All traces of sleep vanished from Arren's system the moment he sensed Madalynn standing up and creeping away. It took everything in him to stay still, arguing with himself that she was maybe just stretching or taking her watch duty a little too seriously. He considered telling her to shut it and stay put, but it would betray his cover which was sleep.

Who was he kidding when he said he trusted her enough to close his eyes for a second. She had a goal, having followed him from town to town. She could reason they both have Verolya Ruins as an end goal, but he had no reason to believe she wasn't after the Heart as well. Or maybe the Levera House had beat them to it with how they got the information first. It's unlikely though. There was little reason for the spy cartel to engage in silly myths. Not when all three of their heirs handled their eskanovbriyn without a hitch. Not when the eldest heir was expecting a child in the summer.

Of all the Underground Houses, the only ones who hadn't secured their future were the Agnussens and...well, the Renlichts. And Arren was hardly at fault here. Why would his mother blame him when no one went to greet him at his own eskanovbri? It's not his fault his features were as bland as they came. Shouldn't his parents blame themselves?

If there was anyone who was after the Heart, it would be the Houses who had a face to hide, a sin to cover, or those who needed a way to get out of the Krahviy's senses. But wasn't that the Renlicht House as well?

A groan escaped his lips, his own train of thoughts tiring him. Madalynn would be too far away to hear him anyway. Sucked to be her, pilfering through his things in search of the map. She also thought he stored it inside the bag nearest him. In reality, it sat in one of the numerous pockets of the vest hidden beneath his thick wool cloak. He's no fool. His mother could at least be proud of that.

Then, a heavy rustling tore through the silence of the night. It wasn't Madalynn—he had memorized every bit of her nuance and gait—and it wasn't his horse acting up either. Judging by the deep gasp ripping off Madalynn's mouth, it came from someone unwelcome.

Arren rolled to his stomach and stayed there, hidden by the fallen log they had used as a bench since making camp in this random spot. The night wind had turned icy, dampening any effects brought by the diminishing fire by him. Slowly, he leaned his weight on his arms.

As expected, Madalynn leaped back before a metal dart impaled her. Her boots crushed a trench across the grass carpeting the forest floor. A distinct thunk twanged through the space as the dart embedded into a nearby trunk. Madalynn clicked her tongue, drawing a short blade from her belt. Arren squinted. Wasn't that...?

"The little thief," he spat under his breath. He shouldn't consider helping her at this point. She proved his point. An Agnussen shouldn't be trusted, not when they go out of their way to wreck people's lives with their scheming.

Madalynn cursed, wiping the corner of her mouth as she lunged forward, meeting a similarly-dressed individual punching through the undergrowth. It's almost ironic—two thieves fighting each other for spoils. Then, something inside him clicked. They're going to Verolya to raid it for its jewels. Did that make him one of the bad guys too?

Well, whatever. His mother's sanity and Arren's unflayed ass were the most important things at stake here. As much as Madalynn was a nuisance and a drag, he didn't want to go through the entire journey alone. Not when he knew what the quickest way entailed. And his point still stood—if the only Agnussen heir died on him, it'd spark an all-out war between Houses and would no doubt expose them both to the Krahviy.

Hissing against the shock pulsing in his muscles on his urgent lurch, he drew one of his spare knives from his boots. At this point, Madalynn's going to strip him off his weapons if he needed to save her time and again.

While he debated whether to help her or not, Madalynn had swiped his dagger in a huge arc, cutting a huge gash across one of the bandits' face. With a fury unlike anything he heard before, she drove her foot into the bandit's stomach, sending him crashing into a tree. Arren fought off a wince. Sympathizing with a villain was not the road he wanted to take.

A shrill shriek stole his attention from the fallen man. He found Madalynn headlocked and her good arm twisted behind her. The masked and hooded bandit nodded at his companion, and a sword lunged for her. Arren threw his knife.

Time slowed as the blade whizzed unseen, sailing straight into its target. The bandit fell over, an impromptu horn sticking out of a wound on his cranium. Madalynn wasted no time, driving her heel into her captor's foot. After the grip around her neck loosened, she twisted her arm out of his grip and stabbed left.

A loud squelch erupted when Madalynn yanked the blade out. Arren straightened and was about to blurt a quip when her eyes widened. Then, she chucked Arren's blade back at him.

"What the f—" He dodged by instinct, throwing his arm over his head. A dull thud echoed behind him. He whipped to find another bandit sprawled by his feet, clearly dead from the dagger sticking out his neck.

He whirled back to Madalynn whose chest heaved with lungfuls of breath. Her dark hair stuck out of the low ponytail she tucked it into, plastering on the side of her face. "You just threw a dagger at me!" he said, throwing his hands up. "Who the fyck does that?!"

A mixture of confusion and offense colored her expression. "I just saved your crappy life, idiot," she crossed her arms. "The least you can do is to thank me."

Arren scoffed. "I saved your life too, so that's just getting even."

Madalynn's nostrils flared. "Well, I'll leave the cleaning up to you," she shouldered past him before giving him a quick pat in the back. "Good luck."

She was almost to the camp when Arren found his voice. "Why did you do it?" he asked.

"Hmm?" she answered, her voice sounding more distant than ever. He turned to find her stomping on the embers of their campfire. "Do what?"

"Save me," he supplied.

She rolled her shoulders. "As you said—I can't start a war by getting you killed," she said. "I still hate you like anchovies. Let's leave it at that."

Without waiting for Arren to reply, she wiped the last of the chars on her soles on the grass. Then, she grabbed his bag and tossed it towards him. He caught the last of the strap, keeping watch of any contents that might spill.

As they cleaned up, the sun started rising, dousing the undergrowth with warm morning bliss. While Arren checked and tightened the buckles of his horse's buckles, one useless detail nagged at the back of his head.

Madalynn Agnussen hated anchovies.