A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

to the fire, and I took a place behind, happy to watch the flame glow through her strands of hair. She leaned against me, placing her head on my shoulder. I couldn’t help but watch the curve of her breasts as she breathed. She caught my eyes. She did not look away.

She reached up and brought my lips to her own. She tasted of fire and wine. She tasted of honey, of sex, of love. I brushed the hair from her cheek and laid her down. I felt her hands on my shirt, freeing the buttons until her hands were on my skin. Her touch was warm as she removed my sword belt. I kissed her neck and ran my hand along her thigh, pushing up the hem of her dress. She placed her hand on mine, welcoming my touch.

She held my gaze as she took me inside her. Her eyes closed as she whispered, “I love you.”

Chapter Thirty and Eight

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

I was alone in a clearing. Cold moonlight brushed the side of my face. I looked up and noticed a stream to my right. The rhythmic tapping of a hammer on metal echoed out of the little cottage. I was dreaming again.

Drums sounded in my head as I approached the door. I reached for it with a hand that was black and scarred, a hand that was not my own. As the door opened, I saw a face, his face. His eyes were black as night with hair, not grey, but silver as moonlight. He turned to me—then it was gone. I felt the sensation of falling.

I opened my eyes, her eyes. The silver-haired man looked at me from above. I was on the floor, perhaps. Did we fight? Was this some kind of strange illusion? His mouth opened. A piercing howl rent the air. I tried to move my hands to my ears, but my arms did not obey. The wind pressed against the house, boards creaked in response. I looked up, and his face had changed, his eyes were no longer black but blue and gentle. They were wet, and his face was stained with tears. He opened his mouth, and I closed my eyes in anticipation.

There was no shriek, no wail to rattle the bones of the dead. His voice was soft and somber. He was singing, and it was a song equally familiar. He swayed in anguish as if the words tormented his very soul. I tried to move, no, she tried to move, tried to reach out to touch him, to console him. Her arms didn’t move. She, I, we, were paralyzed.

Panic rose as I felt the sensation of falling again, falling away, falling into the ground, falling into nothingness. His face grew distant as I fell; his song faded. I felt a coldness an emptiness. I tried to reach out, tried to grab hold of his hand, a hand that held a line of bright red blood.

A word tumbled in the darkness of my mind.

Hello.

I broke from the dream state as Nahdril fell from my hand. I was standing beneath the bows of the elder tree with Lira at my side, naked under the woolen blanket. I felt something near, something watching. Nahdril hit the ground unceremoniously.

Lira startled awake. “What are you doing?”

My heart beat frantically in my chest. “I…I thought I heard something.”

She pulled the blanket to her chest. “Heard what?”

Looking around, I saw nothing but Steven lingering at the edge of the firelight.

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I think it was just, Steven.”

“And you dropped your sword then?” she said, stifling a laugh. Her eyes twinkled in the firelight. “Come back to bed; I’ll keep you safe.”

I reached for Nahdril.

“Some hero you are.” She giggled. “Couldn’t even protect us from your horse.”

“I’m no hero,” I said as I sheathed my blade. “Just a poor Ruk chasing iron.”

“Half-Ruk,” she corrected with a raised finger. “And a lord no less, with at last count three businesses to your name? You’ll need to find something new to complain about if you want any sympathy from me. You’re better off than I am now!”

I narrowed my eyes as I placed Nahdril against the tree.

“If the danger has passed, then come back to bed.” She tapped her palm on the blanket next to her. “It’s cold.”

Sleep came easy to her as she coiled around my body. I lay awake to greet the dawn.

The sun began, as it always did, rising first over the Great Wastes in the west, where man awoke and took its first steps. It passed over the Ahri Mountains of Sevel, then traveled the Shallow Sea until it reached the rocky crags and mountains that made the Westmarches. Only then did it shine welcomingly on Belen and the lands of the North.

This sunrise felt different, perhaps because it was the first time I woke to find her still in my arms, perhaps because here, along the frontier, it was as if we were the first people, the only people. There were no worries in this place, a refuge, a sanctuary from time, a respite from our troubles.

We broke camp early after she woke. Morning gulls had done the hard work for me with their braying song. She labored in protest; today, it seemed she was not a morning person. I made a quick breakfast by warming some leftover bread, but she insisted on something more potent before we departed. I was surprised to find that she had stowed away a small satchel of dried black tea leaves.

“A travel necessity,” she said as she brought a clay pot of water from the Ellish to boil.

A few minutes later, we sipped from wooden cups. Life is made of simple moments and simple pleasures. Often the things you least expect are the ones you miss the most. Like sharing tea with the one you love at the edge of the world.

After several minutes of chase, I caught and saddled Steven. The