Elias had encountered assassins, warlords, and—once—a rather aggressive goose. But none of those had prepared him for sitting across from Finn at the shaky kitchen table, as the younger man peeled a carrot with a paring knife like it was an altar knife.
"So," Finn said, too lightly. "You want to marry my sister or something?"
Elias blinked. "I never said—"
"You didn't have to." Finn jabbed the carrot at him as if it were a divine pronouncement. "I have eyes. Alas."
A very long silence.
The wind outside moaned. The fire crackled. In the distance, somewhere out of sight, a squirrel dropped a pinecone with sinister timing.
Elias sighed. "I like her. A great deal. But this world has not treated her well. Or you. I don't want to make a promise she can't yet afford to trust."
Finn narrowed his eyes. "That was strangely noble. Makes me suspicious."
"I was a knight. It's a reflex."
Finn scrunched up his eyes tighter. "She's been smiling more, y'know. Ever since you arrived. And she sings when she forgets I'm around. That. hasn't occurred since the beatings started."
Elias's fists tightened on the table. Finn noticed. Nodded once.
"Good. I wanted you to react. If you didn't, I'd break your kneecaps."
"Understood."
"But," Finn stood, tossing the carrot into the stew pot like it was an Olympic event, "you want my blessing? You're gonna have to earn it."
Elias blinked. "How?"
Finn's grin was pure mischief.
Later That Day
Elias stood in the woods, holding a bag of flour, a live chicken named Trudy, and a blindfold.
"This is your test?" he asked, dubious.
"Whimsy is in our family blood," Finn announced seriously. "You wish to woo my sister? You will have to get through a series of tests. First: make your way through the Forest of Slightly Dangerous Chickens."
"Is this—"
"Trudy's testing your soul. Don't let her down."
To Elias's credit, he did not leave.
He faced the whole gamut: the hushing breezes, the egg-spattered rope swing of judgment, and the ultimate challenge—baking a pie with only "ingredients of emotional truth." (Finn's rules. Nobody really knew what that was.)
By sunset, Elias was covered in flour, pecked at least twice, and—most horrifying of all—he smiled.
Not the hard, soldier's smile.
A real one.
And when Charlotte discovered them afterward, giggling beside the partially fallen pie and shreds of pinecone crust, something within her creaked ajar. A memory. A dream. An emotion she believed long interred in her second life.
Elias looked into her eyes.
"I made it through your brother."
Charlotte arched an eyebrow. "That's not saying anything. I raised him."
Finn, on the other hand, hurled a pinecone at both of them and yelled, "You're welcome!"
And out there, in the presence of watchful dusk and gods and half-forgotten dreams, something old and sore softened.