“Lyra.” His voice is softer now, one hand moving to cup the back of my head. “Talk to me.”
The intimate gesture breaks through my fog. I pull back, though not far so that his hands remain on my shoulders, steadying me.
“Psychometric echo,” I manage, the half-truth bitter on my tongue. “Sometimes healers pick up trauma impressions from violent deaths. The fear, the pain, it leaves traces.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and I know he’s filing this away as another puzzle piece about me. But he doesn’t push, just keeps his hands on my shoulders until my trembling stops.
“What kind of trauma?” he asks finally.
“Terror. Pain. Something... wrong. These weren’t natural deaths, Magnus. Whatever killed them, it wasn’t just hunting. It was something else. Something that shouldn’t exist.”
We search the area methodically, Magnus tracking while I collect samples. The blood makes my healer senses recoil. Some of it is definitely human, some is shifter, but some of the bloody marks feel fundamentally wrong, like someone took the base components of life and rearranged them into something obscene.
“No bodies,” Magnus notes, following drag marks that lead north. “Whatever took them wanted them alive.”
The thought chills me more than the mountain wind.
As evening approaches, we make camp in a defensible position, a cave overhang that provides shelter while maintaining sight lines. The temperature has dropped brutally, and Magnus insists we share the fire for warmth and security.
“It’s practical,” he says, but I catch him watching me as I arrange my bedroll, tracking my movements with an intensity that has nothing to do with practicality.
The cave is small, forcing us into close quarters. When we sit by the fire to eat, our shoulders almost touch. I’m hyperaware of every shift of his body, every breath, every time his scent reaches me on the cold air. The magnetic pull between us is becoming harder to resist, and the rational part of my mind, the part that knows I’m supposed to keep him alive by keeping my distance, is losing the war against my heart.
“Tell me about Storm Eagle culture,” he says suddenly, breaking the charged silence. “The integration. How do your people balance tradition with change?”
I explain about the council structure, the delicate negotiations, the way Elena’s research opened doors we didn’t know existed. He listens with complete focus, occasionally asking questions that show he’s actually thinking about what I’m saying, not just making conversation.
“And mate bonds?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral. “How do Storm Eagles approach them?”
My pulse quickens. “We... we value them, but they’re not as absolute as?—”
“As Mountain Cat bonds.” He stares into the fire, the golden light playing across his strong features. “We mate for life. One choice, one chance, forever. Most of my people go their entire lives without finding someone who can stand beside them as a true equal.”
“That sounds lonely,” I say softly.
His eyes find mine across the flames. “It is. But we believe it’s better to be alone than to settle for less than absolute certainty. Less than perfect compatibility.”
The way he says it, the way his gaze holds mine, makes my breath catch. “Have you ever...?”
“No.” The word is sharp, final. “I’ve never found anyone who could match me. Who could stand beside me in a hunt, in battle, in life, and be my equal in all things.”
The words sting more than they should. Of course he hasn’t. Of course I’m not?—
“Until recently,” he adds, so quietly I almost miss it.
My heart stops. Starts again too fast. “Magnus?—”
“The fire’s dying,” he says abruptly, turning away to add more wood.
The moment breaks, leaving me aching with things unsaid. I retreat to my bedroll, trying to calm my racing pulse, but sleep feels impossible with him so close, with the weight of almost-confessions hanging between us.
I’m nearly drowning in my thoughts when I notice him working on something by the firelight. His hands move with precise skill, carving something small from what looks like ice-quartz—a rare mineral that holds cold within its crystalline structure.
I pretend to sleep, watching through barely open eyes as he shapes the stone with careful attention. His face is softer in concentration, the harsh planes relaxed into something almost peaceful. My heart aches with want I can’t afford to feel.
Finally, he sets the carved piece aside, and it is close enough that I could reach it from my bedroll. The firelight catches its surface, revealing the shape: a small snow leopard, so detailed I can see individual whiskers, the rosette patterns on its fur.
It’s beautiful. Intimate. A gift that means something in Mountain Cat culture, though I’m not sure what.
