’s throat. He swallowed, tasting blood from a cut inside his mouth, and the hunger sharpened. The scent of his own wounds, and of the blood seeping beneath Ambrus’s armor reached him, but neither stirred his appetite the way a human’s or an animal’s would. 

His ribs throbbed beneath his leather tunic, his arm hung uselessly at his side, and the gash in his scalp had only begun to close. He needed blood before any of it would heal properly. 

He would find an animal. A buck, perhaps, if he could catch one in this condition. More likely, he would need several. 

From somewhere deeper in the forest came the dry snap of a branch. Coen listened past the wind in the treetops for the quick, steady beat of a living heart. 

He had no intention of taking blood from an innocent traveler. If he encountered someone on the road before he fed, though, he could not be certain his restraint would hold. He had drunk human blood before, when desperation left him little choice. Or when the person had given him reason not to spare them. 

Human blood quieted the burning in his throat and mended his injuries faster than an animal’s ever could. 

He hated that he knew the difference. 

Coen started toward the trees, picking his way across the uneven ground.

“Before you go.”

He stopped.

Ambrus stood some distance away now, his silhouette framed against the stone. Above him, the soldiers’ torches shifted along the ridge, and another call for their missing Boyar carried down into the valley. 

"Shadowstepping comes naturally to our kind, but mastery does not. Those shorter jumps weren’t for my benefit, Coen. Practice them. Next time, you should need no more than two to reach the top.”

Coen looked up at the height of the rock face. Two jumps. Ambrus spoke of it as though it were nothing.

Then the Boyar added, “Of course, you could simply take the path around the other side.”

Coen knew perfectly well there was a path. He had chosen not to use it on the way up, too determined on reaching Ambrus to take the longer route.

Yet, for reasons he could not have explained, he found himself playing along.

“Oh? There’s a path?”

Ambrus’s smile returned.

“Until next time, my insolent little brother."

Shadows swept around Ambrus before Coen could object to being called his brother. 

A moment later, the Boyar appeared on a narrow ledge high above. His boots met the stone with scarcely a sound. He remained there only long enough to find his footing before another shadowstep carried him over the cliff’s edge. 

Torchlight flared as his men hurried to meet him. Their voices carried down the hillside, overlapping in a burst of questions and relieved exclamations. Ambrus stood among them as though he had merely stepped away for a moment, not hurled himself down a cliff and dragged an injured enemy out of the path of a fall. 

Coen shifted his weight off his aching ankle. 

Two jumps. Ambrus had made the climb look effortless. 

'Those shorter jumps weren’t for my benefit, Coen.' The words echoed in his head.

As far as Coen was concerned, the evening had consisted of insults, a humiliating chase, and a fall that would have nearly shattered every bone in his body.

But Ambrus had not taken the quickest route during their chase. 

Coen remembered the Boyar appearing on one ledge, then another, never quite far enough ahead to lose him. Each jump had been short enough for Coen to follow, and whenever he fell behind, Ambrus had lingered just long enough to taunt him into continuing.

Coen had thought he was being toyed with.

Well, he had been. Ambrus had plainly enjoyed every moment of it. But the bastard had been teaching him, too.

When Ambrus returned to his men, he had cleared the cliff in two effortless shadowsteps.

Yet when Coen fell, Ambrus had reached him in one.

Coen remembered the sudden presence at his side and the sickening wrench as another Vrakhiri’s shadows seized him. Ambrus had crossed the distance without stopping for a foothold, then forced them both sideways before they struck the ground.

On the way up, he had shown Coen how to conserve his strength.

On the way down, Ambrus had done the opposite to save him.

He closed his good hand. His claws pressed into his palm, and he opened it again before they broke the skin.

Ambrus had been teaching him.

Worse, Coen had learned something.

He raised his head toward the cliff. The soldiers were moving away from its edge now, their torches weaving between the trees and crumbling stone ruins. Ambrus had already disappeared among them.

For one unwelcome moment, it was the arm catching him in midair that came to mind.

Not the hand that had caused Laslea to burn.

Not the flames consuming homes he had known all his life, or the people fleeing through the smoke. Not Ambrus standing among those responsible for it.

The same man who had shown them no mercy had thrown himself from a cliff to save Coen.

Nothing he had done tonight changed what he had done then.

Nothing.

Coen adjusted the sword at his hip and turned toward the forest again. He would practice the shorter jumps. He would heal. And when he came back, Ambrus would find him harder to catch off guard.

The damp earth beneath his boots smelled suddenly familiar.

Not this hillside... 

Laslea.

Morning sunlight warming the riverbank. Wet soil yielding beneath his boots. His younger siblings gathered around him while he showed them how to bait a hook, their fingers fumbling with the worm as they argued over whose turn it was to hold the rod.

He could almost feel the rough wood of the fishing pole in his hands and smell the river water among the reeds.

He had told them they needed to learn to feed themselves. If anything ever happened to him or their father, they needed to know how to catch a fish, clean it, and cook it over a fire.

Lunka had hated that part. 

He remembered her face when the first fish lay flopping on the bank. She had begged him to put it back. Coen had hated refusing her, but they needed food, and he wanted them to know how to provide for themselves. 

He had been trying to be a good older brother. 

He had never imagined they would need that lesson so soon. 

By nightfall, they had been torn apart. His family had been taken prisoner, and Coen had become the very sort of creature he once would have tried to protect them from. He did not know whether he would ever see them again. 

He could only hope they remembered what he had taught them if they still lived. 

A shout rang out above him. 

Coen lifted his head. Torchlight shifted along the cliff’s edge, and several voices rose at once. He caught the scrape of metal against stone, followed by a startled cry. 

Something came over the edge. 

A large man. 

His cloak snapped in the wind as he fell. For an instant, the torchlight caught his armor. Then he struck the ground near the foot of the cliff with a sickening impact. 

Coen recoiled. 

The soldier lay crumpled in the grass, one shoulder plate twisted out of place. Blood spread beneath him, darkening the earth. His chest moved in shallow, uneven jerks. 

He was still alive. 

Coen took a step toward him before he even realized he had moved. 

The smell reached him. Fresh human blood, warm and close enough to taste. 

His throat contracted. The ache that had followed him down the hillside became a searing demand, and his teeth pressed against the inside of his mouth. 

The soldier’s eyes found him. 

Coen stopped. 

A wet rattle escaped the man’s throat. His fingers scraped weakly at the grass, then fell still. The next breath never came. 

Coen stood over him, listening. 

Nothing. No heartbeat beneath the battered armor. 

He should have felt relieved that the man was no longer suffering. Instead, all he could think about was the blood still warm in his body. 

Coen looked up. 

Ambrus stood at the cliff’s edge, apart from the torchbearers gathered behind him. The wind lifted his long blond hair from his shoulders. Coen could see him clearly against the night sky, but the torchlight blazing behind the Boyar’s head cast his face into shadow. There was no mistaking the figure in the ornate armor. 

The Boyar had sent the soldier down to him. 

Coen’s stomach turned. 

Ambrus had caught him before he struck the ground. Now he had thrown another man from the same cliff so Coen could feed. 

A life spared. A life discarded. 

Distantly, Coen could almost hear Lunka pleading with him to put the fish back.

He had taught his siblings to feed themselves because he loved them. Ambrus had offered him a human being as though the man’s life were worth less than the trouble of finding an animal. 

Coen wanted to turn away. 

His broken ribs pulled painfully with every breath. His ankle trembled beneath him, and the burning in his throat had become unbearable. Somewhere beyond the trees, an animal moved through the undergrowth, but its heartbeat was distant. The blood at his feet was not.

He knelt beside the soldier.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

The words did nothing for the dead man. 

Coen gathered the body close enough to reach his neck and sank his teeth into the warm flesh. Blood flooded his mouth. He swallowed before he could think of stopping.

The burning in Coen’s throat eased first. Warmth spread through his chest and into his injured limbs, dulling the sharp pain in his ribs. His headache subsided to a heavy throb, and the trembling in his legs finally stopped.

He hated how good it felt.

He drank again, more greedily this time. 

Above him, the soldiers’ voices grew faint as they withdrew from the cliff. Loose stones shifted beneath their boots, leather creaked, and armor clinked in the night air. Coen focused on the dead man in his arms. He could not bear to look up and see their reactions. 

The footsteps receded, but a presence lingered at the cliff’s edge. Coen felt it through the bond, steady and unmistakable. 

Someone still watching. 

He had been shown how to draw upon his Vrakhir nature to scale the cliff. 

Then, because he had fallen, another man had been thrown from it so he could heal. 

Coen closed his eyes and drank, unable to decide which lesson he despised more.