The surface of the bar gleamed in the dim morning light as Hilda scrubbed at its surface with a rag. She’d already cleaned it twice before but couldn’t help herself. When she was anxious, she needed to do something with her hands, or she’d go mad. James had barely spoken to her when he’d returned last night. He’d said Lissa was safe and immediately set to helping her run the bar.

She looked over her shoulder to the backroom. From behind the door, she could hear the scrape of metal on wood as James whittled. The sound was comforting and brought a small smile to her lips. They’d get through this and anything else that came their way.

Her eyes snapped to the front door as she heard its hinges loudly creak open. Marc strode through alone. “Will that be a table for one, or are you bringing a half dozen friends to pressure my husband?” she called.

Marc shot her a toothy grin as he crossed the threshold and sidled up to the bar, taking a deep breath. “Believe it or not, I actually wanted to apologize for that,” he said, “When I heard the news, I was afraid somebody would smell the money and come for a bounty of some kind.” He shook his head. “Desperate people do stupid things, and desperation is the one thing the Outwalls has in plenty.”

A slight frown crossed Hilda’s lips. He was likely stretching the truth regarding his intentions, but he had a point. “You’ll need to tell that to James. He’s the one who’s mad at you.”

Marc looked over her shoulder to the door beyond. There were dark rings around his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. He was quiet a long moment before speaking again. “You got anything to drink?” he asked.

“It’s barely past sunrise,” Hilda answered.

He just stared at her.

She shrugged and knelt behind the bar, pulling out a large glass bottle and a clay cup. She poured some of the brown liquid into the cup and set it atop the bar in front of Marc.

She watched him stare at the cup, clearly lost in his thoughts. “Why are you actually here?” she asked.

He blinked, then looked up to meet her gaze. “They held some executions yesterday. Gave a dozen people their wings after it went to shit. I spent the night pulling down the bodies and gave them a resting place in the city’s catacombs.”

He grabbed the cup and raised It to his lips, taking a deep draft of the burning liquid. “One of the girls was barely a year or two older than Lissa.” His lips curled back in distaste and Hilda didn’t think it was on account of the shit whiskey.

She was quiet, a cold shiver running down her spine. “Why would they-”

“Because of what I did. Blood for blood,” he growled. “I hate them, and I’m trying to keep that hate from getting my people killed.” He placed the cup on the table and curled his hands into fists atop the hard wood.

Marc stared into the cup. “There is no room for doubt and no place for regret when you are in command. Over two thousand men look to me guidance. If I falter, they will fall to pieces,” he said, “I’ve been leading the Sons for nearly ten years now and what do we have to show for it? A list of dead Greencloaks to match our list of loved ones lost?”

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Hilda didn’t answer, sensing he had more to say.

Marc was quiet a long moment, as he unclenched his fists with an effort. He spoke quietly with an unnerving fervor, “I’m going to end this, whatever the cost. I can’t bring back the dead, but I can make their sacrifice meaningful.”

He reached for the cup, but Hilda stopped him, placing a hand over his. He met her gaze, a hint of sorrow in his eyes. “Kill them all,” she said, toppling the cup of liquor and sending its contents spilling across the bar.

Marc watched it spill over the side of the bar, taking in her meaning. “I have work to do,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze.

Before Hilda could respond, the door behind her creaked open and she pulled her hand away from Marc’s.

She glanced over her shoulder at James as he took in Marc’s presence. “What’s he doing here?”

“He needed somebody to talk to,” Hilda answered.

James furrowed his brow, scars seeming to knit together. James sighed, releasing whatever anger he was holding on to. He leaned against the bar next to Hilda. “What do you need Marc? he asked, glancing to the spilled drink.

“I need my brother,” Marc answered.

James was quiet as Hilda looked between the two men. Neither betrayed any expression as if in some idiotic battle of wills. She bit her tongue, knowing from experience that her interference would not be appreciated by either.

“What do you want?” James asked.

“You know what I want,” Marc answered.

“I told you no,” James said.

“Things have changed,” Marc said.

James scowled, acknowledging the point.

Marc continued, “Lissa will never be safe until they are gone.”

James’ scowl deepened.

Marc leaned forward. “Men will follow you. They still tell stories of your stand at Varna.”

“Every one of my men died,” James said.

“And any of mine would happily have traded places with them,” Marc answered.

James was quiet and the silence stretched. Marc pulled a gold coin from his pocket and placed it atop the counter “For the drink,” he said, looking to Hilda.

Marc looked to James as he rose to his feet. “Think on it. The offer is always open, and you know how to find me.”

Without another word, Marc turned from them and strode from the tavern.

James sighed as he left, and Hilda put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re considering it?”

James nodded grimly. “I might be able to temper his bloodier instincts.”

“Who’d run the tavern?” she asked.

James adopted a tired grin as he plucked the gold coin from the bar and tapped it against the wood. “Might have to hire somebody.”

“I’ve been telling you that for years,” Hilda said.

James chuckled. “And all it took was our daughter being touched by the gods.”

“Who’d have thought?” Hilda asked, snaking her hand around his waist.

He met her gaze, seeing the gleam in her eyes. A warm smile alighted his face as he pulled her close and kissed her.

She ran her hands along the stubble on his cheeks, broken by the raised flesh of old scars. After a lingering moment he released her, a warm smile on his lips that she mirrored. “What do you think?”

She paused, turning from him and considering her words as her hands absently reached for the rag atop the bar. “I think that I held a funeral for you when we thought you lost, and that cried myself to sleep as I held our daughter in my arms for nearly a month.”

James opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him. “When they returned you to me- what they did to you-” She took a deep breath, forcing herself to continue meeting his eyes. “I cared for you morning and night, scraping a living off whatever work or charity I could find.”

A sad smile crossed her lips. “Everyone told me what a hero you were, and about the lives you saved. They talked about it as if we hadn’t been cast aside like so many others.”

She released her grip on the rag and raised a hand to his cheek as a moment of silence passed between them. “I’d endure every hardship pressed on me a thousand times to protect our daughter, and I’d do them a thousand times more by your side.”

She felt the warmth of a tear strike the tips of her fingers. James reached up and grasped her hand in his, giving it a firm squeeze as he pulled it away and covered it with his other hand. “I think once more will be enough.”

She smiled.

James tried to follow suit but couldn’t seem to manage to bring one to bear. “I’ll find him tomorrow,” he said, looking across the tavern floor. “One last day of peace,” he muttered more to himself than her.