Eira’s expression softened—only for a heartbeat—then she arched a brow, a sly grin tugging at her mouth. “Then it’s about time you learned, isn’t it? Besides, you won’t ruin anything. You’d have to tryveryhard to do worse than my brother’s knot-work.”
Veyrion’s eyes flickered, unimpressed. Eira only smirked.
I hesitated, every instinct urging me to refuse, to retreat. But Eira’s grin was a net I couldn’t wriggle free of.
I sighed and took the branches, the clean scent of pine filling my lungs. “Fine. Show me.”
“That’s the spirit.” She slid closer, deft fingers weaving the sprigs into a circle. “Evergreen is life that endures the dark and cold. We weave it into wreaths to remind ourselves winter won’t last forever. The ribbon binds it—just as our oaths bind us.”
Her hands worked quickly, nimble and practiced. Soon she was guiding mine—teaching me how to bend the branches without snapping them, how to tie the ribbon so the circle held firm. Resin stuck to my skin. Needles pricked my fingertips. But slowly the shape began to hold.
Eira nudged me with her elbow. “See? Not so terrible. By the end of the night, you’ll be a proper Northerner.”
I shook my head, though a reluctant smile tugged at my mouth. “I doubt that.”
“Don’t,” she said, eyes flashing. “Yule doesn’t care where you’re from. Only that you bring your fire to the dark.”
The liquor warmed my blood, easing tension in my shoulders. Cups filled and emptied, filled again, until our cheeks glowed from drink and firelight. Wreaths stacked crookedly across the table—uneven but bright, every one a testament to the hands that made it.
I caught Veyrion watching me once, his eyes reflecting firelight, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. No arrogance. No cruelty. Only a quietness that unmoored me.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” he said at last, voice low, the words themselves were dangerous.
The drink loosened my tongue before I could find a lie. I lifted my cup in a mock toast. “I’m learning I enjoy many things I never thought I would.”
His mouth curved into that maddening grin. One brow lifted.
The air between us tightened. Not desire. Not quite. Something harder to name—disorientation, proximity, the unsettling realization that the man I’d flattened into a monster refused to stay that shape.
A shadow fell across the table. His hand slid into view, long fingers brushing mine as he plucked the ribbon from my grasp. The touch was light, deliberate—enough to steal the breath from my lungs.
“You’re tying it wrong,” he said smoothly. "Eirawillyell at you."
He leaned close, the scent of pine and smoke curling from his coat. His fingers retied the knot with a single twist. His knuckles grazed mine again before he let go—slow, reluctant.
The bow lay neat. Perfect.
I should have pulled away. Should have recoiled from the nearness, from the heat that clung to him like a second skin.
Instead, I sat frozen, every nerve alight.
I told myself it was only the drink. Only the fire. Only the strangeness of the night.
But deep down, I knew better.
“You only fixed it because you like to overstep,” I muttered, willing my voice steady.
Veyrion folded his arms. “I fixed it because it offended the gods of symmetry. If they’d seen it hanging above this hall, they might have brought the roof down in disgust.”
A startled laugh escaped me before I could swallow it. “And here I thought you didn’t care what the gods thought.”
“Oh, I don’t,” he said, pouring himself another cup with deliberate slowness. “But I do care for roofs not collapsing on my head.”
Eira had long since surrendered to the drink—head tipped back in laughter, muttering about fetching more ribbon—before stumbling off toward the corridor.
That left only the two of us at the table, pine needles scattered between cups and crooked wreaths.
I plucked one up and held it aloft. “This one looks even worse than mine. Did you make this?”
