Gar pressed his forehead into the tree Kindra had been fighting. The rough bark jutted into his skin as he squeezed his eyes closed. A warm trickle of blood dampened his shirt where she’d jabbed him, and Gar pressed the heel of his palm to the spot, but it was his heart that hurt most.

Kindra was right—he was a coward. He should have told her the truth back when he’d first healed from his wounds. Should have gone to her as soon as Monk said she knew. Should have said something days ago when he saw her attacking the tree with her left hand.

He’d feared her reaction, but it couldn’t have been worse than what had just happened. If anyone could hold a grudge, it was Kindra, and he honestly didn’t know if she’d ever forgive him.

Gar knocked his forehead against the bark once, winced, and turned in the direction she’d gone. Mostly likely she was at the mourning rock, and he knew better than to disturb her there. Instead, he turned back to Fie Eoin, and made his way to Monk’s tent.

It was warm in the tent, at least. Monk, Alder, and Cougar were already inside, sharpening weapons and talking.

With a glance at the blood, Monk grinned. “Finally grew a pair and spoke to her, I see.”

“And survived,” Alder chuckled.

“My pride is hurt more than my person,” Gar agreed and rubbed at his chest. “She called me a coward—”

Monk snorted.

“—and said she could never forgive me.”

“Well,” Cougar put down his dagger. “She’s never been one to think before she speaks.”

Gar sat in a huff next to the fire, shoulders sagging. “She’s done nothing except think for the past moon. She’s convinced herself I’m the reason she’s not a warrior.”

“You’re the one who trained her,” Alder pointed out.

“Yeah,” Gar looked away. “To pay a debt.”

“Please tell me you didn’t say that to her,” Monk said, and when Gar didn’t reply, he smacked his own forehead. “For Trina, man. Why would you admit that?”

Gar grabbed a piece of coal that had fallen outside the circle of rocks and threw it back on the fire. “She asked, and I couldn’t lie to her anymore.”

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Monk barked a mirthless laugh. “Gar Bayn, smartest warrior in a generation, tried to win over a woman with a truth she didn’t want to know.”

And it hadn’t been the only truth she hadn’t really wanted to know. Gar groaned and buried his head in his hands. If only Kindra had been given a name, she wouldn’t be so angry now. Hurt, yes, and she would have taken some time to come around after learning Gar’s secret, but she wouldn’t feel like she lost everything. She would have come around to him in a moon or two.

Cougar’s voice broke through his despair. “If she blames you for not being a warrior, then you need to make her a warrior.”

“Oak won’t name her a warrior, and the only one who can depose Oak is Kindra…if she were a named warrior.”

Monk jabbed a finger in the air. “I’ve got it! Didn’t the gods grant you a vision of becoming chief? We make you chief, then you can name Kindra.”

They all rolled their eyes.

“Or," Monk continued, "we could go steal Kaye back, start a war with the Obsidians, let her earn her name in battle, and viola—Gar’s forgiven, marrying an Odion, and next in line to become chief.”

Alder stared at him. “You come up with the most ridiculous plans.”

“You definitely like some of them,” Monk winked, and Al grinned.

It was the sort of easy camaraderie Gar used to have with Kindra, and he missed it. He wanted her brief smiles back, her focus when he was teaching her to perfect a move, her determination to win when they sparred. Her joyful eruptions on the rare occasion she won. He missed all of it. All of her.

He paced, trying to think of a plan. He had to do something to make this right. When he sat, he grabbed his dagger and flicked it across his wrist. The wound bloomed red, deep enough to scar, but not deep enough to kill him.

Monk grabbed the dagger. “It’s not worth killing yourself over.”

Gar frowned at him. “I know how to kill a man, and I wouldn’t open his wrist. It takes too long.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Give me my dagger and I’ll show you.”

Monk stared at him for a moment, shrugged, and gave the dagger back. Gar wiped the blood, exposing the line across his wrist. He pressed his lips together, put the point of the dagger at the end of the cut, and drew a diagonal line up. It didn’t bleed as much, so he finished quickly and poured wine over the wound to sterilize it before pressing a rag to his wrist to stop the bleeding.

No one spoke until he peeled away the rag.

Cougar raised his eyebrows. “That’s blasphemy.”

“It’s a promise.” Gar rubbed a handful of ash from the fire into it.

“To Kindra?” Monk asked, eyes lit up in excitement. “Or to Oak?”

“To everyone.” Gar stared at the red mark on his wrist, knowing it could mean his death. Only Odions were allowed to wear the Mark of Ian. Even Oak would be punished if he wore it. “I’m going to get Kindra back into the warriors. She deserves it.”

Monk smirked. “She’s worked harder than I did for it.” He drew his dagger. “So be it.”

Gar grabbed his wrist. “If you get caught with that mark…”

“It’s better than marrying her.” Monk started to draw. “Let me damn myself whatever way I please.”

Al and Cougar followed, and by the time they left, each had a mark on his wrist—a promise to do what he could to support Kindra Odion in her quest to become a warrior.