The tension slowly left the caravan. People began talking again, telling stories and jesting while they made their way north to Fristad. Afi sat quiet, trying his best to ignore the throbbing in his arm. Balder showed some compassion. She gave him a rag for his wound and even helped him tie it in place. While it did little to ease his pain, it stemmed the bleeding, and helped to keep his head clear. Despite it all, he was dizzy with blood loss by the time they made camp.

He observed the process with curiosity. The Fri used their wagons to create a wide circle, inside of which the tents were raised. Several fire pits dotted the camp. Each pit was dug out in a neat circle, a foot deep and an arm’s span broad, before a single fire was kindled. These were fires which would last all night, and provide both heat and light to everyone. Guards were posted around the camp, surveying the landscape with keen eyes. Most sat atop one of the wagons. No matter from which direction a threat may arise, they would see it coming with a solid minutes advantage. It was well organised and clever. Afi had been warned never to attack a Fri campsite. Now he knew why.

He did his best to help his liege set up, holding onto the tent poles while she pulled the cloth taunt and drove pegs into the ground. He was surprised at the size of the round tent. Whenever the Wolves were on the move, he had but a tiny wedge tent, which he had to crawl in and out of on all fours. In the centre of Sylvia’s tent, he could almost stand straight. The tents further into the camp were larger still, and the centre piece was a wide baker’s tent. Along the length of it, out of the wind, a broad bed of coals was burning down, and a communal effort to cook began. The smell soon rolled over the camp, creeping into every tent.

Despite the lure of a hot meal, and a painfully empty stomach, Sylvia decided to make use of the last daylight. She fetched water, and then sat down in the grass beside her tent. Crossing her legs, she motioned for Afi to join her. He sat down, grimacing as he braced himself on the uninjured arm. As soon as he had settled, Sylvia reached for his bandage, carefully untying it. She doused the rag with water and squeezed most of the blood out.

“Undress”, she prompted.

Pulling vambraces off and peeling out of the leather armour and torn tunic, Afi exposed his upper body. The sight of him was shocking. Sylvia had noticed his arms before, and the scars crossing all over them, but his back was something else. It looked like he had been lashed hard enough to break the skin. Thick short lines were scattered from his shoulder down to his hips. Reaching out, Sylvia touched the calloused skin. Afi did not move a muscle, but he watched Sylvia attentively, and a tension built in his body. Realising this, Sylvia removed her hand and refocused on her task. Pouring more water onto the makeshift bandage, and wringing it out again, she brought the damp cloth to his wound, carefully clearing away dirt and dust. He did not as much as flinch.

“Why did you buy me?”, Sylvia finally asked.

Afi scoffed. “Why did you claim me?”, he countered.

“Because you bought me. I was not a very good investment. You never made much use of me. Why? What was your reason?”, Sylvia pressed.

“I needed a girl around the house”, Afi shrugged.

Sylvia washed the rag out and carefully brought it back to his skin. “Please do not lie to me.”

Afi looked at her for a long moment. “You remind me of someone”, he admitted.

“Did she have the same hair texture as me? You kept looking at my hair and touching it.”

Afi nodded. “And she had the same eyes.”

“Who was she?”, Sylvia asked.

“None of your business.”

Sighing, Sylvia washed the rag out again. She finished cleaning the wound, and then washed the cloth a fourth time, before tying it back around Afi’s arm, more loosely now that most of the blood had coagulated. She had not thought to bring any dry stonemoss with her from Holms Fäste. She made a mental note to be better prepared in the future. For lack of a better option, she made sure the rag covered the affected area, so no new dirt would get into the wound at least.

Reaching for the damp cloth, Afi inspected the knot, and then averted his eyes. Letting his head fall, sighed. “She was my daughter.”

“What?”, Sylvia asked bewildered.

“You remind me of my daughter”, Afi said softly.

“What happened to her?” Sylvia knew very well that she was pushing him, but she asked nonetheless.

Afi drew a measured breath to steel himself. “She rebelled, and she was punished for it. She was sold to another Wolf. She took her life. After she was raped, she died. She could not bear her punishment, so she killed herself.”

“I am sorry”, Sylvia whispered.

Afi shook his head. “I could not let it happen again.” Eyeing his hands, he continued, “I have. Many times. I just looked away, held my ears, but you look just like her. That same spark is in your eyes, that intense gaze. You even have the same hair and skin colour.”

“Intense gaze?”, Sylvia wondered.

“It is curious and bold, soaking everything up, and defying any order. Even if you behaved, you would be punished for that look alone. The treatment would have broken your soul into smaller and smaller pieces, until your intense eyes turn distant and demure, until you turn all hollow.”

“Are there hollows among the Wolves?”, Sylvia inquired.

Afi frowned. “You believe in that?”

“I guess. It should be possible to create a hollow, like in that story”, Sylvia shrugged. “So there are none?”, she asked again.

“Not that I know of. Not hollow. Broken people, however? Plenty.”

Sylvia nodded in understanding. Of course Wolves would be broken after all the killing they did. Sylvia used to think that her soul would become bruised by difficult experiences as she grew older, by rejection, overexertion, or by witnessing illness and death, but never that she would tear at it herself.

“Why did you let me hurt you?” The question left her before she had time to think about it. “I could have killed you”, she added.

Afi’s face fell. “I know. I guess I deserved it, though.”

“What? You only ever helped me”, Sylvia protested.

“You. Not her”, Afi said.

“Afi.”

“I am sorry. I was selfish. I saw how shocked you were. I should not have used your anger to punish myself. I did not mean to hurt you.”

“You did not”, Sylvia said. She managed that all on her own. She got up and dusted her trousers off. “Wait in the tent.”

Walking into the centre of the camp, Sylvia found the baker’s tent. Picking up a second bowl, she dipped the ladle deep, to get thick broth and plenty beans. A few of the Fri eyed her as she went in for another scoop, and filled her own bowl as well, but no one said anything, so she grabbed a piece of bread and made her way back. While balancing two bowls and a bread required a modicum of focus, she doubted anyone would let Afi take a serving on his own. Not after Holms Fäste. Not Yet. When their song became more cheerful and their drinking habits subsided, maybe. Ducking into the privacy of her tent, Sylvia put the bowls down. She took a seat on her bedroll and dug through her pack for her spoon. She only had one, but she doubted Afi would mind. Breaking the bread in two, she handed him half, and began to eat.

Afi picked up his share, and eyed the steaming soup with apprehension. Tilting the bowl from side to side, he peered into the murky brown fluid. Then, he brought the bowl to his face and sniffed.

“I took it from the same pot as my own. No one else touched it”, Sylvia ensured him.

Afi’s gaze snapped to her. After another moment of hesitation, he brought the bowl to his lips and began to slurp. When the bowl was empty, he looked back at Sylvia again. The sky was dimming now, but he could still make out her face in the light from the open tent flap. Her presence had an eerie warmth to it. She had so much care in her. He hardly deserved it.

“I am glad you survived long enough to join them.”

“How did you? Survive, I mean”, Sylvia asked.

Afi shrugged. “Dumb luck.” When the answer did not seem to satisfy his liege, he took a deep breath and sighed. “Our commander at Surtearv drove us to the southern gate, to face the Fri, but there was no chance. We knew that. Some of us broke rank, sought out the woods. Somehow, I made it into the thicket without anyone behind me. I found Fredrik almost an hour later, dead. He bled out, I would guess. I grabbed his sword and his horse, and kept going. North was too dangerous. I am not familiar with the lands, and AudOlafsson would have my head. Going south, I dodged the roads. I ran into another troop, went for Holms Fäste with them. Along the way, two aspiring commanders got into a fight. One of them was never a fan of me. I made myself scarce. I was hoping to catch a boat, but avoiding towns leaves an empty stomach.” An amused huff raised his chest. “I should have left the damn sword. I should have left my armour too, played the fool instead. Then maybe I would have had a bread to chew on, instead of a bolt in my back.”

Sylvia was surprised to hear Afi had fled the battle, abandoned the Wolves to save his own skin. He sounded so sure when he spoke of his purpose, of his revenge, back at the dinner table with Björn. “Do you really believe that all this is justice?”, she asked.

“I used to”, Afi admitted. “I really used to.”

“What changed your mind?”, Sylvia wondered.

“My wife.” Afi hoped it was answer enough, but Sylvia's curious eyes did not leave him. “I never chose that, but she gave me a daughter for it. When she took my daughter away again, and called it justice—” His voice wavered and he shook his head. “I do not believe there is such a thing. It is all just revenge in the end. Revenge for revenge for revenge.”

“Why were you even amongst them, then? Why be a Wolf after what they did to your daughter, after what they did to you?”

Afi scowled at her. “Who would have me? Who would take a murderer?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why did you stay? Why did you cook for me and train with me, a Wolf, after Wolves killed your family?”

Sylvia turned her head away. Staring at the wall of the tent, she tried not imagine it, not let it all rush back into her mind again, but it did either way. She did not even know for sure what had become of her family.

“I am sorry. I should not speak to my liege like that.”

Sylvia shook her head. “No, you are right. I am sorry.”

Refocusing on her soup, she let silence stretch between them. First when she was finished eating, did she speak again. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright, considering”, Afi said. He ghosted his fingers over his arm, assessing the state of his wound. When he reached for his tunic, Sylvia held out her hand.

“Give me that.”

Frowning, Afi handed his clothes over. Folding the thick cloth over her arm, Sylvia gathered up their bowls, and left the tent. She washed the bowls, and returned the borrowed one, before walking to the nearby stream. She soaked the torn arm of the tunic. It was difficult to see in the dim evening light, but from what she could tell, the worst of the blood was soon rubbed out. What her fingers and a cold stream could not accomplish, only bile soap could, and she had none at hand. Wringing the cloth out, she walked over to Aimo’s wagon.

“Aimo, I need a needle and thread.”

“Should be doable”, he agreed, and began rummaging in one of the finer bags on a nearby wagon.

“I do not have much coin left. May I buy just the thread and borrow the needle?”, Sylvia asked, crossing her fingers under Afi’s tunic.

Aimo raised an eyebrow, but then shrugged. “Okay then, because it it you, Young Sylvia.” He handed her a spool of coarse grey thread and a fine slender tube of bone, hanging from a vowed cord.

“Thank you.”

Sylvia sat down by the nearest fire, and pulled the wooden stopper out of the bone tube. Surprised to find several metal needles, alongside ones made of bone and wood, she picked out a delicate brass needle, and returned the wooden stopper. Running the fabric of the tunic through her hands, she noticed it had been torn and repaired several times. Threading the needle, she turned the cloth inside out, and began sewing.

Aimo watched her work for a few minutes. “You are going to need another bedroll too, right?”, he asked.

“I cannot afford it, I am afraid”, Sylvia dismissed the idea.

“You could repair my trousers as payment.”

Sylvia smiled. “Yes. Thank you.”

After fastening the thread and folding the large tunic, she began working on the trousers, patching up a torn knee. Aimo’s eyes followed her nimble fingers, pinching the cloth and pulling the thread. “Where did you learn to sew so evenly? I thought you were a scribe, not a seamstress?”

Sylvia shrugged, not taking her eyes of the work. If she told him that she had read about it once, he would not believe her. People never did. Apparently, you had to experience something first hand, rather than via literature, to learn it properly. Sylvia never understood why. Learning from text alone worked just fine. It was a second hand experience, but it was an experience nonetheless.

Once she was done, Sylvia held the trousers out and gave an audible hum. “May I see you try them on?”

Upon her request, Aimo changed into the repaired trousers.

Sylvia crouched down beside him, tugging at the cloth, and folding it up over his feet. “Shall I shorten them a bit? I will not cut, just sew, so you do not loose any cloth”, she offered.

Aimo gratefully accepted.

Stitching the fold into place, Sylvia made sure the trousers fell more comfortably, before sliding the needle she had borrowed back into its casing. She held the bone case out to Aimo, but he shook his head.

“Keep it, and the thread is free as well. You have more than earned it.”

“Thank you. They should come in handy”, Sylvia said happily.

Tying the valuable bone tube to her belt, alongside the dagger, she picked up the bedroll and Afi’s tunic and bid Aimo goodnight. When she returned to her tent, she found Afi lying on the ground, eyes closed and breathing heavy. Rolling out the new bedroll, she noticed it was thicker than her old one. Picking it for herself, she lay it out in her side of the tent. Placing her old bedroll down beside the sleeping man, she prodded him with a foot.

Afi woke with a start, sitting up and looking around like he expected an attack. Sylvia stood beside him, holding his tunic out to him. It was almost completely dark now, but running his fingers over the cloth, Afi could feel the hole had been mended. Before he could pull the tunic on, Sylvia nudged him again. She pointed down, calling his attention to a bedroll. Then, she turned around and crawled into her own sleeping spot.

Afi could feel his soul lying heavy in his chest. Instead of pulling the tunic on, he folded it, and took off his trousers, placing them neatly on top. Settling into the bedroll, he sighed in relief. It was so soft and warm compared to the ground. “Thank you”, he whispered, before closing his eyes.