I want to argue, to demand answers about who saved me and why. But my body betrays me, exhaustion winning overcuriosity. My eyes drift shut as her footsteps fade into the corridor beyond.
The last thing I hear is the soft whoosh of air, like breath across coals.
When I crack my eyes open, orange light dances differently across the walls. Brighter. Warmer.
Maedra stands silhouetted in the doorway, perfectly still. Just beyond her, where I'm certain there was only empty corridor before, a ceremonial flame totem blazes with life. The carved bone and metal structure glows as if lit from within, flames licking upward without wood or oil to feed them.
She doesn't speak. Doesn't move.
Just watches the fire that lit itself burn.
4
VARGATH
My quarters offer no sanctuary. The stone walls that once felt like protection now press close, trapping the scent of leather and weapon oil with something else—something that clings to my clothes like smoke. The memory of her weight in my arms, the way she fit against my chest as if carved to match.
I strip off my battle harness with more force than necessary, buckles clanging against the floor. The ritual burn scars along my arms catch the torchlight, reminders of oaths sworn and prices paid. Duty. Honor. Tradition.
The sound of silk against stone announces her presence before she speaks.
"What was that human doing in your arms?"
Zharra glides into my chambers without invitation, her ceremonial tattoos stark against pale green skin. The intricate patterns speak of lineage and political worth, each mark a calculated investment in our arranged future. Her armor gleams despite the late hour, not a piece out of place.
I don't turn to face her. "I don't know what you mean."
"The guards talk, Vargath." Her voice carries the precise diction of someone who measures each word for maximumimpact. "They say you rode through the gates cradling a human woman like she was made of spun glass."
My hands pause on the leather bracers I'm unlacing. "Guards gossip like old women at market. Since when do you listen to their chatter?"
"Since my betrothed makes a spectacle of himself carrying strange women into our stronghold." The silk rustles as she moves closer. "Who was she?"
"A sick woman who collapsed at our gates." I finally turn, meeting her sharp gaze with practiced indifference. "Nothing more."
Zharra's eyes narrow, searching my face for tells I learned to hide years ago. Her fingers trace the ceremonial dagger at her belt, a gesture that might seem absent if you didn't know her better.
"Strange. I would have thought a warleader's first concern would be security, not charity."
"My concerns are my own."
"Not anymore." She steps forward, closing the distance between us. "Our union binds more than just our bodies, Vargath. Your reputation affects mine. Your choices become mine."
The familiar weight of obligation settles across my shoulders like armor that never comes off. Political marriage. Strategic alliance. The continuation of bloodlines that matter to people who count power in generations rather than heartbeats.
"She was dying in the snow." Each word tastes like ash. "Would you have me leave her there?"
"If she threatens what we've built? Yes."
The certainty in her voice chills me more than the winter wind. This is the woman I'm meant to bind myself to, the mother of children I'm supposed to sire for the good of the clan. The thought sits in my stomach like swallowed iron.
"I need air."
I stride past her toward the door, but her voice follows like a blade between the ribs.
"This conversation isn't finished."
"It is for tonight."
