Something shifts in his expression. He nods once, accepting my tactical assessment.
The plan works. We bring down the wyverns with minimal injuries. But afterward, tension simmers between us.
"You still want to throw yourself in front of every threat," I say as we make camp that evening.
"And you take risks that make my blood run cold." He’s checking a gash across his forearm from a wyvern’s claw. "You got too close on that last one."
"I had to be close for the spell to work properly?—"
"You could have been killed."
"So could you." I move to tend his wound, my hands gentle despite my frustration. "That’s the nature of what we do. But I need you to trust that I can assess my own risks."
He catches my hand, pressing it against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat. "Caring about someone means being terrified of losing them. I can’t just turn that off."
The honesty in his admission defuses my anger. "I’m not asking you to stop caring. I’m asking you to trust me to handle myself."
We talk it through—really talk, working toward compromise rather than victory. He’ll trust my judgment unless there’s a compelling tactical reason not to. I’ll accept that his instinct to protect comes from love rather than disrespect.
It’s not our last disagreement. We clash over how to spend coin, which contracts to take, when to rest versus push forward. But each argument teaches us more about navigating partnership, building the foundation that can weather normal conflicts instead of only functioning under crisis.
Three months after leaving the coven, we reach Methran. The ancient library sprawls across an entire district, its towers visible from miles away. Getting access requires sponsorship from an established scholar, but my reputation opens doors that would normally remain closed.
The head archivist—a stern woman named Magistra Calla—interviews me personally.
"You’re the witch who destroyed the abbey." It’s not a question.
"I am."
"And you seek access to our restricted collections?" Her tone suggests this is highly irregular.
"I do. I’ve encountered forces that defy conventional magical theory. I need access to pre-Veil texts to understand what I’ve experienced."
She studies me for a long moment. "Very well. But you’ll work under supervision. And if I suspect you’re using our knowledge for anything beyond scholarly pursuit, you’ll be expelled immediately."
"Understood."
While I immerse myself in research, Krath takes contracts with the city guard, handling threats they’re not equipped for. We establish a rhythm—days spent apart on individual pursuits, evenings reuniting to share what we’ve learned.
It should feel like growing apart. Instead, it deepens what we have. We’re learning who we are as individuals, which makes choosing to be partners more meaningful than if we simply couldn’t function separately.
Our small apartment above a bookshop becomes home. We make love with increasing familiarity, learning what the other needs after difficult days. Sometimes it’s slow and tender. Other times it’s fierce and desperate, driven by adrenaline from close calls.
One evening, I return from the archives to find him sitting on the bed, expression troubled.
"What’s wrong?"
"Took a contract today." He doesn’t meet my eyes. "Hunting down a rogue mage who’d been stealing from merchants. Tracked him to his hideout and found—" He stops, jaw clenching.
"Found what?"
"A child. The thief was a child, maybe twelve, stealing to feed younger siblings after their parents died in a plague." His hands clench into fists. "I nearly killed a child because I didn’t ask questions first."
I sit beside him, taking his hand. "But you didn’t."
"Because I hesitated. Because something made me pause." He looks at me finally. "What if I hadn’t? What if my first instinct had been right?"
"Your first instinct was to gather information before acting. That’s why you paused." I squeeze his hand. "You’re not the monster you think you are."
