> CONTINUE

They both made the two characters continue forward, Tomura getting in many zombie kills along the way as Sal ran around them instead, still not very good with gamepad controls. The train horn sounded in game, letting them know it was on the way.

“Okay, move over to this-” Tomura was interrupted by Leon getting hit by the train. “-side.” Tomura raised his head up from where he sat on the floor to look at Sal sat above him on the bed. Red eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. Sal smiled and blinked innocently, shrugging their shoulders nonchalantly.

“Guess I didn’t move him fast enough.” Their smile widened as Tomura continued to squint his eyes at them. “The dogs distracted me.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” He looked back at the screen and hit continue again. “I know you’re not that much of a noob.” Sal just bonked the side of Tomura’s head gently with their knee in response, which he then bit in return as the stage was once again restarted.

Everything was going well, most of the zombies were being dodged and those that weren’t were taken out with a couple kicks or knife slashes. Even the dogs were avoided mostly. It was going well. Until-

The train horn sounded and the red death screen popped up once again.

“You’re doing that on purpose.” 

By some miracle, you guided the army through the Forest Perilous, with no one lost but those who strayed from the path. It was neither a smooth nor an easy journey, and you spent all of it listening to the complaints from the nobles insisting there must be an easier way, the common soldiers anxious to pass through the Veil by any means necessary and swearing they saw shortcuts around every corner. You aren’t suited for leading an army. You questioned yourself on every step. But when your resolve faltered, you glanced over your shoulder and found Sir Tomura a few steps behind you. You reminded yourself that you weren’t guiding an army, just him, and in such a fashion, the two of you traveled through the Forest and reached the borderlands.

The army hasn’t left the Forest, not quite. King Izuku’s ordered the main encampment set up just past its edge, acting on some thought that Warlord Kai fears the Forest the same as he does. You could have told him otherwise, and you told Sir Tomura, but the king couldn’t be swayed. And as little protection as the Forest offers, you aren’t sorry to still be within its bounds. As long as you’re within the Forest, you and Sir Tomura have no choice but to sleep side by side. As unseemly as it is, you’re not ready to give it up.

It’s something that shouldn’t have happened, wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for the torture the Veil inflicted on him. It’s wrong of you to treasure it the way you do, wrong to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, wrong to crawl into his arms each night as though you belong there. Nothing else has happened but that. You share the same bed, and that’s all — but it doesn’t feel like all. You have friends amidst the High Kingdom’s army. Over the course of the journey to the borderlands, you’ve made even more, and the thought of losing any of them fills you with dread. Only the thought of losing Tomura — Sir Tomura, although the title is getting harder to remember — fills you with terror.

But Sir Tomura is a warrior. This is what he does, what he’s better at than almost anyone in the world. It’s not what you’re good at, and no matter how successful he and the others are in fighting off the raiding party, a few are likely to slip through. He told you to stay down. You duck under a wagon, out of sight, and find yourself crouched with two other people. They’re younger than you are, dressed in servants’ clothing — cupbearers, you think, for the nobles who drink. One of them peers anxiously at you. “We hid as soon as we heard the horns. What’s happening out there?”

“A raiding party from the warlords. Stay low and stay quiet,” you instruct, and both of them shut their mouths. “The knights have gone to repel them. They’ll be back soon.”

You want to believe that, but battle distorts time as easily as the Veil does. Every second that passes, filled with the crash of metal against metal and the harsh sound of screams, seems to last for hours. The screams are familiar. You spent three years inside Warlord Kai’s fortress. You know what it sounds like when someone is in terrible pain. There will be wounded at the end of this battle; dead, too. What if Sir Tomura is hurt? What will you do if —

There’s a crash and a heavy thud, not ten feet away, and one of the cupbearers lets out a cry of terror, aborted abruptly when the other clamps their hand down over his mouth. A soldier’s fallen, just to one side of the wagon, and not just any soldier. This one’s not a knight, nor a common soldier, and a brightly colored cloak gives away their allegiance. The colors of House Togata are spilled across the ground. It’s Tamaki.

You can’t see how he’s injured, but you can see that his opponents are still advancing. He conjured up a magical shield, but it’s weak. One of the Hassaikai soldiers shatters it with a single kick, and you crouch just out of sight, paralyzed with terror. You should hep him, but what are you supposed to do? You can’t fight. You don’t have this kind of kind of magic. All you can do —

“Run,” you order the cupbearers. You take a split second to brace yourself, lunge out from beneath the wagon, and grab Tamaki under his arms so you can drag him under cover.

A soldier in full armor is heavy, but you’ve spent months helping Sir Tomura, and you’re stronger than you used to be. Tamaki’s injured, but not unconscious — as one of the raiders lunges forward, he lashes out and kicks them, shattering one kneecap and knocking them back into their fellows. That buys you enough time to pull him all the way beneath the wagon.

Tamaki peers up at you, eyes hazy. “You shouldn’t have done that. They saw —”

“What’s happening out there?” You cut him off. “Were you with the knights? What’s going on?”

“Sir Mirio and the others —” Tamaki coughs, and blood spatters your clothes, your face. You realize that his breastplate’s dented, that he’s taken a heavy blow. “They have something. Some magic. Ours is —”

He gestures with a shaky hand. “It’s there, but I can’t touch it. I don’t know why, and Sir Mirio — for me —”

Magic that disrupts others’ control of their own magic, that makes their magic slip from their grasp. That’s not magic. It’s alchemy. You remember Warlord Kai’s experiments, the few of them you understood. He wanted to steal others’ magic for himself, but whenever he failed, he settled for restricting their access to it. He said it kept them from escaping, and maybe it did, although you remember his fortress being impregnable. You thought he liked seeing the panic in their faces when they realized that something they’d come to count on had been ripped away.

Is Kai here, fighting in this raiding party? Or has his grasp on alchemy advanced such that even his soldiers have the ability to strip others of their magic? Both answers are terrible, but you know which one you like least.

Tamaki grasps your sleeve and tugs, startling you. “Ser Mirio. He’s wounded. Help him.”

“I can’t fight,” you say. Tamaki shakes his head, tugs your sleeve harder. “I can’t leave you here. You’re wounded, too!”

“He matters more.” Tamaki coughs again. “Go. Please.”

You don’t like Sir Mirio. He tells terrible jokes and he never fails to speak ill of Sir Tomura, in spite of the fact that Sir Tomura’s done more great deeds than he ever will. But Tamaki’s looking at you desperately, yanking your sleeve so hard that your shirt begins to tear at the shoulder. If Sir Tomura was hurt, you’d want someone to go help. Whoever could help, no matter what — if anything — they could do. “Stay here,” you say to Tamaki pointlessly. Then you duck out from beneath the far side of the wagon, detour around it, and head toward the woods.

One of the raiders must have cut the horses free, because dozens of them are milling around the campsite, some saddled for the day’s riding and others not. Your grey mare finds you in the chaos, and you mount up, barely getting your feet in the stirrups before nudging her into a canter. A canter is the fastest you can manage without falling off, and it’s the right pace for weaving through the trees. As the sounds of the battle get louder, your stomach twists, tightening with nerves. You didn’t even ask Tamaki where Sir Mirio is. What are you doing here?

As soon as you ask the question, the answer becomes clear. While most of the High Kingdom's knights are on their feet and fighting, you see several on the ground, moving weakly or not moving at all. Sir Mirio is one of the ones still in motion, and you swing down from your horse. You trip on a raider’s body on the way. There are far more dead raiders than injured knights. Maybe you’ll find time to be relieved about that later.

If you can get Mirio to his feet, maybe you’ve got a chance, but he’s taller and heavier than Tamaki. You can’t see an injury, and there’s no blood staining the ground or his cloak. “Come on,” you say quietly, pulling at him until he sits. “Tamaki sent me. You have to go back.”

“No.” Mirio speaks through gritted teeth. “I’m here to fight. I can’t leave.”

“You can’t fight, either,” you say. “If I get you onto my horse, can you stay on?”

He nods. Behind his helm, his face is beaded with sweat. You can smell it, along with the acrid, coiling reek of alchemy. It’s not just Mirio’s magic that’s affected. What did Warlord Kai do to him? The words crawl up from the back of your throat as you heave Mirio onto horseback. “The warlord. Is he here?”

Mirio doesn’t answer. His heels tap the grey mare’s sides and she takes off, leaving you stranded on a battlefield.

You manage to creep to the shadows before terror roots you to the spot, but once you’re even partially out of sight, fear overwhelms you. He might be here. Warlord Kai could be here, and how long before he finds out it was you who told the High Kingdom what he was doing? He made the same threat to everyone who worked inside the fortress, but you’ve never met someone else who escaped. He knows it’s you. You know what he’s going to do to you when he finds you. But Sir Tomura —

He can’t keep you safe. He told you that when he told you that you’d be accompanying him to war. He has his own battles to fight, and protecting you isn’t one of them. You helped Mirio, but there are other injured on the field. Doing something will make you feel better, won’t it? If Kai finds you, he’ll find you doing something to help your kingdom, not hiding in the shadows. You tell yourself that once, then again, and you still can’t move your feet.

The battle’s shifting closer to you. You can’t pick out Sir Tomura or Nomu amidst the chaos, or see the white flash of Decay as he wields it against his enemies. One set of combatants veers close to you, Sir Katsuki and four raiders, dueling to the death. You’ve heard tales of and seen Sir Katsuki’s skill for yourself. This should be easy.

But you can smell alchemy in the air. Whatever Warlord Kai deployed against Mirio, Sir Katsuki’s not immune. He’s slow. Slower than he should be, failing to grasp for magic when it could protect him. One raider falls, then another. Then Sir Katsuki is a moment too slow in disengaging from one raider, and the other amputates his sword hand at the wrist.

Sir Katsuki’s scream of agony shatters your eardrums, and both hand and sword go flying, skidding past the edge of the clearing to land in the undergrowth at your feet. You flinch backwards out of habit, but it’s not the first stray body part you’ve seen. Nor the first you’ve touched, either. The amputation was clean. If Sir Katsuki lives long enough, someone could reattach it. Someone. You?

He won’t live long enough. His scream was just one of many, and everyone else is fighting the same conditions, the same curse. Who can come to his aid? The answer occurs to you, tinged with dread and despair, and you find yourself sinking to your knees, prying Sir Katsuki’s still-warm fingers away from Dynamight’s hilt. You have to try. And Sir Tomura taught you how.

What was the word he spoke? He made you practice it. You lift the sword, mimic the pose Sir Tomura stood in back in the training yard a lifetime ago, moments away from killing Sir Katsuki, and speak the weapon’s true name. All weapons’ true name. “Death.”

The sword stirs in your hand, but nothing more. Perhaps you didn’t say it loud enough, your voice weak and whispery with fear. You try again, thinking of Sir Tomura, who’s out there somewhere. Who you want to live to see again. “Death,” you say again, no louder but with more conviction, and Dynamight blazes bright in your hand.

It’s heavy, vibrating, almost burning hot. The pommel sears your skin, and it takes both hands for you to hold it steady. You can’t swing it, but you can aim, maybe. The two remaining raiders are looming over Sir Katsuki, squarely in your sights. You know too little of the language of magic to give the sword a true command, but it’s alive and furious. The energy rippling down its length knows its target, and the fire and brimstone it spits blasts the Hassaikai raiders to shreds.

The effect on the battlefield isn’t what you were expecting. The raiders pause, flinch. “What the hell was that?” one of them demands, a second before Sir Ochako’s dagger skewers them through the shoulder. “He said they wouldn’t work —”

Dynamight is dragging at you, pulling you sideways, seeking another target. “Some of them do!” another raider protests. A low groan reverberates through the air, a sound that sends chills down your spine. “Let’s get out of here!”

Dynamight looses another explosion, and the raiders begin to disengage. Those on horses stop only to pick up comrades before they bolt; the injured are left where they lie, screaming for rescue. The same groan sounds as before, accompanied by a horrifying wail, and even as the raiders begin to vanish, the knights of the High Kingdom are in no position to give chase. They’re staggering, slumping from horseback, nursing wounds. Swords are sheathed, or lie discarded on the ground. And all the while, Dynamight continues to hum in your hands, desperate for another taste of blood.

You don’t know how to stop it. “Death,” you say again, and it rattles so hard that you feel your ribs jar loose. “Stop. It’s over. Death. It —”

Dynamight veers hard to the left, dragging you towards something with terrifying speed. You see a figure, a target, defenseless with their back turned — and then something strikes Dynamight aside, so hard that the blade’s knocked from your hands, skidding to a stop in the bloodstained grass. Decay hits the grass a moment later, and Sir Tomura’s gloved hands grasp yours.

He’s here. He’s here, he’s alive, and when you breathe deep, you can’t catch the scent of alchemy. Whatever happened to the others, it didn’t befall Sir Tomura, and it’s all you can do not to yank him into your arms. If your hands were free, you’d probably try it. As it is, Sir Tomura’s grip on you is iron. “What are you doing here? I told you to stay down —”

“Tamaki —” you stammer. “He came back hurt. He asked me to get Mirio — Sir Mirio — so I did, and then I — is he here? Was he here? Did you see him?”

“Mirio?” Sir Tomura repeats, almost disgusted — and then you see his expression shift. “The warlord wasn’t here. Only his servants.”

You want to be relieved. You can’t. “His servants did this?”

“What is this?” Lord Tenya demands. “What was that? My sword — my magic —”

“It’s alchemy,” Sir Tomura says shortly. “You gave the Hassaikai clan plenty of time to research. It appears they’ve discovered something.”

“So why were you unaffected? Or you?” Sir Ejiro can’t seem to decide whether he’s shouting at you or Sir Tomura. “That blast was from Katsuki’s sword. What are you doing carrying —”

Sir Katsuki. His hand. You yank your hands free of Sir Tomura’s grip and race back to your hiding spot at the edge of the woods with two knights and one lord in pursuit.

Sir Katsuki’s managed to prop himself against a tree. He’s tied a rough tourniquet at his elbow, pulling tight with the strip of fabric clenched between his teeth, but there’s blood staining the grass beneath him, and his face is ashen. Sir Ejiro curses at the sight. “Katsuki! We need a healer — where’s his hand —”

“Here.” You grab it and carry it back. “I need water. Or alcohol. To rinse it clean.”

“You aren’t a healer,” Lord Tenya says, affronted. “Whatever you think you could do will cause more harm than good! Step aside. You’ve done more than enough —”

Sir Tomura drenches Sir Katsuki’s stump in something from a small flask, and Sir Katsuki howls. Next it’s his hand’s turn. The alcohol stings your burned skin miserably, but it washes the debris from Sir Katsuki’s hand. Someone tries to take it from you, their hands shaking, the reek of alchemy clinging to them. You recoil. “I can fix it,” you say, and King Izuku shakes his head. “I can. My magic mends things.”

“It can mend a hand?”

“I’ve seen it mend fabric more easily than any stitch. If it works, he’ll be better off than if it was sewn,” Sir Tomura says. He looks to you. “He doesn’t deserve it, of course. But you may try if you wish.”

You do wish. You want to see if you can mend flesh and bone, the same as you mend fabric or glass or porcelain. “I need someone to hold his arm,” you say. “I can’t hold both at the same time.”

Sir Ejiro holds Sir Katsuki’s arm steady, but when you press his hand back against the stump, Sir Katsuki howls and thrashes so terribly that Lord Tenya and King Izuku both leap in to hold him still. You must work quickly. You align his hand and wrist as best you can, then begin to run your fingers along the seam. You can’t control what flows beneath your fingertips. Whatever it is, you hope it’s strong.

It’s scar tissue, rough and ragged, and it’s slow going. Sir Katsuki’s hand rejoins the rest of him by degrees. He thrashes and howls in agony, and then he begins to curse at you, until Sir Tomura stuffs a glove in his mouth to make him stop. You notice out of the corner of your eye that you’re drawing an audience, that Sir Ochako and Lady Tsuyu are here as well. Itsuka’s here as well. Lady Momo isn’t.

Where is she? The thought occupies you for a moment, and your fingers waver. You grit your teeth and try to focus, even as the smell of alchemy pervades your nostrils. Your magic isn’t tainted. You still have work to do.

Sir Katsuki’s fingers begin to twitch when the task is three-quarters done, and by the time you’ve laid a last inch of scar tissue, he’s curling his hand into a fist, opening and closing it before he yanks it from your grip. “How does it feel?” Sir Ejiro asks. Sir Katsuki makes a muffled sound. King Izuku yanks the gloves out of his mouth. “Does it — work?”

“It works,” Sir Katsuki growls. “Where’s my damn sword?”

“Your sword?” Sir Tomura repeats. “It’s useless without a sword hand, and your other isn’t half as good. I’ll cut them both off if you don’t thank the person who saved it for you.”

Sir Katsuki aims a venomous look your way. “Thank you,” he spits. “Where’s my sword?”

You point, and he gets to his feet, only to pitch sideways almost immediately. Sir Ejiro catches him, and the two of them set off in search of Dynamight. King Izuku gets to his feet as well. “Anyone who can ride, return to the encampment. Bring back every healer and medic we have. Sir Tomura’s squire can’t be expected to do it all.”

You thought you’d only have to do it once. “I can’t —”

“This way,” Itsuka says to you, catching hold of your sleeve. Her face is pale. “My Lady is injured, too.”

Lady Momo’s injury is to her leg, from a mace strike that broke through her magical shield — a strike the shield should have had no trouble repelling. She’s not even the most gravely injured, and you can do little more than mend the femur with something that’s certainly not bone before you’re drawn away. Knights, lords, ladies, common soldiers, squires. It seems there’s not a single person who survived the battle unhurt. At some point the healers arrive, and you’re relieved of duty for the most part — but for one thing.

“Call a smith,” you say to Lady Nejire, who’s holding out Mirio’s sword Impermanence to you. “I can’t fix that.”

“None of our smiths can fix this.”

“Have you asked them?” you protest, and Lady Nejire’s gaze goes flat. “I can’t do it. It’s magic. I don’t have —”

“You reattached Sir Katsuki’s hand —”

“She’s right. Seek a smith,” Sir Tomura interrupts. “The one named Mei fixed my armor. If anyone can reforge that sword, it’s her.”

Nejire looks as though she wants to ask you again, but she rises instead and sets off toward the encampment, taking Impermanence and its cracked blade with her. Your hands are aching. “Are there more?”

“None who rate your services. Let me see.” Sir Tomura takes your hands again, cradling them palms-up within his own. “Dynamight is as stupid and vicious as its owner. It should have known it was useless without living hands to guide it.”

“I did what you said,” you say. You don’t want to look at your hands, but you can’t meet Sir Tomura’s eyes, either. “I used its true name. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You ended the skirmish,” Sir Tomura says. “Decay never ceased to function. The power of two swords frightened the raiders into thinking there might be more.”

“You could still use Decay,” you say. “Why?”

“I’m not overly familiar with alchemy. The Enemy disdained it. But I know that it relies on altering the source of an individual’s magic.” Sir Tomura turns your hands this way and that in his own. “Whatever the warlord unleashed, it led to a siphoning or a corruption of each person’s innate magic. The swords feed off of magic, too. Those who failed to alter their tactics paid the price.”

Like Sir Mirio. “As for me,” Sir Tomura says, “my magic is too corrupted for alchemy to contend with. I have never been so foolish as to rely only on it. And you —”

His grip on your hands tightens. “You bent Dynamight to your will with only its name. That takes a conviction few can match.”

His hands are warm. His calluses are rough against the backs of your hands, and yet it’s as it always is: You want more from him. “You came to aid Mirio, of all people. I had no idea that you and Tamaki were so close.”

“We aren’t,” you say, puzzled. “I just thought — if I asked someone, I would want them to go after you. Not to stop and ask whether they like you or not.”

“Indeed, since no one does. I doubt they’ll follow your example,” Sir Tomura says. You wish you could argue with him, but you know how few friends he has in Castle Ultra. “They should. There is much in you to admire.”

“My Lord —” You want to argue, but it irks Sir Tomura if you’re modest when he thinks you shouldn’t be. “I see much to admire in you, too.”

Sir Tomura avoids your gaze, something he does only rarely. “Your hands,” he says shortly. “Do they pain you?”

“Only a little.”

“That isn’t a good thing,” Sir Tomura snaps. You startle, and your stomach lurches when he lets your hands drop and gets to his feet, storming away with short strides. Has he ever walked away from you like that? You stare down into your burned hands, fighting back tears, failing to look up again even once Sir Tomura’s boots appear again in your field of vision. He’s not alone. “Here. Tend to her.”

“My Lord, we were ordered to triage —”

“Now,” Sir Tomura orders, and the healer reaches out for your hands. “Treat her as you would treat any knight or soldier. She fought better than most today.”

The healer instructs you to sit down, and you do, finding a patch of grass that isn’t marred by scorch marks or blood. By the time you’ve cleared your vision and looked up, Sir Tomura’s nowhere to be found.

You’re expecting to be allowed to return to the encampment once your wounds are treated, but instead you’re ordered to stay by Lord Tenya, who’s somehow managing to look both unnerved and irate. “The council will likely want to speak to you,” he says irritably. “Stay where you are.”

You stay put, but you aren’t alone for long; soon enough Mei joins you, holding a cloth-wrapped sword you can identify only by the hilt. “Is that Impermanence?”

“Of course it is. Lady Nejire said Sir Tomura recommended me himself. I told you he’d be pleased with my work.” Mei looks altogether too happy with the situation. “Were any of the other swords damaged? I’m the only smith for the job.”

“I’m not sure,” you say. “They want us to speak to the council. Maybe they’ll say more then.”

It’s late in the day by the time the council has fully assembled — the ones who made the journey, at least. King Izuku left more than a few behind to watch over the High Kingdom, and of the rest, nearly all of them are injured in some way. Sir Tomura’s unhurt, but although his expression is remote, you know he’s angry. Angry with you. You wish you knew why.

The meeting begins with a casualty report. Half a dozen soldiers dead, twenty more with serious injuries, only half of who are expected to survive. The nobility, armed with enchanted armor and magic swords, are all expected to make full recoveries. King Izuku waits for the healer to finish the report, his head bowed. When he looks up, his expression is grim. “Every life lost is a tragedy. We can’t absorb these kinds of losses again. We must find a way to counter the warlords’ alchemy, and that begins with understanding exactly what happened — and why only some of us were affected.”

“Afflicted, you mean,” Sir Katsuki growls. “It’s a damn curse.”

“No, it isn’t. If it was a curse, One For All could break it,” King Izuku says. “What was it?”

It’s quiet, a quiet that grows more awkward the longer it draws out. You’re waiting for him to answer what seems to be a rhetorical question when you realize he’s looking at you. “I’m not an alchemist.”

“You observed the warlord’s experiments. What was he doing?”

“I don’t know,” you say. You didn’t look at what he was doing. If he talked about it near you, you tried not to listen. “I was thirteen. I don’t know.”

“I do,” Mei says. She steps forward, unwrapping Impermanence. Several people gasp, and even you’re surprised to see that the blade is still cracked. “It’s fixable — of course — but it broke because Sir Mirio’s magic was corrupted, and therefore corrupted the blade. These swords aren’t full of active magic. What’s within them must be brought to life, either through magic or will.”

“Through will?” Sir Ochako asks, frowning. “It takes magic to wield a sword like ours.”

“No it doesn’t. It helps, but it’s not necessary. Anyone with the will can bring a sword to life,” Mei says. She gestures at Sir Tomura. “You think he’s channeling magic to wake Decay? No. If he can do it, so can you. And you’re going to have to. Until we can find a way to purge the corruption, every use of your magic will weaken you further.”

“But how did it happen?” Lady Momo’s voice is faint. “It was immediate. The first time we struck —”

“His soldiers don’t have magic,” you say. “He wouldn’t waste magic when he could study it. Whatever happened, it was him, not them. Are you — are you sure he wasn’t here?”

“Yes,” Sir Tomura says shortly. “If this is what his soldiers are capable of, against the best your kingdom has to offer —”

He breaks off, but he need not say more. King Izuku prompts him anyway. “You’ve ridden to war before, Sir Tomura. What is your assessment of the situation?”

“This was no simple raiding party. It was a test of the warlord’s weaponry, and it succeeded,” Sir Tomura says. His face is grim. “He knows our location, our numbers, and our inability to react decisively without magic. It’s no longer an option — if it ever was — to wait and see. To win, we must act.”

“Or retreat.” Aizawa hasn’t spoken up yet. “It’s unwise to pick a fight we can’t win.”

Sir Tomura scoffs. “Spoken like a true coward. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t so terrified of picking a fight you could lose.”

Aizawa’s eyes narrow. “Fighting weaponless isn’t courage. It’s suicide.”

“I’m still alive,” Sir Tomura says. “You all can learn from me.”

Sir Katsuki laughs. “If you think you’ve got anything to teach me —”

“He does.” King Izuku cuts Sir Katsuki off. “His servant wielded your sword without using its magic. We all must learn to do the same if we intend to liberate the borderlands. And I do.”

You see hesitation on the council’s faces. There’s none on King Izuku’s, in spite of the fact that he’s pale with fear. “The people of the borderlands are part of our kingdom. It’s our responsibility to protect them, and we’ve shirked it for too long. I’m not leaving until we’ve broken the warlords’ power — with magic or without it.”

King Izuku is known for listening to his councilors — too much, according to Sir Tomura — but you’ve also learned from Sir Tomura that when the king makes a decision, it’s final. No one argues with him. “We rest until midnight,” he says. “Then we move out.”

Until midnight isn’t much time, but it’s enough for a few hours of sleep, and you intend for you and Sir Tomura to get it. You see to Nomu and your grey mare, Sir Tomura working silently alongside you, and return to your shared tent in silence, too. You realize you’ve forgotten to bring food and hurry out of the tent, through air that’s gone hot and still as the sun sinks. You refill your waterskins from a barrel that’s been sitting in the shade and hurry back to the tent.

Sir Tomura is sitting on the cot, staring at nothing. You haven’t seen him do that in a while. His shirt lies in a pile at one end of the cot. “My Lord,” you start, only to wince when you remember. “Tomura. I brought some food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Some water, then.” If you can get him to drink, you can usually get him to eat. You sit down beside him and pass him one of the waterskins. “It seems you made an impression on King Izuku. When he spoke today, he sounded like you.”

“He’s come to it late.” Sir Tomura’s voice is bitter, cold. “If he and his predecessors had not failed their people so many times, many things would be different. I —”

He breaks off. You wait. “I would be different,” he says flatly. “I would not have failed you today.”

“You didn’t fail me,” you say. “I disobeyed your order. If I had listened, no harm would have come to me.”

“Yes,” Sir Tomura says. He takes a sip from the waterskin. “And still, I failed you. Just as I failed the others.”

“No,” you say at once. You hear him speak of his friends so rarely, and never like this. “Your friends followed you into battle of their own accord. You wouldn’t surround yourself with fools, which means they knew the risks. They chose you anyway. Just — just as I do.”

“You think you know the risks?” Sir Tomura’s laughter is cold enough to raise the hair on your arms. He turns to face you, arms spread open, revealing the wound on his chest. It takes all your strength not to flinch at what’s become of it. “This is the risk. Do you notice anything different?”

“It’s bigger,” you say numbly. “How —”

“My magic is corrupted. Every time I use it, the wound grows larger.” Sir Tomura lets his arms fall to his sides. “If I were to rely on magic the way the others do, there would soon be nothing left of me.”

His wound hasn’t widened or deepened, but cracks have spread outward from the gash, reaching up to his collarbones and down along his ribcage. They’re narrow, but deep. Without thinking, you reach out. “No,” Sir Tomura says sharply. “Save your magic for those who need it.”

“You need it.”

“I need other things more,” Sir Tomura says. You wait for him to explain, but he remains silent, and when he speaks again, it’s a shift in subject. “I will find little rest tonight, but you must sleep. I won’t disturb you.”

Your heart sinks. You knew this was coming. The Forest Perilous is behind you, and it’s warm in the tent; of course Sir Tomura wants to restore the distance between you. You knew it was coming, and you decided to accept it in silence. At least, you thought you did. “Forgive me, my Lord, but your absence would disturb me more.”

Sir Tomura’s shoulders stiffen. “Try again. Use my name.”

“Your absence would disturb me more — Tomura.” His name still feels unfamiliar on your tongue. You don’t say it often enough. “I would rather you stayed.”

“As you wish,” Sir Tomura says. He takes another sip of water, then reaches for the food you brought.

He leaves off his shirt when the two of you settle into bed, and pulls you into his arms in spite of the way the wound in his chest has spread. You can’t push away without putting your hands over it, either. Your hands are beginning to itch inside their bandages, a heated, crawling sensation that begins to consume your thoughts. Sir Tomura notices your attempts to surreptitiously scratch them. “Leave them alone. They need to heal.”

“They’re awful.” You hate the pained, almost whining note that creeps into your voice. “I don’t care if it takes longer. I —”

Sir Tomura peels your hands apart, and for a moment, you think he’ll hold them down. Then he raises first one, then the other to his mouth, and your face heats up in the darkness, even though he’s kissed nothing but your bandaged palms. A chill spreads from the place where his lips made contact, suffusing your palms as though you’ve held them in cold water. You can’t help but let out a sigh of relief.

Sir Tomura’s voice sounds odd when he speaks. “Better?”

You nod — and then you realize what he did. “You used magic? Tomura —”

“It’s worth it,” Sir Tomura interrupts. “I’d do it again.”

You want to argue — need to argue — but with your discomfort temporarily silenced, exhaustion takes its place. You can barely keep your eyes open, and you’ll need your wits about you to win the argument. “Thank you,” you say instead, and you both pretend you don’t notice another tiny crack spreading from his cursed wound.

<- Chapter 7

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