Brothers in Arms

SPOILER WARNING – The Tales from Divinia are companion stories best enjoyed after reading the main novel. Brothers in Arms takes place between chapters ten and eleven of The Trials of Divinia and therefore contains spoilers.

Blurb:

After the frozen dangers of the Nivalis trial, Bren Ironclaw finds himself wrestling with doubts he thought he had long left behind. As he and Cairn Moltenheart make their way back through Concordia, memories of the past begin to surface – of a cruel lesson at the forge, a chance meeting in the markets of Cindertrail, and the moment a master smith offered him a future he had never dared imagine. Through shared stories and hard truths, the two friends confront what it truly means to belong. Because sometimes the greatest battles are not fought against monsters or trials… but within ourselves.

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“Stop saving me,” Bren muttered under his breath, though he was mostly joking.

“Then stop needing it,” quipped Cairn, his grin visible even beneath his scarf and hood.

Spurred on by Garrick, Talon picked up the pace and led the way as the icy terrain began to level out into a faint slope. The light of the beacon marking the end of the course urged them forward, but Bren could feel the tiredness coursing through his body with every step, and he allowed himself to fall behind the others as they followed after his childhood friend.

He saw Orion, the Nivalis champion, reach the beacon first, followed by Cassian, the Tempestus champion, and then Talon in third. He breathed a sigh of relief – they hadn’t done too badly. He hadn’t let anyone down. That had been his fear from the moment the trial began.

And, even better, he’d outperformed Lyra. When she’d stopped feeling glum about the result of the Verdantia trial, he’d at least have something to boast about.

“You did well, lad,” said Garrick with a gruff smile, as Bren eventually caught up with him and Cairn – who was standing slightly to one side, watching for signs of the remaining champions approaching the top of the glacier.

“Thanks,” Bren managed, rubbing his gloved hands together gingerly and feeling the numbness in his fingers beneath the fabric.

The three of them stood quietly as they watched the other champions appear one by one – Calista of Luminara, Elara of Elysium, Kael of Verdantia, and finally Zara of Solaris, who looked as if she had been eaten and spat back out by the frostwyrm they had faced.

It could definitely be worse, Bren thought.

“I just need to go via the training room to prepare some things for this afternoon,” said Garrick, bringing Bren’s attention back to the present.

“No problem,” said Cairn, nodding. “I’ll make sure this one gets back to our quarters in one piece,” he added, nudging him playfully.

Bren let out a bemused huff but said nothing.

“See you shortly,” said Garrick curtly as they stepped out of the trial area, the arena magically reappearing around them.

Bren barely noticed. Despite Cairn exclaiming in wonder at the sudden change in their surroundings, he was too busy reflecting on what had just happened – the chasm, the icefall, the lightning storm. It had all been something of a blur. He wished he could have been stronger, more like Cairn – more confident, more self-assured. But it just wasn’t him. It never had been.

“Cheer up,” said Cairn. His expression had grown slightly worried as he studied Bren. “Third place is a good result – and some of the other trials will suit us more than this one, I’m sure of it.”

He was clearly mistaking Bren’s quietness for concern over the result.

“How do you do it?” Bren asked, trying to keep any hint of jealousy out of his voice.

“Do what?” Cairn replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Stay so positive,” he said. “So optimistic. Happy.”

Cairn chuckled, then shrugged.

“I’m enjoying myself,” he said. “And if I’m lucky and keep putting in decent performances, I might get the chance to take part in more trials and see more of the other regions.”

“You want to do more trials?” Bren exclaimed.

“Of course,” Cairn laughed. “It’s what we’re here for.”

“We’re here to support Talon…” Bren reasoned. “That doesn’t mean we have to die for it.”

Cairn considered this for a moment.

“I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me, Ironclaw,” he said. “Come on – walk with me back to the quarters. We’ll go the long way. Talon will be a while yet, if yesterday was any indication.”

Talon had indeed been whisked away by Lykarian Starbound, the High Emissary of the Celestial Council, for a champions’ meeting in the Hall of Gathering. The stands around them were beginning to empty.

“Lead the way,” said Bren.

They walked in silence for several minutes. Only once they had left the arena behind and the small crowd of team members from other regions, spectators, and aetherbound had thinned did Cairn speak again.

“What is it that makes you so nervous?” he asked, his voice as gentle as Bren had ever heard it. “I know it must be overwhelming – being here, in Concordia, facing trials we could never have imagined. Different regions, creatures…”

Cairn paused as he noticed Bren flinch slightly at the word.

“Ah,” said Cairn. “The frostwyrm?”

Bren gave a stiff nod.

“It’s not just that,” he said. “But it does bring up some bad memories.”

“Well, I always feel better for sharing,” said Cairn, offering him a half-smile.

Bren rolled his eyes and lifted a hand, pointing towards the scar that ran down one side of his face. Cairn studied it curiously.

“The work of a drake’s tail, if I’m not mistaken,” he said. “Don’t tell me it still bothers you. If you hadn’t noticed…” he gestured towards his own scarred features, including the heavy lines across his hands and forearms, “…you’re not alone.”

“It’s not the scar,” said Bren, letting out a slow breath. “It’s what it represents.”

“I’m all ears,” said Cairn, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.

Bren nodded again, this time more to himself than to Cairn, and began to speak.

Six years earlier…

The air smelled faintly of ash and hot metal, and the steady rhythm of hammers striking anvils echoed through the streets of Emberholt.

He could feel an increasingly familiar sense of excitement rising in him as he walked.

He had loved his first week of work far more than he had expected, and his parents had been quick to point out how fortunate he had been to stumble upon such a promising career.

After recently turning eleven years old, he was required to combine his schooling with an apprenticeship. Whilst most of his classmates were working with their families across the village, he had fallen into a different line of work.

Neither of his parents held positions of note – his father undertook low-level maintenance around Emberholt, repairing lava stream grates and steam vents, whilst his mother was a trinket seller at the market. By their own admission, following in either of their footsteps would mean consigning him to the lowest rung of society. He loved them both dearly, but life had not been kind to them, and he was determined that he would find a role which allowed him to earn enough to support them – as well as himself.

Luckily, and by pure coincidence, as a small child he had befriended Talon Drakeforge – son of Rorik Drakeforge, the village’s Chief Dragon Trainer, and one of the most influential men in Emberholt. When the time had come to find a place to work, Rorik had taken him aside during one of his many visits to the Drakeforge home and told him that he had found him a role with a respected smith, Halvar Stonebrand.

A blacksmith was one of Ferroxia’s oldest and noblest professions – at least, that was what Rorik had told him – and so far Bren hadn’t been disappointed. He had found that he had a knack for it, and that his surprising size and strength, both greater than most boys his age, gave him a distinct advantage. Whilst his time with Halvar had been limited, the older man had been kind and encouraging whenever they had crossed paths, and Bren often found himself eyeing the rows of weapons and armour that Halvar and the other members of the forge created with more than a little admiration.

Today, he had been told, he would be working with one of Halvar’s trainers – Varrik Slate. It was a test – nothing to be worried about, he had been assured – just an opportunity to see what he had learned during his first few days. There would be no pressure, no danger, and no punishment for failure, provided he learned from the experience and carried those lessons into his work.

And he wasn’t worried.

He was excited.

The rhythm of metalwork grew more intense as he approached. The forge burned with a deep orange glow, fed by vents that channelled Emberholt’s volcanic heat into roaring furnaces. Young apprentices hurried between anvils carrying tongs, bellows, and buckets of cooling water, careful to stay clear of the swinging hammers of those at work. Walls and beams were lined with half-finished blades and plates of armour waiting to be shaped or polished.

“You’re late,” drawled a quiet, unimpressed voice from behind him.

He spun around.

A man stood in the entranceway. Whether he had followed Bren in or simply stepped out from behind one of the thick stone walls after he had entered, Bren wasn’t sure.

The man had a hard, angular face with narrow, sharp features, his jaw set. His hair was cropped short and dusted with ash, whilst his skin – though not that of an old man – already appeared permanently marked by years of smoke and heat. Cold, pale grey eyes studied Bren with open scepticism, set above a heavy smith’s build of broad shoulders and thick, muscled arms. Those arms were covered in old burns and calluses that ran down to rough hands – mementos of a life spent close to flame and molten metal.

Signs of a life well lived, if you asked him.

And yet… the man’s expression was clearly not displaying any kind of pleasure at this particular moment.

Bren frowned to himself. He was certain he wasn’t late, but this didn’t seem like a man worth arguing with. Instead, he opted for politeness.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I came straight from my classes and arrived as quickly as I could.”

“A likely story,” grumbled the man. “But you are here now, I suppose. My name is Varrik Slate – you shall call me Blademaster Slate for the time you are with me.”

Bren felt his frown deepen. Only the master of the forge warranted that title.

“Is there a problem, Mister…” Varrik said, letting the word hang in the air.

“Ironclaw,” Bren finished quickly. “Bren Ironclaw – and no, sir. I mean… Blademaster Slate.”

“Good,” said Varrik bluntly, his lips curling slightly. “Now, I have your task for the afternoon.

You must make one of these,” he added, thrusting what Bren thought, at first glance, to be a pile of ropes into his hands.

Bren looked down at the object in confusion. It took him several moments to identify it – during which he could feel Varrik’s gaze fixed upon him.

It was a drake’s bridle harness.

He had seen them plenty of times before at the Drakeforge home – though he had always kept a careful distance from the creatures they were designed for.

“The reinforced metal ring, when fitted correctly to the harness, allows the rider to control their drake with reins or guiding chains,” said Varrik, with more than a hint of impatience. “You’ll find all the materials you need,” he added, gesturing towards a nearby workbench before striding away.

And so he set to work – heating a steel rod in the forge, hammering it carefully around a mould until it formed a ring. Once the ends met, he sealed the join, quenched the metal, and filed it smooth. He surprised himself with how confident he already felt with the task. Varrik offered no instruction, though he occasionally came to inspect the work before moving on, usually with a poorly concealed tut or an exasperated sigh.

Once he had finished, and Varrik had deemed it “passable”, Bren expected to be given his leave for the day. He felt proud of his work and was determined not to let the man’s attitude spoil that feeling. Instead, Varrik led him and several other apprentices outside where, to his surprise and slight horror, a row of drakes had been arranged in a small yard, their scales glinting in the evening light.

“We shall now test the quality of your craftsmanship,” Varrik announced. “You will fit your rings, attach the reins, and demonstrate that they can guide the drakes – on foot – to the far wall and back. No flying, boys. Do you understand?”

There were nervous nods as the others moved to their charges.

Bren eyed his uncertainly. It was a pyre drake. Now, he didn’t know a great deal about drakes, but he had picked up enough from Talon over the years to know that pyre drakes were rageful and unpredictable. They required specialist handlers. Surely this was not a good idea.

“Problem, Ironclaw?” Varrik asked coolly. “Or do I need to call for Halvar?”

Bren flinched and moved forwards, placing his free hand on the drake’s snout and bowing his head, as was custom. The drake eyed him suspiciously, but eventually inclined its crimson helm in return, granting him permission to proceed.

Bren worked as quickly and carefully as he could – slipping the harness over the drake’s head and guiding the thick leather straps beneath its jaw and around the base of its neck. Once the bridle sat in place, he secured the newly forged ring to the central strap and tightened the fittings.

He was about to step away, relieved, when the large obsidian drake being fitted by the apprentice beside him ruffled its wings in discomfort. The tip caught the pyre drake, which immediately let out a roar of anger.

Bren backed away hastily.

But as he did, the pyre’s tail whipped around in a vicious arc and then—

Pain seared through him.

Then a hand grabbed his shoulder and wrenched him away. He felt movement around him, but his eyes remained tightly shut. Another hand – the same or a different one, he wasn’t sure – pressed something roughly against the side of his face. It stung beneath the pressure.

“What were you thinking?” said the voice angrily. Varrik. “It could have killed you. Why weren’t you more careful? When Halvar hears about this…”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Bren managed quietly. “I… I…”

“Shut it,” Varrik snapped. “We need to get you cleaned up before anyone else sees.”

He shouted more hurried instructions – aimed at the other boys, Bren guessed.

Then Varrik leaned closer.

“You know it’s quite apt, really,” he whispered vindictively at Bren’s ear. “This scar will remind you that you will never be worth anything around here. I hope you think of that every time you see it.”

Bren stood silently. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand why Varrik was being so cruel.

But the words cut deeply.

He had tricked himself into believing that he belonged.

Clearly, he did not.

He kept his eyes and mouth clamped shut and waited for the moment to be over.

Present day… 

Cairn listened to his story quietly and, once Bren had finished, did not speak for several moments.

“It explains a lot,” he said eventually. “But you know he was wrong, don’t you?”

Bren looked across at him.

“You’re worth plenty,” Cairn said, meeting his gaze.

Bren sighed.

“I know Varrik was wrong to say what he said,” Bren replied. “Not long after that, Halvar sacked him when he heard how he had been treating some of the other apprentices. I didn’t even need to report him. But…”

“But…” Cairn prompted gently.

“But his point was about belonging – and he was right. I don’t. I never have. My lack of confidence, my lack of bravery… my fear of drakes and other creatures. I’m about as far from a true Ferroxian as you can get.”

Cairn looked at him thoughtfully.

“Do you remember how we met?” he asked.

“Of course,” Bren replied. “I—”

He paused. The door to the Ferroxian quarters had come into view.

“Think about it,” said Cairn. “We’ll continue this later.”

One year earlier…

Bren walked quickly along the volcanic stone cobbles. The Cindertrail market was built along wide streets of dark basalt, the stone warm beneath his feet from the heat rising through cracks in the ground.

For the first time in a long while, he felt genuinely excited. A year on from his graduation, he was now working full-time at Halvar’s forge and, this week, for the first time, he had been selected to undertake a minor trade trip to retrieve obsidian shards and other materials. It was not a particularly significant role, but he was determined to reward Halvar’s trust and return promptly with the correct wares at a good price.

As he entered the market, he looked around with wide eyes. It was hard not to be overwhelmed – it must have been four or five times the size of the market in Emberholt.

The air was filled with raised voices as merchants argued over prices, hammer blows rang from travelling smiths’ carts, and drakes growled impatiently in nearby holding pens. Other market-goers moved through the streets in a constant flow, inspecting the various stalls or stopping to speak with one another, whilst the smoke from cooking fires mingled with the sharp scent of hot stone, leather, and exotic spices brought in by traders from other cities and villages.

Rows of heavy wooden stalls were packed tightly together, draped with hides, scales, tools, and bundles of volcanic minerals hauled down from the surrounding mountains. Iron lanterns filled with glowing magma-glass hung above them, alongside banners marking the territories of powerful trading families. Several traders displayed drake pelts, shed scales, horns, and harness gear used by dragon riders and beast handlers across Ferroxia.

He made his way through the stalls with a mix of wonder and apprehension, searching for one that might sell what he needed. Once or twice, as he moved closer to inspect a particular display, nearby vendors called out to him, urging him to come closer and examine their goods. Each time he backed away cautiously without responding. He didn’t want to be dragged into haggling straight away.

As he continued, he caught the sound of raised voices rising above the general din of the market. Following the noise, he spotted two men – one clearly a salesman, the other most likely his customer. Both were gesticulating at each other in visible frustration.

Bren edged closer to listen.

“Totally unethical,” the customer was saying. “A drake pelt I would accept, if the materials were obtained the right way. Drake scales can be trimmed or shed over time and repurposing them is resourceful rather than wasteful. But a magma hound pelt is illegal – to slaughter a pack animal for such a purpose is inhumane. And their skin… it is like granite. What person would want such a thing? I shall need to report you for this.”

The man was tall and lean, towering over the vendor, who had begun shrinking away awkwardly. He was young – only a few years older than Bren – but his skin was weathered, darkened by sun and ash, and marked with small scars. His hair, streaked with ash, was cropped short and practical, whilst his grey eyes were sharp and calculating.

He wore fire-resistant leathers that suggested a labour-intensive profession, but Bren could see – from the spear slung across the man’s back and the edges of obsidian plates visible beneath the patched fabric of his clothing – that he was no blacksmith.

“Please, sir,” the vendor was saying nervously. “The hound… it died of natural causes. I did not – I would not…”

“May I?” said the man, stepping forward confidently with his hand outstretched towards the pelt.

He took it without waiting for a response.

After studying it for several moments, he laid it back down.

“The edges of the hide show clean blade cuts rather than the irregular tearing that would occur if a hound had died naturally and the hide were later removed,” he began bluntly. “If you’re claiming this came from a wild magma hound, packs typically reclaim their dead by dragging them back to their volcanic dens, where the heat breaks the body down. Recovering an intact pelt like this would be extremely unlikely.

“If you’re suggesting it died in service, then a pelt from an older animal would be heavier and thicker than this one. This was a young hound, killed before reaching maturity.

“So,” he finished, meeting the vendor’s gaze, “what say you?”

Bren had to hold back his instinct to let out an impressed whistle.

“This man giving you trouble, Jorik?”

The voice came from another vendor at a nearby stall – a giant of a man with thick, muscular arms and a shaved head. He wore an expression of open dislike and held a long-handled hammer loosely in one hand.

The man who had accused Jorik took a single defensive step back. It was the first time he had not looked entirely in control.

Bren moved without thinking.

“Are these for sale?” he asked loudly, pointing towards a set of nails displayed near the front of the larger man’s stall. “I’ve been meaning to stock up.”

“Er – what? I mean, yeah… five gold pieces,” said the man.

Bren nodded enthusiastically.

“Any obsidian shards?”

“I can do both for eight gold,” grunted the man.

“Great, you’ve got a deal,” Bren said, making a deliberately drawn-out show of withdrawing the coins from a pouch at his hip.

When he glanced back towards Jorik’s stall, the other man had vanished, though Jorik remained behind, looking visibly unhappy.

As he walked away, pushing through the crowd as gently as he could, Bren was surprised to feel a tap on his shoulder. He turned around.

“Cairn Moltenheart,” said the man Bren had been observing, holding out his hand. “Thanks for helping me get away. That could have turned nasty back there.”

Up close, Bren could see the faint burn marks amongst the scars along the man’s hands and forearms – the kind that came from working too close to dangerous creatures. A beast handler.

Bren took it and shook it firmly.

“No problem,” he replied. “What you said was cool. You didn’t deserve them ganging up on you just because they didn’t agree with it.”

The man – Cairn – smiled.

“Let me repay you,” he said. “What are you looking for? I can help you navigate the market.”

“As long as you promise not to get me into any more fights?” Bren laughed.

Cairn shrugged.

“We’ll see what people are selling,” he said. “I won’t go looking for trouble. But if trouble finds us… well, then I make no promises.”

Present day… 

“So you do remember,” chuckled Cairn.

It was evening. Bren was busy preparing armour for Talon, Kaida, and Cairn for tomorrow’s trial – the Tempestus trial.

Cairn had volunteered to keep him company and – on Cairn’s insistence – Bren had just finished retelling the story of how they had first met in Cindertrail.

“You didn’t lack for confidence or bravery that day,” Cairn went on. “Why are you doubting yourself now?”

“This is different…” Bren said with a groan, searching for the right words. “I knew what I was doing then. I was just… in the moment. Being here, with all this time to think and prepare, I struggle to remember why I deserve to be here at all. Don’t you?”

“Not really,” said Cairn after a brief pause.

Bren laughed at his friend’s bluntness.

“Why are you here, then?”

“Have you heard of Korrak Embervein?” Cairn asked.

“Erm…” Bren said uncertainly. “I think so, he’s…”

“The beast handler who sits on the Warbound Council,” Cairn finished, putting Bren out of his misery. “He’s helping create a sanctuary in his city, Skelderath, where creatures can receive proper care, whilst also fighting for better regulations across Ferroxia.”

“I want to be a part of that fight,” he continued, his voice bright with enthusiasm. “And not only that – by coming here, to Concordia, I have the opportunity to learn about creatures from across Divinia, about how they are viewed and treated by their own regions. It’s such a unique opportunity. It’s why I was so eager to join up with you.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he added with a grin. “I like Talon. I want him to succeed. I want us to succeed. But I have my own purpose too.”

“Well, that told me,” Bren said, rolling his eyes.

“I’m being serious,” said Cairn, jabbing him in the arm. “Come on – tell me. When did you last feel certain about who you are? What’s your dream?”

Bren paused.

He thought back…

Three months earlier…

“Ironclaw – wait a moment.”

Bren looked back in surprise. It was late in the evening, a couple of hours past his usual finishing time, but he had been determined to help Halvar complete a large order he was working on for a group of dragon riders. He had just been about to leave and make his way home. The forge had burned low for the evening, the furnaces glowing softly as the last heat of the day lingered in the stone.

“Yes, Blademaster Stonebrand,” he replied respectfully.

The older man was seated on a wooden stool but had turned away from his work to face him. As Bren glanced around, he realised the two of them were alone – the final pair left at the forge.

Halvar had a broad but stooped frame – still wide across the shoulders from decades at the forge, though age had begun to bend his back slightly. His thick beard, once dark, had turned almost entirely grey, braided loosely to keep it clear of sparks and molten metal. What remained of his hair clung to the sides of his head in uneven wisps, permanently dusted with ash from years spent beside the furnaces.

His face was deeply lined and permanently darkened by smoke and heat, the creases around his eyes etched from years of squinting into glowing metal. Old burns ran across his forearms and knuckles, pale against the darker skin – marks earned over a lifetime working dangerously close to flame. Age had slowed him, but every movement remained careful and deliberate, the motions of a craftsman who had repeated the same precise actions thousands of times.

“I’ve told you before, boy,” he said gruffly. “There’s no need for such formalities – particularly when there’s no one else around to hear them. So dispense with the title, please.”

“Sir,” Bren said instead, nodding awkwardly, the uncertainty clear in his voice.

He caught a faint snicker from the old man, which escaped under his breath before he continued.

“How long have you worked here now?” Halvar asked.

“Erm… two years full-time, sir, and almost six years in total.”

Halvar considered this. As he did, Bren shuffled his feet nervously. Whilst the old smith had always treated him well, Bren was rarely alone with him, and he felt a growing apprehension about what the man might say next.

“I didn’t think you would stick with it,” Halvar said at last. “Not after what happened with Varrik.”

Bren felt his head jerk up in surprise.

“Oh yes, I know about that nasty business with the drake,” Halvar continued with a low chuckle. “You might be surprised to hear it, but nothing escapes this old man’s attention within the walls of my forge.”

Bren opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wasn’t sure what to say.

“You’ve been working hard to prove yourself,” Halvar went on, not acknowledging the awkward pause. “And I have been impressed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bren said quietly. He could feel his heart beating faster than usual.

“I have a proposition for you,” said Halvar. “There is no need to make a decision tonight, but I urge you to think about it – and to think about your future.”

“Of course… erm, I’d be happy to hear anything you have to suggest,” Bren managed.

“I am close to retirement,” Halvar said without preamble. “A year or two at most. And I need a young smith whom I respect to take over this place and keep it going when I’m gone. The village relies upon us, and I could not live out the rest of my days in peace knowing I had failed them.”

Bren’s mind began to whirl. What was Halvar suggesting?

“You have the potential,” the older man continued. “But like anything, that potential needs to be nurtured. If I were to hand the keys of the forge over to you today, it would ruin you. But if you continue to work hard, gain the right experience… then maybe you could be the one.”

Bren stared at Halvar in shock.

“I have some friends in Charhollow,” the old smith went on. “Men with links to Blademaster Kaedros Vireclaw. They could place you in one of the finest apprenticeships in all of Ferroxia. A year or two under their tutelage and you could become one of the best smiths of your generation.”

Bren’s mouth fell open.

Charhollow.

He had never even considered it.

His path to becoming a blacksmith had been a story of luck and good fortune, and he had been more than satisfied with the prospect of working at Halvar’s forge for as long as they would have him. It had never crossed his mind that he might achieve more than that.

Could he do it?

What about his friends? His parents?

A year or two… that was a long time. In a new city. Alone.

“Think about it,” Halvar said again. “I won’t rush you for a decision. But don’t leave it too long. I won’t be here forever – as much as I would like to be.”

Present day… 

“That’s amazing,” said Cairn. “Why haven’t you told me that before? What did you tell him? What did you decide?”

Bren let out a sigh.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Didn’t what?” Cairn asked, a confused look passing over his face.

“I didn’t decide. I didn’t tell him. A few weeks later everything happened with Talon – the wyvern, the trials. I told him I’d give him my answer when I returned from Concordia.”

“Ah,” said Cairn, smiling slightly.

“What do you mean, ah?” Bren retorted defensively.

“It explains everything,” Cairn said with a quiet chuckle. “The trials remind you of a time when you felt out of control – like you didn’t belong. These creatures, and the scar you bear, are constant reminders of that.

“Before we came to Concordia, after years of trying, you had finally begun to feel like you did belong. But you know that when we go home, things are going to change again. Either you go to Charhollow and start over, proving yourself all over again… or you don’t go, and you worry that you’ll lose respect – that you’ll be cast aside, just like that idiot tried to do to you when you were young and just starting out at the forge.

“You’re literally standing at a crossroads. And with every day and every trial that passes, you get a little closer to making a decision you don’t want to make.”

Bren frowned.

“I’m close, aren’t I?” Cairn said with a grin.

“Yes,” Bren admitted grumpily.

He let out a brief triumphant laugh before his tone grew serious again.

“Look,” he said. “You can be whatever you want to be. Confidence comes with familiarity and passion; it’s not some universal trait you either have or don’t have. Right now you’re facing uncertainty whichever way you turn – it’s no wonder you feel shaken. But you must remember that you can only control what’s within your remit to control.”

“But… how do I do that?” Bren asked, setting down the piece of armour he had been holding. In truth, he hadn’t made a single adjustment for several minutes.

“I’ll tell you what,” said Cairn. “It’s my turn to make you an offer.”

“Oh no,” Bren groaned sarcastically. “You know I don’t like decisions.”

“This is an easy one,” Cairn said with a wink. “Let’s make a deal that we’ll always watch each other’s backs from now on – not just in the trials, but beyond, no matter how far apart we might end up.”

Bren frowned slightly in surprise.

“You need a constant,” Cairn continued. “Something to hold onto that won’t change. And I need something – someone – who keeps me grounded. Someone who reminds me what I’m fighting for. You steady me. I sharpen you. That’s enough.”

A smile spread across Bren’s face – wide and earnest.

“That’s enough,” he echoed.

“And if you do go to Charhollow, I’ll expect a blade worthy of carrying into battle,” Cairn laughed.

“Deal,” Bren said eagerly, holding out his hand.

Cairn clasped it firmly.

“Now come on,” he said. “Finish this quickly so we can get some sleep. I’ve got to fight a giant sea monster in the morning.”

“Don’t remind me,” Bren shot back, though he felt lighter than he had since arriving in Concordia – perhaps even since his conversation with Halvar.

He would decide.

And for the first time, he thought he already knew what his answer would be.

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