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A pit formed in Rúan’s stomach as he watched Niarok make his way across the cave to someone else. Maybe he should not have snapped at the man who had possibly just saved his life, but apologizing just seemed like a bad idea at the moment.

Plus … Niarok unsettled him, with that warm, intuitive gaze that seemed to reach for the depths of his soul. He didn’t like it. Made him feel … exposed.

The conversation between Niarok and the other young man, from as much as Rúan could pick up from the opposite side of the cave, was imbalanced, with Niarok supplying the majority of the words spoken between them.

Rúan stared down into his flask, brooding over the attack that had nearly maimed him.

If I had only been faster …

Maybe his mother would not have been dragged off. Maybe Yulenna would not have suffered the wound in her side that would surely scar.

Maybe Rúan wouldn’t have let Osløn get a stab at his leg …

The fingers gripping the flask curled inward as his hands began to shake with fury. The water inside quivered and sloshed with the tremors.

A small fwoom sounded right next to his ears and, with a groan of embarrassment, he realized his hair had caught fire. In front of others.

One of the females, a girl with black hair and red streaks, noticed as he tried to smother the orange flames with his hands, and she continued to stare, dumbfounded, as his extinguished hair began emitting after-smoke.

Rúan caught her looking, and he immediately turned to stare at the ground in front of him, trying not to let any of his embarrassment show.

He needed to look strong. He needed to look dangerous.

It was how he kept his enemies away and his comrades close.

It was how he could tell who he could trust, especially here amongst strangers.