I tried to fumble for words—anything—that might salvage this moment. Make it less devastating. Less intimate. Less like I’d just witnessed their souls stripped bare in the worst possible way. But my brain had stumbled somewhere betweenholy shitandoh gods what do I do with this information.
“I didn’t—” I cut off, because what the hell was I supposed to say?Sorry I caught you devouring each other against the wall like the world was ending?Don’t mind me, just pretend I’m not here while you work through your sexual tension?
Fenric’s hands were shaking. This polished, unflappable warrior who could charm his way through anything—and I’d reduced him tothisjust by existing in the wrong place at the wrong time. He took a step toward me, and instinct made me take a step back. His expression did something complicated—hurt and understanding and resignation all at once.
“Isara,” Fenric said finally, hoarse with desperation. “Can you just—” He gestured vaguely toward his chambers. “Come inside for a minute? We can... talk.”
Lincatheron’s jaw tightened, wariness flickering across his features. His protective stance shifted, became more pronounced.
But I looked at Fenric. Really looked at him. Saw the mask he wore cracking at the edges. Saw the way he held himself like he was bracing for rejection. For judgment.
And somehow, without fully understanding why, I found myself nodding.
“Alright,” I said quietly. “Let’s talk.”
We slipped inside, and the chamber door clicked shut behind us with a sound that felt far too final.
Fenric started pacing immediately, running his hands through his already wrecked hair like he could somehow smooth away what had just happened. “I—gods, Isara, I can explain. This isn’t—okay, it is what it looked like, but?—”
“Fenric,” I said gently, but he kept going.
“And gods, what you must think of us, conducting ourselves like novices in the hallway, but have you seen him? Have you looked at him? Really looked?” His voice fractured on the words. “Because he’s everything fierce and protective and beautiful and I’m so gone for him it’s not even funny?—”
“Fenric.”
“I swear this wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He was fully spiralling now, words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. “We had rules, boundaries, we were going to keep it professional, but then—gods, I love his stupid face and the way he gets this crease between his eyebrows when he’s thinking too hard, and his hands, have you seen his hands? They’re ridiculous, they could probably snap me in half but they’re so tender when he?—”
“Fenric.”
This time the name carried enough steel to cut through. He stopped mid-sentence, steel-blue eyes wide and wild as they fixed on me.
I stepped closer, keeping my expression calm. “Breathe.”
His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I said, quieter now. “What you have with each other? That’s yours. I’m not going to tell anyone.”
Lincatheron’s jaw tightened, suspicion radiated from every line of his body. “You’re close with Varyth.”
I blinked, processing the implication, then gestured vaguely toward the general direction of the courtyard below. “Varyth would have a problem with this? But Shaelith and Brynelle are—I mean, they’re?—”
“It’s complicated.” Fenric let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging slightly, but his voice was tight, threaded with something that sounded like dread. “Varyth wouldn’t care, not personally. He’s not like that. But we—” He glanced at Lincatheron, his expression softening for a fleeting second before hardening again. “The positions we hold… it’s not the same.”
I didn’t interrupt. Just waited, letting him decide what to share, what truths he was ready to bleed onto the floor between us.
Lincatheron stepped closer to Fenric, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “Relationships like ours,” he said, low and rough. “They’re newer. In terms of their acceptance by the fae. At least, the public side of it. Up until a few centuries ago, fae were more rigid about... traditional pairings. Still are, in some ways.”
“It could affect us,” Fenric said, gaze fixed on the floor. “Especially Lincatheron. He’s the commander of Varyth’s entire armed force. And the military is... traditional. Deeply. In all the worst ways. It could undermine his reputation, affect his leadership. Perhaps even cost him his rank.”
I felt something fierce flare in my chest, watching Fenric shake apart like this.
“That’s bullshit.” My eyes darted between the two of them. The fear in the air between them. “Complete bullshit that loving someone could affect your ability to lead.”
But Fenric’s expression broke.
“You don’t understand,” he said, and his tone was thin, strained, like the words were being dragged from somewhere deep and bleeding. “This isn’t—gods, Isara, this isn’t some casual fuck, some stolen moments in dark hallways—” His hands were shaking now, fingers curling into fists before releasing, over and over. “I know—Iknow—that being with me is going to cost him everything he’s worked for. His rank, his reputation, the respect of every warrior under his command?—”
Lincatheron moved without hesitation.
