I look at it, confused.
“The air cools fast after dark,” he says. “Put it on.”
I take it and unfold the fabric. It is heavier than it looks. Softer too. A travel mantle sized for someone bigger than me. Probably him.
The thought hits me a second before the scent does.
Rain. Smoke. Green things. Him.
My face goes warm again.
I wrap it around my shoulders because the temperature is already dropping and because refusing would be stupid. The fabric hangs too large on me, nearly swallowing my hands.
Kaiven watches me settle it, then turns his head toward the darkening plains as if he has not just put part of himself around my body. Maybe to him, that means nothing. Maybe it means exactly what it feels like. I do not know which answer unsettles me more.
When he motions me back toward the transport, I go without argument.
This time, climbing inside does not feel like stepping into a machine. It feels a little too much like stepping back into his protection.
Chapter 12
Keandra
By the time we reach the camp, the sky has gone from gold to deep blue. I see the first signs of it before I understand what I am looking at. Firelight in the distance. Not one flame or two, but many. Low glows scattered across the darkening plains. Then shapes. Large shapes. Rows of them.
At first I think they are buildings. But as the transport gets closer, I realize they are not stone or permanent walls at all.
Tents.
Huge ones. Hide and heavy fabric stretched over tall frames, some rounder, some longer, all of them arranged with a kind of order I can feel even before I understand it. Fire pits burn between them. Supply carts sit near the outer edge. Animals are tethered beyond the main ring. Smoke lifts into the evening air carrying the scent of meat, leather, herbs, and something darker underneath. Sweat. Earth. Beasts. A hundred living bodies settled in one place for the night.
The camp is not small. That is the first thing that hits me. I heard the word horde and understood it in theory. A group. A moving household. Warriors, women, children, supplies. Buttheory is useless now. The rasha sprawls wide enough to look like a village built from movement instead of roots. Large enough to swallow me whole if Kaiven did not know exactly where I belonged inside it.
The transport slows.
Heads turn.
That is the second thing that hits me. They were expecting him back. Expecting the king. Maybe expecting the human wife too. I can feel the attention moving toward the vehicle before it even stops. Men near the fires. Women carrying baskets or stirring pots. Children peering out from behind them.
Everyone looks.
Not loud. Not disorderly. No one crowds the transport or rushes us. But every eye is there. My stomach tightens.
Kaiven says something to the warriors in front before the engine fully dies. They answer in Tigris and climb out first, already scanning, already moving with the ease of people stepping back onto ground that belongs to them.
Kaiven rises next.
For one heartbeat, I stay where I am. Not refusing. Just feeling the sharp, ridiculous urge to stay inside the transport one minute longer, where the walls are smaller and known and no one else is staring.
Then Kaiven turns back toward me. His face gives away nothing. But something in his eyes fixes fully on me, steady and direct, and he holds out his hand.
I stare at it. Large hand. Dark copper skin. Old scars. Thick fingers built for strength, not comfort. My pulse stumbles strangely.
I place my hand in his.
The shock of contact is immediate. His skin is warmer than mine. Rougher. The difference in size is almost embarrassing. My whole hand disappears into his with room to spare. He closeshis fingers around mine carefully, not gently in a soft way, but with obvious control, then guides me down from the transport as if the distance to the ground matters enough to deserve his attention.
The second my boots touch the earth, he lets go. The loss of contact is sharper than it should be. I barely have time to hate that before the camp fully closes around my awareness.
