The Primordial Flame

Is that an apology?

"The trench line on the southern breach,"

Bram rumbles, his voice low, steady, and devoid of the iron roar from earlier. "Jax told me you reset the tripwires and staked the palisade before sundown."

Vane blinks, taken aback by the lack of bloodlust. His fingers twitch against the hilt of his knife before he slowly lays the blade flat on the wood.

"Double pointed pine stakes," Vane rasps, his throat still hoarse from the bruising. "Coated the wire in pine tar to cut the glint. If their vanguard tries that path in the dark, they'll lose their mounts before they reach the ditch."

Bram holds his gaze for three long, agonising seconds. The younger scout doesn't look away, holding the Commander's dark stare with a stubborn, battered pride.

Slowly, Bram reaches across the table, grabs the heavy earthenware pitcher of dark mountain ale, and fills two wooden flagons to the brim. He slides one across the rough timber until it clinks against Vane's trencher, sloshing foam over the rim.

"Good work," Bram says quietly, lifting his own cup and holding it in the air between them. "Drink your ale, Vane. We have work to do tomorrow."

Across the table, Vane's jaw softens. The tension that had held him wound like a spring snaps, a faint, ragged breath slipping from his chest as he reaches out and wraps his calloused hand around the flagon, knocking it lightly against Bram’s.

Around the hall, the breath that twenty men had been holding finally exhales, and the clatter of spoons against wood slowly rises once again.

I don't touch my stew. Instead, I fold my arms over the edge of the trestle table, tilt my head, and level a slow, pointed arch of my eyebrow directly at Bram.

The message couldn't be louder if I shouted it across the rafters: Good work and a flagon of bitter ale is not an apology, and you bloody well know it.

Bram freezes with the rim of his wooden cup an inch from his beard.

He catches the look. He tracks the tilt of my chin, the steady, unblinking challenge in my eyes, and he knows precisely what I'm demanding from him. A month ago, the Commander would have glared down the insolence, slammed his cup down, and barked an order to remind everyone who held the keys to the armoury.

Instead, a deep, tired groan rumbles in the back of his throat. He lowers the flagon back to the table with a quiet thud, running a thick, scarred hand down the bridge of his nose, his dark eyes flickering between me and the bruised scout sitting beside me.

Vane suddenly looks violently uncomfortable, his grey eyes widening as he shakes his head at me in a frantic, silent panic. Drop it, Ame, his posture screams, his fingers white on the handle of his ale. Don't push the bear.

I don't drop it. I just keep that single eyebrow raised, completely unimpressed.

Bram rolls his broad shoulders, shifting his massive frame on the low stool until the pine wood groans under his weight. He stares down at his own knuckles, his jaw working as he swallows down ten years of ingrained military pride, before lifting his gaze straight back to Vane's throat, right where the purple handprints are still stark against his skin.

"I lost my head," Bram rumbles, his voice rough, blunt, and stripped entirely of rank. It isn't smooth, and it isn't pretty, but it is real. "The breach wasn't your fault. And pinning you to that timber was out of line."

Vane stops breathing altogether, staring at Bram like the Commander had just sprouted wings and spoken in tongues.

Bram holds his gaze, his dark eyes heavy with an unvarnished sincerity he hasn't shown a soul in the sanctuary for months.

"You brought her back when I couldn't reach her," Bram adds quietly, the gravel in his tone dropping into a low, steady cadence that carries only to our corner of the bench. "I shouldn't have forgotten that. I'm sorry, Vane."

The silence at our little corner of the table is total.

Vane's throat works on a hard swallow, his thumb tracing the worn grain of his flagon as the last lingering traces of humiliation wash out of his face. He lets out a short, raspy breath, shaking his head with a faint, crooked smirk that barely hides the relief blooming in his chest.

"Just, don't do it again, Bram," Vane mutters, lifting his cup again, the old, easy familiarity finally creeping back into his voice. "My neck is already bruised enough without you turning into a rabid grizzly every time you ride into the yard."

"Then don't give me a reason to look like one," Bram shoots back dryly, but the corner of his mouth twitches beneath his dark beard.

He cuts his eyes sideways to me, the arch of his own brow answering mine, waiting for his verdict from the woman who just bent the Commander of the Guild to her will.

I give Bram a beaming, joyful smile, the sheer warmth of it crinkling the corners of my eyes and letting him know he’s officially off the hook.

Without missing a single beat, I abandon every shred of courtly grace and ladylike etiquette I ever possessed. I snatch up my wooden spoon, hunch over the steaming bowl of mutton stew, and shovel in a massive, hearty mouthful that puffs steam past my lips. It is hot, savoy with thyme and root vegetables, and tastes like the sweetest thing on earth.

Next to me, Vane leans back on the bench, crossing his arms and watching my display with sheer, exaggerated disbelief.

"Gods above, Ame," he drawls, clicking his tongue in mock pity. "If your bites get any bigger, you’re going to swallow half the bloody table whole. Are you chewing, or just unhinging your jaw like a swamp snake?"

Smack.

My hand shoots out and catches the back of his head with an open palm, the sharp crack of skin against dark hair echoing over the clatter of the mess hall.

"Ow! Bloody hell!" Vane yelps, rubbing the back of his neck and ducking out of range with a hiss, though a bright, boyish grin splits his face ear to ear. "Brutal. Absolutely feral. See, Bram? You’re feeding a wild beast! And you threatened to snap my neck!"

Across the scarred pine, Bram lets out a deep, gravelly rumble that shakes his broad shoulders, picking up his own horn spoon with a rare, relaxed crinkle around his dark eyes.

"Sounds like she handled you just fine," Bram mutters dryly, cutting a thick slice of rye bread and sliding half of it onto my trencher before tearing into his own meal. "Mind your manners, scout, or she'll have the other side of your head next."

The hall around us hums with warmth, the scent of hot food, and the easy clatter of life finally resuming its rhythm, the ghosts of the morning pushed firmly back into the shadows.

The second Vane turns his head to ask Bram about the southern scout patrols, my spoon strikes with the silent, lethal precision of a veteran pickpocket.

I spear his prize, a golden, steam-glistening roasted potato practically drowning in rich mutton broth, and haul it clean into my bowl in one fluid blur of motion. I immediately bite right into it, chewing with innocent, wide eyed serenity as I stare straight ahead at the hearth fire.

Across the table, Bram’s spoon halts an inch from his mouth. He watches the theft unfold in real-time, one dark eyebrow climbing steadily toward his hairline. A deep, silent tremor of amusement shakes his chest, the harsh lines around his clean shaven jaw softening completely. He doesn't utter a single syllable, watching the impending catastrophe like a man with a front-row seat at an arena fight.

Vane finishes his sentence, turns back to his meal, and reaches for his spoon.

He freezes.

His eyes dart down to the vacant crater in his stew where his prized root vegetable had been floating not five seconds ago. He blinks once, twice, his spoon hovering pathetically over the barren surface of gravy.

Slowly, his head swivels toward me.

I am sitting there with my cheeks puffed out, chewing steadily, looking like a stuffed squirrel with absolute, unrepentant dignity.

"You didn't," Vane whispers, his jaw dropping in sheer betrayal. "You absolute heathen. That was the centerpiece of my entire evening. I was saving that!"

I swallow the mouthful with a delicate little hum, dabbing the corner of my lips with the back of my hand. "I don't know what you're talking about, Vane. You really ought to watch your rations better. It's a rough sanctuary out here."

"A rough sanctuary?" he sputters, pointing his wooden spoon at my bowl like an accusatory rapier. "Bram, tell her! You're the Commander! Court martial her! Hang her from the rafters for Grand Larceny of Root Crops!"

Bram doesn't even look up from tearing off a hunk of crusty rye bread. He just reaches out with his thick fingers, drops the piece of bread straight into my bowl to soak up the gravy, and takes a slow draught of his dark ale.

"I didn't see anything," Bram rumbles into his flagon, deadpan and smooth, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Keep your eyes on your plate, scout. First rule of the table."

Vane groans, throwing his hands up toward the ceiling timbers in pure, theatrical despair while I beam at Bram and shamelessly scoop up the gravy soaked crust.

With a dramatic, heavy sigh, I scoop up the last large potato from my own bowl and drop it right into the middle of his stew with a soft plop, broth splashing faintly over the rim.

"Court martial me, Vane?" I ask, letting my voice quiver with mock heartbreak as I tilt my head down, batting my eyelashes and putting on the most tragically wounded, puppy eyed pout I can muster. "Hang me from the rafters? After everything I've done for you? I’ll remember that."

I sniffle softly, resting the back of my hand against my forehead like a fainting maiden in a cheap stage play.

Vane freezes, his wooden spoon hovering inches from the steaming potato I just gifted him. His jaw works as he looks from the offering in his bowl up to my tragic, mournful expression, the indignant outrage draining clean out of him, replaced by total, flustered panic.

"Ame, wait, no, come on," he stammers, waving his spoon frantically through the air. "I didn't mean, I wasn't actually going to hang you from the rafters! It was a potato! A tactical joke!"

Across the table, Bram lets out a quiet, rumbling breath through his nose, his dark eyes glittering with amused malice as he watches Vane dig himself deeper into the pit. He leans back against the timber wall, crossing his thick arms over his chest, his jaw twitching with a suppressed smirk.

"Sounds to me like treason against the lady," Bram remarks smoothly, perfectly playing along without blinking an eye. "Threatening guild leadership with gallows humour. That's at least three extra perimeter shifts in the freezing sleet, wouldn't you say, Ame?"

"Bram, shut up, you're not helping!" Vane groans, raking a desperate hand through his messy hair before quickly nudging the potato back toward my side of the table with the tip of his spoon. "Look, take it back! Eat both of them! Swallow the whole damn pot! Just stop looking at me like I kicked a stray hound in the snow!"

I hold the sad, betrayed pout for two more agonising seconds before a broad, triumphant grin breaks across my face, and I spear the potato right back onto my spoon.