Gray had turned into a shell of himself and the timing couldn’t have been more inconvenient.

Because Gray needed to draw the soldiers away from Krydon - he needed to do it more than ever, after seeing them with Mrs Farrack - and he could barely muster up the energy to sit upright.

Something had happened inside Gray during that last conversation with Killian. Like a cold mist creeping within him. A numbing.

He’d felt like this before, after Elona had died and after Alistair, in between the intense sting of grief, there’d been waves of numbness just like this.

Like all the fire and motivation within him had been smothered. Like he’d let his anger burn too bright and he’d let it wipe what made him him clean from his body, and all that was left was ash and nothing.

A kind of giving up.

But, he couldn’t.

He mustn’t.

No help was coming.

Gray had to get himself out of this, and he had to give the town at least a reprieve from the soldiers. Before they took any drastic action into their own hands.

And the northerners would. They would fight.

They were at a tipping point, they had to be.

If the soldiers left, the northerners would cool down, they would recover …

Weak morning light, filtered through a layer of grey clouds, fell onto Gray’s dirty hands resting on the table in Killian’s room.

He blankly stared at the dishes on the table that the workers had forgotten to clear from the night before.

Killian was sitting opposite him. The chair creaked as he shifted.

He was speaking to Gray. Asking him something. Gray’s mind was too slow, and he only caught the ‘hm?’ at the end.

He barely had the strength to lift his gaze and maintain eye contact.

‘You with me, kid?’ Killian tapped Gray under the chin.

This used to damn well piss Gray off.

There was a weird flop in Gray’s chest, and it took Gray a moment to identify it.

Faint annoyance.

OK, so he wasn’t a complete shell of himself.

Three quarters shell.

Killian nudged the dishes aside with his elbow, irritation written all over him.

Last night, Killian had invited his lieutenants for dinner, they’d drunk up a storm - well, the lieutenants had, while Killian sat stiff and restrained and, honestly, kind of socially awkward - while Gray had sat on the bedroll, staring blankly into the fireplace. The ceiling. The wall.

And now, as Gray sat at the table for breakfast with Killian, the dirty dishes sat neatly stacked on the table, along with the remnants of a pitcher of ale, Gray could do nothing but stare blankly at his filthy hands.

The smell of the old ale congealed, reminding Gray of the tavern.

Rosie backed into the room with the breakfast tray.

She was a little pale, there was darkness under her eyes which Gray’d never seen before.

But otherwise she was the same. Red-laced boots. Long blond hair twirled back out of her freckled face.

‘I told you I don’t want you in here,’ said Killian.

Rosie must’ve been expecting to be questioned, because she didn’t miss a beat. ’Some of our staff have passed. It’s either me or you walk down to the kitchen yourself,’ she said.

Killian watched as she set out a bowl of oats for Gray, and eggs, toast, sausages and a bowl of fragrant strawberries for him. He was fully dressed in his grey uniform, minus the cap and sword belt.

‘Wait,’ he muttered. ‘I have laundry.’

He unlocked the bathroom door.

‘Gray, are you OK?’ Rosie whispered in fast northern.

Gray needed to work his tongue. He needed to talk to Rosie. He was taking too long to form words in his mind.

‘You forgot my coffee,’ said Killian, as though from the other side of a mountain. ‘Bring a whole pot here. Clear these dishes.’

And just like that, Gray had lost his opportunity to talk to Rosie without Killian overhearing - or, maybe, Killian would’ve heard from across the room and it was just as well Gray hadn’t -

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Rosie demanded, over Gray’s head.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

‘It’s a type of melancholy,’ said Killian. ‘I’ve seen it before in my prisoners. In my men.’

‘Well, fix it!’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘What kind of man does this?’ Rosie hissed.

And gods, the gears were starting to turn back on inside Gray, because fuuuuuck, if he didn’t nip this in the bud, Rosie would throw a giant sized fit.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? Well, hell hath no idea what fury even damn well was, until it met Rosie when she felt like an injustice had been committed.

Her ire was legendary.

‘You’re a grown man, messing around a boy like a snivelling coward. You have no honour.’

Gray flexed his hands at snivelling coward.

Because, for Clochaint’s sake, if there was one thing guaranteed to rile up Killian, it had to be accusing him of being a coward.

‘Listen, girl, if you don’t watch your tongue -’

‘Stop,’ said Gray, wrenching the thoughts and words together with a huge effort. ‘Stop fighting.’

‘Stop?’ snarled Rosie in northern. ‘He can’t treat you like this.’ She rounded on Killian. ‘We don’t treat prisoners like this. The same goes for our guards in the prison. Their rations are not enough.’

‘I’m following procedure,’ said Killian.

‘Your procedure’s inhumane!’

Gray closed his eyes.

Because, it was too late.

The only way to stop Rosie from a tirade once she’d started was to physically take her by the hand and change her location - which, for some reason, seemed to distract her enough to put a pause in things.

Though, often, it made everything worse. Once, she’d tackled Alistair to the ground when he tried to relocate her, then gave him a swollen lip and refused to speak to him for three weeks, to boot.

‘Girl,’ said Killian.

‘Go on,’ said Rosie, striding up to him. Oh sweet gods, she was getting in his space. ‘If I don’t watch my tongue - what? What’s going to happen?’

Killian stared down at her, his dark hair hanging in his gaze. His eyes were half lidded, as though bored by the entire thing. The tiniest muscle flickered in his jaw.

Rosie started in earnest, then. She jabbed her finger in Killian’s face, she shoved him, she screamed in northern. Gray knew he had to pull himself together, because there was only one thing he could do, and he had to do it before Killian lost his patience.

Because he’d been exactly where Rosie was, losing his mind, his control, and he would’ve given anything for someone to be there to pull him back.

Gray heaved himself out of the chair, and took Rosie’s hand.

It was heated. Clammy.

Gray entwined his fingers with hers.

Her skin was so hot, and his was cool. And he pulled her back a step.

And she let him.

She had to.

Because, while Rosie was furious and she was one of the best fighters in the school, she didn’t have a death wish. Where was this leading, her screaming at one of the king’s officers? She’d end up in jail - oh gods, no - or she’d get hurt so badly.

She had to know this, even through the rage spilling out of her.

Gray pulled her back, achingly slowly, as she continued to scream at Killian. Back again. Again.

And Gray was murmuring in her ear in northern, even though there was no way she’d hear him over her screaming tirade, and it’d likely earn him an angry slap from Rosie if she did, ‘let’s go. Let’s get out of this room. Come.’

Then, because Gray was more awake now - half shell - and they were almost at the door, he continued to murmur, ‘apple seeds. Dinner time. Hide them in my oats.’

The apple seeds were the only item missing.

He needed them, to make firebreath fire.

To pull off his plan, to draw the soldiers away from Krydon in a chase.

His shoulder was against hers, as she resisted being nudged over the threshold, crying out a stream of curse words, of complete vitriol, at Killian. Gray squeezed her hands. ‘Don’t work nights,’ he breathed. ‘Tell the others.’

Maybe, this had been Rosie’s plan all along. To give her and Gray two seconds to talk without Killian - maybe - hearing. To scream, until Gray snapped out of it. Well, not snapped. It’d been more like dragged out, temporarily, just enough to have his head mentally above water to gasp in a breath. And she couldn’t scream at Gray, because Gray would’ve shattered, but she could scream at Killian.

At great personal risk.

And this made more sense than Rosie just losing her mind at a king’s soldier.

Because she was brave. Smart. So damn smart. And she had this wisdom where she could almost see the future, could see that this leads to this, and then this, and this.

And that was why Gray had spent most of his life barely being able to function in her presence.

It wasn’t her beauty. Though, she was beautiful.

It was just her.

All of Rosie.

Rosie locked eyes with Gray, just as she stepped back through the doors and out into the corridor.

Her golden eyes were narrowed and so stressed, and smudged kohl was caught in her lashes and the tiny pock mark at the corner of her right eye.

But, there was something in them that made Gray feel that maybe, she’d heard him.

Maybe, if she got him those apple seeds, they were going to be OK.

As long as Killian hadn’t heard Gray over Rosie’s screaming.

And if Killian had, hopefully he hadn’t understood the northern.

—

They sat in thick silence after that.

It certainly seemed like Killian hadn’t heard or understood what Gray had murmured to Rosie.

But, Killian was damn unpredictable, and Gray wasn’t sure of exactly how keen Killian’s hearing was - how sharp were wolf-shifters' senses, really?

Gray’s old dog Jax, who’d died years ago, used to have the kind of hearing that was so sensitive he’d get overwhelmed at loud sounds.

Were wolf-shifters’ hearing like that?

Gray picked at his oats, his head bowed, not even daring to glance up at Killian. The silence was unbearable.

Killian stilled. He stilled so hard that Gray watched him, out of his periphery.

He was in the middle of taking a bite of his eggs, some kind of report clutched in his hand that had been delivered by a crow that morning.

His nostrils flared.

‘You feel something?’ he said softly. ‘Gray?’

Gray tightened his grip on his spoon, dripping oats over his lap. ‘I don’t - feel anything right now.’

Killian tutted his tongue, his brow furrowed. He dropped his report and strode over to the door and flung it open just as Jessica raised her hand to knock.

Sorena was flung over Jessica’s shoulder, completely limp, in a tangle of long limbs.