Sam’s mouth formed an O, and she sucked in air. None of the Uriel, including their leader, it seemed, behaved like they were supposed to. Whoever heard of inviting an enemy faction over for dinner? The Uriel and all they represented bordered on traitorous, and yet they unbarred their gates and welcomed with open arms those who would censure them? It was plain weird, and she said as much to Tristan. “Let me see the letter,” she demanded. He handed it over wordlessly.

Sam stared at the words, written in a neat, flowing script. She read aloud, for Braeden’s benefit.

Paladin Lyons –

I have been informed that you are traveling through the West. Welcome back.

“Welcome back?” she exclaimed. “What does that mean?”

“I was born out West,” Tristan said. “Though how he knows that I haven’t the faintest idea. Keep reading.”

If your travels take you through Luca, or if it is not too much out of your way, it would be my pleasure to host you for dinner at our base. Your trainees are invited as well, should you wish to bring them. It is high time we meet, don’t you think?

I know of you, Paladin Lyons, but you likely know little of me. Know this -- though perhaps you think us at odds, I am a man of my word, and a man of honor. No harm by my hand or my men’s will befall you in Luca. Of that I give you my personal guarantee.

I look forward to making your acquaintance.

Awaiting your response,

Sander Branimir

Braeden gave a low whistle, followed by a racking cough. “Sorry,” he said between gasps of air. When his coughing eased, he asked, “Will you accept the invitation?”

“Accept?” Sam sputtered. “You can’t be serious.”

Tristan leaned against the wall by the door. “I might. There’s an ancient battle axiom, ‘Know thy self, know thy enemy.’ It’s a hard opportunity to pass up.”

“But we could be walking straight into a trap,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” said Tristan, scratching his chin. “I don’t know this Sander’s motives, nor do I know the Uriel’s. Perhaps they intend to supplant the Paladins, or perhaps they are simply misguided. Without having seen their base in Luca, it’s hard to assess how much of a threat they really are. Regardless, if Sander and his Uriel attack us, they might as well be declaring war on the Paladins. No sane man would do that lightly.”

“That’s assuming the Uriel are sane,” Sam grumbled. “So you’ll accept, then?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ll have to think about it. We need to cut through Luca anyway.” Tristan kneaded his temples, his face troubled. “Yet another thing to include in my note to the High Commander. Apologies, Sam, Braeden, but there goes your mention.”

“I’m devastated,” said Braeden flippantly. He shivered, and his eyes flashed from clear to red and back to clear again. Sam could tell that he was struggling to maintain his upright position.

“What of Braeden?” she asked. “How can we go to Luca with him in his current condition?”

Braeden glared at her. “I’m not an invalid.”

Tristan groaned. “I beg of you, let’s not start this up again. Braeden, you will do as the surgeon ordered and rest. That means you will stay in this bed for the next few days. If, by some miracle, your wound heals sufficiently by my judgment, you can come with Sam and me to Luca.”

Braeden’s lips tightened at the edges. “And if it doesn’t?”

“We’ll reevaluate.” Tristan pushed back from the wall. “I need to write to the High Commander before it gets any later. I’m likely to fall asleep in my ink pot as is. If I wake up with ink on my face tomorrow, I expect one of you to tell me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” asked Sam under her breath.

“I’m ignoring that,” Tristan said. “Give me the letter from Sander back, and look after Braeden tonight.”

Sam rolled her eyes as she returned the letter to him. “Like you need to tell me.” Braeden snarled, although it was difficult to tell whether his frustration was directed at her or Tristan. Likely it was both of them.

Tristan chuckled, unbothered. “See you on the morrow.” He opened and shut the door behind him, leaving the room in an uncomfortable silence.

They broke the awkward silence in unison. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Braeden asked.

Sam sat down on her pallet and hugged her knees to her chest. “Because you’re angry with me.” It wasn’t much of a reason to apologize -- she still believed she had been in the right to interfere -- but perhaps her worrying had crossed over into badgering. Fighting with Braeden wasn’t like fighting with Tristan—she and Tristan were always at each other’s throats, and half the time she enjoyed their bickering, not that she’d ever admit to that aloud. But Sam didn’t want Braeden’s anger.

Braeden sighed wearily and lay down on his pallet, his head facing the ceiling. “I’m not angry with you, Sam. I just don’t need to be coddled.”

Sam closed her eyes and gave voice to the feeling that clenched her heart. “Braeden, I’m scared for you.” She hadn’t allowed herself to be truly scared since she was a girl, but the prospect of Braeden dying was far scarier than any demon she’d ever faced. Her breath hitched. When had he come to mean so much to her?

A faint blush stained Braeden’s too-pale cheeks. “Don’t be. If you had any sense, you’d be scared of me, not for me.”

“You don’t scare me. Your wound does.”

Braeden craned his neck to peer down at his injured shoulder. “I have a theory about this wound.”

She snorted lightly. “A theory?”

Braeden slanted a glance at her. “I have theories sometimes.” He returned his gaze to his wound. “The demon bite obscured part of my tattoo. I think the obscuration is what is at the root of all this.”

Sam creased her forehead, not understanding. “How is that any different than what the surgeon told you? He said the wound is the source of your illness.”

“I’m telling you, I don’t get ill. Not in the way you’re thinking of illness. I think my body may be reacting to the damage to the binding power of my tattoo. Like the part of me that’s locked away senses a hole in the seal and is fighting to get free, and the other parts are fighting back. I feel…restless.”

“Braeden, you can barely move.”

He grimaced. “I’m aware of that, thank you, but it doesn’t change how I feel. Let’s just hope the damage isn’t permanent. And if it is--”

“If it is, we’ll find a way to fix it,” Sam said firmly. “But I have a theory, too.”

Braeden’s mouth curved into a smirk. “And what’s that?”

“I don’t think you need your tattoo.”

“Sam--” he said warningly.

“Hear me out. I’m not saying you never needed it. Maybe you really did as a child, before you learned control. But now, I think it’s little more than a crutch. I think you have enough willpower all on your own.”

Braeden rasped a dark laugh. “Are you willing to test that theory? Because I’m not.” His lashes dipped to his diamond-cut cheekbones. “You don’t know what I was like, before.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” she said. “But I know what you’re like now. And I think in a few days, if your wound hasn’t healed, you should let the surgeon remove the infected skin.” Braeden started to protest, but she cut him short. “I won’t hound you about it again until it’s imminent. Just promise me one thing.”

“What, Sam?” asked Braeden, his exasperation evident in his tone.

“Don’t you dare die on me and leave me alone with Tristan.”

****

Sleep eluded Braeden, in spite of the bone-weary fatigue that claimed him. His lids were shut, yet he was conscious of his heart rattling against his ribcage and the pulsating fire in his shoulder. His skin felt stretched to its brink, strained and ill-fitting over his trembling body.

Braeden turned his neck to face Sam’s pallet, careful not to move his shoulder in the process. She was curled towards him, one arm pillowing her head and the other reaching halfway across the distance between their beds. She was asleep, but her sleep was troubled, worry lines wrinkling her brow and her mouth set in a frown. For a brief moment, Braeden wondered if her worry for him was what disturbed her sleep, but he quickly banished the arrogant thought. No doubt she was having another one of those nightmares she sometimes had. Perhaps he should wake her, spare her from her bad dream.

“Sam,” he said softly. She stirred, raised her head and murmured his name, and then collapsed in a heap, asleep again. A small smile touched his lips. He ran his fingers over the upturned corners of his mouth. He must have smiled more in the short time he knew Sam than he had in his entire lifetime before. He’d never met anyone like her, and it wasn’t just because she donned men’s clothing, or wielded a sword almost as well as Tristan. Sam was—

Braeden’s muscles went rigid, and then jerked spasmodically as a jolt of energy coursed down his spine. The acrid taste of metal filled his mouth, and he dimly thought that he must have bitten his tongue hard enough to bleed.

His back arched off the pallet and his eyes rolled into his head. He could feel the rush of blood through his veins as his muscles swelled, his skin rippling to accommodate his engorged body. A powerful thirst almost to the exclusion of all other thought consumed him, and his tongue slurped at the pooling blood at the back of his throat. He was vaguely aware that he had felt like this before, when he plunged his knife into his heart to loosen the chains that bound his demon instincts, but he held no knife now. Something had triggered the release of his beast, and it hadn’t been him.

Panic cut through the fogginess of his mind. His wound! Had it managed to break his master’s seal? If his true self were no longer restrained…and gods, Sam was in the pallet next to him! A howl of rage and sorrow escaped him as his body seized once more and finished its transformation into the wretched monster he’d held at bay for more than a decade. His vision blurred, and then faded to black.