She took them from his hands, her fingers brushing his palm in a touch that sent sparks racing up his arm. If she noticed his reaction, she gave no sign, carefully examining the vines instead.
“They feel different,” she murmured. “Lighter and more flexible.”
“They will need more processing before you can use them. Soak them in water until they become supple, then coat them in oil to preserve the flexibility. Any oil will work, though lighter ones produce better results.”
“How do you know all this?”
The question caught him off guard, and he paused, considering how much to reveal.
“I worked with plants once,” he said finally. “Before I came here. I am familiar with many plants and their uses.”
“You worked with plants?” Her voice held a note of surprise. “Is that common amongst your people?”
“No.”
She waited, clearly hoping for more, but he turned away and began dismantling their small camp. Some questions had answers he wasn’t ready to give.
They set off as the sun cleared the eastern peaks, casting long shadows across the rocky terrain. He led the way as he’d done the previous day, finding the easiest path through thetreacherous landscape and slowing his pace to match her shorter stride without being asked.
I’m getting soft,he told himself.She’s made me soft.
But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
As they descended, he found himself talking—explaining the final steps of processing the sunvines in more detail than strictly necessary. Soaking them until they bent without cracking, a process that could take several hours. Using a light plant-based oil rather than animal fat. Testing the fibers until they felt like silk rather than straw.
She listened intently, asking questions that revealed the depth of her knowledge of textiles, and he found himself impressed. She knew her craft with an intimacy that came only from years of dedicated practice.
“My mother taught me,” she said when he commented on her knowledge. “She was the best weaver in the valley. Maybe the best on the whole planet.”
“Was?”
“She died. Three years ago.” Her voice was steady, but he caught the faint tremor beneath the words. “A sickness swept through the village. She caught it while caring for others. It took my father as well in the end. He simply… gave up after we lost her.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words felt inadequate, but she gave him a small smile that suggested she appreciated the sentiment anyway.
They walked on, the silence between them more comfortable now. The mountain gave way to foothills and the dense forestthat bordered the human village. He could smell woodsmoke on the breeze and hear the distant sounds of village life—a hammer ringing against metal, children’s voices raised in play, the lowing of livestock.
At the edge of the trees, he came to a halt.
“This is where I leave you.”.
She turned to face him, and something in her expression made his chest tighten. She looked… sad, disappointed even, as if parting from him was something she genuinely regretted.
Foolishness, he told himself again.She is grateful for my help. Nothing more.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For everything.”
“You still owe me a debt.” The reminder came out harsher than he intended, and she flinched slightly. He immediately softened his tone. “But you know this already.”
“Yes.” She met his gaze steadily. “Let me know when you decide how I should pay it.”
He should name the price now. He should demand something concrete—goods, or services, or simply a promise never to return to his territory. But the words wouldn’t come.
“Go,” he said instead. “Your sister will be worried.”
She nodded, adjusting her satchel on her shoulder. Then, before he could react, she rose up on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek.
