She blew out a long breath, wincing as it pulled at the thin cut on her side. In the periphery of her own battle, she’d noticed him taking down marine after marine, brutal in his efficiency, overpowering in his strength. It was only once they’d surrendered that she’d had a moment to turn and really see him.

That look on his face … It was like he didn’t see anything, hear anything—like he wasn’t there at all.

She’d known the moment he’d come back—he’d blinked as if waking, and horror had flashed through his wide eyes. The way he’d stared at her—he’d feared he’d hurt her. She’d heard of berserkers before, but she’d thought they were just stories from the far north of Albion and the tribes of Noreg.

Pausing, she shielded her eyes from the dipping sun. In fact, that tall figure emerging from the rainforest ahead could only be Knigh. He’d been quiet since the battle and had disappeared as soon as they landed.

What he needed was to forget his fears.

Lucky for him, rum helped with that.

Smiling, she waved and started towards him. “Knigh.”

He paused at the edge of the forest, watching her approach, a gentle crease between his brows.

She glanced past him into the green gloom beneath the trees. “Been exploring?”

“I needed to be alone for a while.”

“Battle does that to some people.”

His frown deepened. “Not—I shouldn’t have”—he shook his head—“I wasn’t meant to fight. The things I could have done …”

Lords, he really did need to forget.

“But you didn’t. Gods, if I felt bad about everything I could have done …” She cocked her head. “Well, life wouldn’t be much fun.”

He sighed. “You don’t understand, Vee. I have done things … In the past …” His gaze dropped, and his mouth formed a thin line.

What was it that haunted him? She chewed the inside of her cheek. Something that made him ashamed. Curious as she was, she couldn’t tear that from him—that would be too cruel.

“Knigh,” she murmured, “the past is done. It doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is the decision you made today—you helped turn the tide of battle.”

She ran a hand through her hair, now clean of blood and sweat, and peered from the lengthening shadows towards the beach. Her crewmates delivered armfuls of wood to the burgeoning bonfire—their cries and laughter drifted across in the breeze. How many of them would be dead if Knigh hadn’t boarded the Covadonga?