7

As Greyson readied for their trip, back aching from sleeping on the floor, Cyrus was sprawled on the bed, asleep. He didn't bother to be quiet, stomping from one end of the cabin to the other while growling under his breath. Despite the noise, Cyrus did not stir.

Frowning, he kicked the bed. "Wake up."

Cyrus lifted his head. "Greyson?"

"Yes. Wake up."

Jerking back, Cyrus didn't say anything but gave him a sad smile and put on his clothes before exiting the cabin. Greyson ignored his hurt-puppy act as he made a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, as well as tea.

They ate in silence for several minutes until Cyrus commented, "I think hotcakes are my favorite."

Unable to stop it, a chuckle broke out of his lips. "You've tasted hardly anything, and you're ready to commit to hotcakes as your favorite?"

"Yes," Cyrus said. "They"re my favorite."

He swallowed as he stared at him. Cyrus focused directly on him, his expression intent and serious. He almost resembled his old self. "Well, today you have eggs," Greyson ground out, heart beating rapidly as fear pumped through his veins.

Greyson did not know if he wanted to see the real Cyrus face-to-face again, even though he'd wanted that a few days ago. The small glimpse of the warrior hiding beneath this facade scared him more than he wanted to admit.

The expression disappeared, and Cyrus grinned innocently. "What's your favorite?"

"Cinnamon buns."

"You should make some when we get back."

"They take a long time," Greyson said.

"Oh. You should still make them."

"Fine," Greyson said in a clipped voice.

They finished their meal in silence. Once the dishes were clean, Greyson collected his cloak, staff, and bag, throwing it over his shoulder before he shifted toward Cyrus, who stood in the middle of the cabin, arms swinging at his sides. Greyson sighed and grabbed another cloak—the one that Widow Abney had given to Cyrus. He threw it over Cyrus' shoulders and fastened it.

"Thank you," Cyrus said, staring at him with a wide smile.

He pulled back, swallowing. "Where's your sword?" Cyrus didn't bother to answer as he secured the blade and strapped it on. Greyson handed him a pack. "Let's go."

The morning air was crisp, and his breath came out in foggy gasps. His hands were cold and stiff. He kept curling and uncurling them, but it didn't seem to help. He walked right next to Greyson's left side. Greyson, unlike Cyrus, seemed completely comfortable in the chill, but then again, he lived here in the mountains; whereas, Cyrus lived…he actually didn't know where he lived.

"Is it always so cold?"

Snorting, Greyson stepped lightly over the frosted ground. "It's only going to get colder."

"Oh." He did not like the sound of that. "Have I ever lived anywhere cold?"

Greyson"s eyes darted in his direction before facing forward again. "I don't know, but as far as I'm aware, no. You always lived in the capital, which is right next to the southern coastline."

"So it's warm?"

"Yes."

They continued up a steep hill. Pine needles scattered the ground and crunched under their boots, releasing a sharp scent. Even this late in the season, birds sang from the trees. Cyrus smiled, head leaning back as a light breeze ruffled his hair. It was peaceful walking next to his friend. It also felt familiar. The feel of the ground, the creaking of the trees, the forward movement. If Cyrus had to guess, he would assume that he'd spent a considerable amount of time trekking across the land.

When the sun hung high above them, Greyson stopped. "We should eat lunch."

Cyrus sat right next to Greyson, leaning against a craggy rock that jabbed into his back. He had to reposition several times as he munched on hard cheese, dried meat, and an apple. The thin pines shifted in the wind, and in the distance, a creek gurgled.

Cyrus asked, "How long until we reach the village?"

"Tomorrow evening."

"That's not long."

With a shake of his head, Greyson said, "It's the closest village to mine, and my good friend Elizabeth lives there."

When Cyrus heard the woman's name, he frowned. Taking a bite of his crisp apple, juice flicking his chin, he stared at Greyson, whose expression didn't change in the slightest. "How well do you know her?"

"Well enough."

"What does that mean?"

"Why?" Greyson asked.

"Why not?" Cyrus didn't know why, but the thought of Greyson being close to someone else bothered him.

Greyson studied him before shrugging. "I trained Elizabeth. We fought in the rebellion together. We're friends."

"Does she know me?" he asked, lips pursing. If the woman had fought in the war, maybe they had met, as he'd served with Greyson.

"In passing, I think."

He nodded, not saying anything else.

After they both finished, Greyson brushed himself off. His head tilted to the side, black hair falling around his sharp cheekbones. "Are you coming?"

Smiling, Cyrus got up. "Of course."

"Then let's go."

Cyrus watched Greyson for a moment, then chased after him.

When the sun set, they stopped near a babbling brook. Trees surrounded them, and there was a fallen tree that was starting to rot to the left of their camp. Greyson filled his waterskin, hands dipping into the frigid water; his fingers turned red almost immediately. He dried them off, then checked on Cyrus, who huddled on the ground, shivering. Cyrus already had his cloak drawn tightly around him.

Greyson rifled through the pack next to Cyrus, then removed a green woolen tunic. Without bothering to speak, he unclasped Cyrus' cloak and tugged it over his head. Cyrus obliged by putting his arms into the sleeves, shaking, then Greyson draped the cloak over his shoulders.

"I'm so cold," Cyrus said, teeth chattering.

How would Cyrus ever survive the harsh winter in the Griseo Mountains? "I'm going to make a fire. You'll be fine."

Gathering wood and stones, he scraped aside the pine needles with the edge of his boot before placing the stones in a ring and starting a fire. Cyrus scooted as close as possible. Greyson watched him to make sure he was staying safe as he began making dinner.

Shockingly, Cyrus remained quiet. Greyson didn't think Cyrus knew how to be silent. Apparently, he was wrong. Greyson added several vegetables, bits of dried meat, and seasonings to a pot. Before long, a savory scent wafted from the bubbling soup, making his stomach grumble. He was not alone. Cyrus continued to huddle near the flames, but his wide eyes were fixed on the pot, as his throat bobbed with frequent swallows.

Greyson had to fight back a chuckle at Cyrus' hungry expression. "It'll be done soon."

Cyrus nodded but didn't reply.

He stirred the soup for several more minutes before it was done. Greyson gave Cyrus a cup of tea, half a loaf of bread, and a bowl of soup. He accepted the bowl, dunking the bread into the broth before shoving it into his mouth.

Satisfied that Cyrus was eating, Greyson turned to his own food. The soup was flavorful and rich, and the bread was delicious, as Widow Abney had baked it. They continued to eat in silence. Once Cyrus finished, he asked for more, which Greyson gave him. Cyrus polished off the remainder of the soup, though he only drank one cup of tea.

Once they were done, Greyson collected the dirty dishes, washed them, and put everything in the bag. Then he spread one of the bedrolls next to the fire and dropped the extra blankets he'd brought on it. He'd known Cyrus would become cold in the open night air.

"Lay down before you freeze to death."

Cyrus flopped onto the bedroll, and Greyson repositioned the blankets over him with a shake of his head. Always the nursemaid, he thought. He gathered more wood, throwing a few pieces on the flames, then stacked the rest so they could add to the fire as needed.

He peered at Cyrus, who continued to shiver, even under the thick blankets. Greyson's jaw worked side to side. Coming to a snap decision, he dropped his own bedroll next to Cyrus, lifted the blankets, and settled against him.

"Greyson?"

"Yes?" he asked with his back pressed against Cyrus. Cyrus rolled over, scooting close to him. Greyson's hand curled around his staff.

"Nothing's going to eat us, right?"

A startled laugh broke out of his lips. "No. The fire will keep the predators away, and I have my staff right here."

"So I'm safe?"

Greyson swallowed. "Yes. You're safe."

Settled next to Greyson, Cyrus was chilled but not as frozen as earlier. The fire warmed his back while Greyson warmed the rest of him. Greyson's breath came out slow and even, deep asleep. Slowly, carefully, Cyrus snaked an arm over his waist and drew Greyson against his chest. Greyson groaned but did not wake. Cyrus' breath became shallow and harsh as his heart bashed against his ribs, threatening to escape.

The feel of Greyson's body against his felt right. Greyson fit perfectly in his embrace. Cyrus buried his cold nose against Greyson's neck and breathed in the scent of pine and soil. His body relaxed. This felt right. Cyrus had no other way to describe it.

Maybe we were once like this?he thought, not that Greyson acted like it. Closing his eyes, Cyrus snuggled close.