“It’s not that bad,” she grumbled, wood creaking beneath her as she sat, back straight. “Besides, I’m not the only one helping. Ever since you could sit upright again, you’ve spent all your time grinding roots for the Grannies.” Her nose scrunched as she braced for the first pull of the brush. “It’s been, what, two weeks since you started?”
After one too many questions about their techniques, the old woman had handed him a mortar and pestle and told him to earn his keep. He’d taken to it disturbingly well.
Behind her, Kaelith stepped closer. His fingers grazed the nape of her neck, light and careful, as he worked the tie free from her hair. Strands slipped loose over her shoulders.
“Only two weeks? It feels like much longer.” Warm breath fanned her skin, grazing the shell of her ear with the kind of softness that shouldn’t have made her pulse quicken, but did.
“The healers here practice the old ways,” he continued. “Methods not reliant on the Source.” His nails grazed her scalp. “It is…worth learning.”
Rynna exhaled, her posture easing as his hands moved gently through her hair, eyelids fluttering shut before she caught herself.
“And it couldn’t possibly be that you just want to help?” she murmured. “That you’re actually grateful they saved your life?”
She heard the shift in his weight as he leaned back, then the scrape of bristles catching through the first tangle. He started from the bottom—deliberate, patient—and worked upward with quiet precision.
“I am grateful to you, Rynna, for saving my life.”
Her body relaxed with each stroke. It felt good. Too good.
Which meant she should stop it.
But then his hand cupped the back of her neck again, pressing lightly into the muscle where tension pooled. Her throat closed at the contact. The soreness from days of hunting, of hauling wild game down steep trails to the caverns below for winter storage, flared—thenebbed beneath his touch.
Her fingers dug into the edge of the chair. She wasn’t meant for this. For comfort. For kindness.
But still…she didn’t move.
The room hushed. No birdsong from the cliffside. No clang from the blacksmith on the terrace below. Just the quiet drag of his fingers, threading through her hair, smoothing and sectioning, palm resting warm at the nape of her neck. Her eyes stayed closed. One inhale, then another, and the stiff line of her shoulders began to give.
“There.”
He stepped back, and his absence was immediate. No more heat, no more steady mass at her back.
“Much better.”
She opened her eyes, finding a braid now curving neatly over her shoulder, thick and even. Her fingers drifted to it, following the length down to the end where he’d tied it off with a strip of leather. She traced back up, discovering where tighter twists wove along the scalp before feeding into the braid’s spine—clean, crisp, and practiced.
“Um. Thanks.” Her fingers ghosted over the crown of her head again. “Where…?”
She turned to find him pale, one hand braced on the table. His other hovered near the back of the chair like he hadn’t decided whether to use it.
“Shit—here.” She stood, pushing the seat toward him.
“I’m fine.” But his gaze lingered on the chair a beat too long before he sank into it with an exhale. His fists clenched around his knees, knuckles white.
Rynna watched as he eventually reached for the mortar, movements stiff, knowing his mood would sour if she asked him if he was ok, again.
“It’s actually…” She touched the braid again, lighter this time. “It’s good. Where’d you learn how to…?” She faltered, mouth pulling sideways. “Plait?”
He didn’t look up.
“A girl in my group home.” He reached for a pinch of dried thorny leaves and let them fall into the mortar. “She kept getting reprimanded for leaving it loose. They said it was a risk—easy to grab during combat.”
The pestle ground into the stone.
“She was hopeless,” he said flatly. “Couldn’t even complete basic Hollow-born forms without stumbling.” His lips thinned, and the grinding stopped. “It wasn’t much, but I fixed her hair every morning during Novice training.”
Group home.He was an orphan.
