Thorne’s hand settles low at the small of my back, possessive and proud. “Greetings, Healer Withers, my viyella is familiar with the healing arts of Earth and wishes to learn Nightfall’s ways,” he says. “Show her what you can—tools, salves, methods. Anything she asks, you answer.”
Evonne’s eyes crinkle with what might actually be delight. “With pleasure, my Lord. Lady Delia, I imagine our medicine is more like alchemy, in your world’s terms? Did I say that correctly?”
“You did,” I say, grinning. “And yeah, that tracks. Herbs, potions, weird glowy runes—I’ve seen enough fantasy movies to know a magically infused bandage when I see one.”
Thorne makes a low sound in his chest that I think is amusement. It curls through me like warm smoke.
I should be intimidated.
I should be overwhelmed.
Instead, standing here with Thorne’s heat at my back, Evonne’s steady gaze in front of me, and the soft roar of distant forges thrumming through the ground, I feel something I haven’t in a long time.
Like I belong.
On Earth, I had a job. An apartment. A routine.
But maybe? Maybe here I have a purpose.
A realm at war.
A mine that keeps dreams alive.
A rough, terrifying Demon Lord who looks at me like I’m the one holding him together.
Thorne surprises me at every turn—with his jealousy, his gentleness, his willingness to take time from world-saving to walk me through a healer’s pavilion just because I asked.
Yeah. This might be the honeymoon phase.
But as I step further into the infirmary, fingers still laced with his, ready to ask a thousand questions and learn an entirely new way of healing, one thought burns bright and clear in my mind.
I think I just found my place.
Let it last.
Let him last.
Because I’m in this now.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m ready to see where the fire leads.
Chapter 21
Thorne
The Healer’s Pavilion, The Ember Vein Mining Camp
Delia is radiant when she smiles at me like that.
The thought is ridiculous and soft and entirely unworthy of the Lord of Fire—but it is no less true.
She stands in the center of the Healer’s Pavilion with a notebook Evonne gave to her, pen in hand, eyes bright as the older healer explains the properties of some smoking, red-veined root.
My viyella drinks in the information like flame eats dry tinder—hungry, focused, alive.
And I know I have to walk away from her.
Still, I hate it.
