His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed slightly. She drew back carefully, watching his face as she did, but he didn’t wake. His skin was dry, with a healthy flush of color—not pale or clammy with cold sweat like it had been before.
She looked at his arms, still crossed against his chest, and pulled one of her hands from behind his back to touch his skin through his shirt. Even though she’d prefer to actually see the lack of deathrot than just assume it, peeking when he was unconscious was a line she didn’t intend to cross. Besides, she felt only the warmth of healthy skin beneath her hand, and if the rot had started, he would be in excruciating pain at her touch.
Expelling a relieved breath, she slid her other arm out—it had fallen asleep—shaking it as she extricated herself. His frown deepened at her departure, as if unhappy with the sudden space between them, and the incongruous sight of it wormed its way into Wren’s chest. Of course he was sleeping, and how he actually felt was the exact opposite. He’d never wanted her so close to him to begin with.
Going to their packs, she unearthed the rest of their blankets and piled them on top of him. She thought again of a fire, but even if she could manage to create something that didn’t burn the place down, it would only draw attention to them. There were more than undead threats in the Breachlands, as their run-in with the bandits the day before had proven.
They had gotten extremely lucky finding this place. She didn’t know how much farther Julian could have run, and despite how much she liked to brag about her skill, Wren would have had a difficult time protecting them against a handful of tier fives. She could have tried a defensive ring, using bonedust to enclose them in safety, but even at Marrow Hall they had warned that revenants had a certain resistance to its effects. The remnants of their bodies protected their ghost and could allow them to pass through a bonedust ring or at least reach beyond its barriers. Ideally, that’s when Julian’s iron sword would come in handy, and really, the pair of them might make the perfect team against these walking undead, if they could only find a way to work together properly.
She stared longingly at the nest of blankets, the lingering memory of his warm skin appealing—especially as she had left her jacket somewhere inside. She was exhausted, both from the scant amount of sleep they’d managed early that morning and the series of attacks—before and after it—that had made up the past few days. But as soon as she closed her eyes, she saw those revenants standing below the open hatch, looking up at her. She saw them reach for the ladder, and the vision chased away the possibility of sleep.
Instead, she took up her bone blades and perched next to the trapdoor, watching, waiting… just in case.
* * *
When Wren next became aware of herself, she was slumped against the wall beside the trapdoor. Golden light filled the tower, and Julian crouched before her, a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m awake,” she mumbled, lurching upright. She stared down through the hatch again, stretching her senses, but the revenants had not returned.
Julian sat back on the heap of blankets, scrubbing at his face as if he’d just awoken as well.
“How is your hand?” she asked.
He looked down at it, clenching and unclenching his fist. He nodded. “It’s good.”
“Good,” Wren said. He tugged at the edge of his glove and then smiled—a soft, affectionate expression she’d never seen on his face before. He was fiddling with something… a bracelet? “What’s that?”
He glanced at her, and apparently he was in a talkative mood, because he actually lifted the bracelet to give her a better view. “It’s a good luck charm.” It was made of simple iron links, with three roughly hewn beads that slid across the surface. “These are iron ore. Raw and untreated. There’s one for each of the House of Iron rankings.” He touched the first bead. “The hammer, which is the artisan—the person who crafts our weapons and armor. Then we have the sword,” he said, touching the next, “which is the warrior—the person who uses them. I’m a sword,” he added, flicking a look in her direction before he continued to the last bead. “And then the anvil. They are the historians, the protectors of the lore. The foundation.”
“We have three, too,” Wren murmured. “The reapyr—the person who severs the ghost from its bones. They also handle funeral rites once they age out of active duty. There’s the valkyr, the one who defends the reapyr against the undead.”
“Let me guess—you’re a valkyr?”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment, ignoring the twinge that told her it wasn’t technically true, and he smiled smugly. “And then we have the fabricators. They’re like your hammers, I suppose, but there are a lot of different specializations. Weapons and armor, yes, but also protections.”
“Like the Wall?”
“Right. So they make weapons and armor, plus talismans for roads and towns.” He nodded, still toying with the bracelet. “Who wants to keep you safe?” she asked. When he lowered his brows in confusion, she clarified. “The charm. Who gave it to you?”
She knew it was a gift from the way he’d looked at it, like it reminded him of a happy memory. Her guess was maybe Julian had a girl back home, and she felt a bit guilty for the way she’d pranced around him the other day—and a bit disappointed, too, if she was honest.
“Oh,” he said, surprised and suddenly uncomfortable. He dropped his hand. “My little sister.”
“Oh,” Wren echoed, and he looked puzzled at her reaction. She cleared her throat. “Well, I guess it worked, didn’t it? You were shot by an arrow the day we met.”
“My breastplate worked,” he said dryly, sliding his hand over the place where the armor had saved him. Then he huffed out a laugh. “I tried to tell her. I am literally covered in iron—three extra rocks won’t do much—but she wouldn’t hear of it. She’s superstitious. And stubborn.”
“I like her already.”
He tilted his head. “Yes, I suspect you would.”
Wren couldn’t figure out what to make of that. “What about last night? That was the hand that almost got exposed. I think she’s on to something.”
“I think I have you to thank for that,” he said.
Wren’s stomach squirmed at the intense, unguarded look in his eye. “Yeah, well… you already have.”
His expression flickered, and he glanced down, noticing her jacket amid his blankets and bedding for the first time. She could almost see his tired brain trying to work through it all, recalling how they’d lain in an embrace, and his murmured “thank you” before he’d fallen asleep.
“I thought I dreamed you,” he muttered. Then froze. “It. I thought I’d dreamed it.”
Wren stood and picked up her coat, smiling as she pulled it on, delighted at the flush crawling up his face. “I guess today is the day your dreams have come true.”
He gave her a flat stare, and she laughed, doing up the buttons.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” she said. “I knew you had it in you.”
He rolled his eyes, but she thought she could see him stifle the smallest of smirks before he cleared his throat and stood. “We need to figure out our next move. Are they…？ Are we alone?”