Boarstaff understood. The orcs had magic and community, but Sebastian had never chosen that transformation. This time was different, painful, but his.
"I'll return tomorrow night." Boarstaff traced his thumb in a small circle on Sebastian's wrist.
"You have a war to prepare for, Warchief." Sebastian's voice held concern that surprised Boarstaff. Even wounded, even in darkness, Sebastian worried for him.
"I do," Boarstaff agreed. "But I also have you to care for. The two aren't separate in my mind." He meant it. The village's safety and Sebastian's recovery had become entwined, inseparable.
Sebastian was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. "No one has ever..." He stopped, then tried again. "Thank you."
The simple words carried centuries of isolation.
Boarstaff wanted to stay longer, to learn more about what Sebastian was experiencing, but he understood the need for solitude. He stood carefully, helping Sebastian back into the shadows where he seemed more comfortable. Their hands remained linked until the last possible moment.
"I'll return," he promised again.
"I'll be here." Two words that held more certainty than anything Sebastian had said before.
The journey back to the surface felt longer than the descent. Each step took Boarstaff further from Sebastian, and something pulled in his chest with each increase in distance. When he finally reached the entrance, it opened for him without hesitation. As he stepped outside, the door sealed behind him, but somehow the barrier felt less absolute than it had previously, as if a connection had been established that even the ancient wood couldn't fully close.
Boarstaff stood for a moment in the night air, looking up at the vast branches of the Heart Tree spreading overhead. The village continued its preparations around him. But beneath it all, Boarstaff remained aware of Sebastian in the darkness below, tearing himself apart to become something new. Something chosen rather than imposed.
Whatever Sebastian was becoming in the darkness, Boarstaff would be there to witness it when he emerged. Not to judge, not to demand, but to understand.
They each had their own battles to fight. But neither of them needed to face the darkness entirely alone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Boarstaff stood atop the eastern wall, surveying the village’s ongoing preparations. The constant sound of hammers and saws filled the air, a rhythm that had barely ceased in the three days since his visit to Sebastian in the Heart Tree’s depths. Three days of respecting Sebastian’s request for solitude, though every instinct urged Boarstaff to return to the sealed entrance.
Whatever healing occurred within the ancient wood continued without witness. The outside world couldn’t wait for Sebastian’s recovery. War approached with each passing hour, and the village transformed accordingly.
“Warchief!” A scout appeared at the base of the wall, breathing hard from running. “The dwarven contingent has been sighted on the eastern path. They’ll reach our gates within the hour.”
Boarstaff nodded. “Alert the council. Have food and drink prepared. Prepare quarters in the eastern section.”
As the scout departed, Boarstaff cast one more glance at the sealed Heart Tree rising from the center of the village. Its ancient branches spread protectively over the heightened activity below, warriors drilling with newly forged weapons, healers preparing bandages and poultices, children being taught emergency evacuation routes. The entire village had transformed into a war camp in the span of a week.
Yet the Tree remained sealed, its crystal light pulsing with a rhythm that seemed somehow troubled. Whatevertransformation Sebastian underwent within its depths continued without witness.
By the time Boarstaff reached the main gates, the dwarven company had appeared at the forest’s edge. Even at a distance, the gleam of armor and weaponry identified them, thirty warriors in full battle gear, pulling carts laden with forges, anvils, and materials. At their head marched a broad-shouldered figure with a hammer nearly as tall as himself strapped across his back.
“Stonehammer,” Boarstaff murmured, recognizing the master smith who had aided them three seasons past when vampire raids had intensified along the northern border.
The gates swung open as the dwarven company approached. Thornmaker and several other council members joined Boarstaff in the greeting party, forming a semicircle before the entrance. The ceremonial welcome would normally take place in the council chamber within the Heart Tree, but circumstances demanded adaptation.
The dwarven leader stepped forward, removing his helmet to reveal a face weathered by forge and battle, framed by a blond beard braided with iron rings. His eyes, sharp as mountain flint, surveyed the village’s preparations before settling on Boarstaff.
“Warchief,” he said, his voice deep as mountain stone. “The Iron Holds answer your call.” He extended a forearm thick with muscle and scar tissue.
Boarstaff clasped it firmly. “Stonehammer. The village thanks you for your swift response.” The formal words of welcome flowed easily, but he noted how the dwarf’s gaze kept shifting to the Heart Tree looming behind them.
The dwarven company entered the village, the heavy tread of their boots creating a rhythm that reminded Boarstaff of war drums. Warriors and craftspeople alike stopped their work to observe the newcomers. Children whispered and pointed atthe heavily armored figures; many having never seen dwarves before.
As the formal procession moved toward the center of the village, Stonehammer dropped back to walk alongside Boarstaff, matching his stride despite his shorter stature.
“Word has reached even our mountain halls about what happened at the vampire citadel,” he said, his voice low enough that only Boarstaff could hear. Surprise and respect colored his tone. “Two vampire nobles dead. Unprecedented.”
Boarstaff kept his expression neutral despite the uncomfortable heat of scrutiny. “News travels fast.”
