Veyrion leaned back, wolfish grin spreading. “It’s called abstract art. You wouldn’t understand.”
I snorted. “Abstract art? It looks like you throttled it into submission.”
“A wreath should reflect its maker.” He countered.
I rolled my eyes, fighting the smile tugging at my lips. “By that logic, mine should be radiant and perfect.”
“Radiant, perhaps,” he said softly, eyes never leaving mine.
Then he smirked, tipping his head toward the crooked circle in my hands. “Itisthe closest thing to passable on this table.”
I threw a pinecone at him. He caught it easily, laughter low and rough in his throat.
And so the night unraveled between us. Wreaths and ribbons forgotten as stories spilled—of Eira setting fire to the mead stores one winter, of his first fight at Yule, of my own foolish dares with Maliea beneath the tides.
We drank. We laughed. Our barbs grew quicker; our smiles softened.
The fires burned low, little more than embers in their stone cradle. Candles guttered into wax puddles. The tabledisappeared beneath crooked wreaths and empty cups. At some point, laughter gave way to silence—silence to the steady pull of sleep.
When I stirred, it was to warmth and motion. Strong arms beneath me. The steady rhythm of footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I blinked blearily, realizing with a start that I was cradled against Veyrion’s chest, his breath steady above me, his stride unhurried.
Up close, the cold pine faded, revealing warmth beneath it—something almost inviting. It clung to me as much as his strength did, seeping into my skin, into my thoughts.
I should have protested. I should have demanded he set me down.
Instead, I let my head rest against the solid line of his shoulder—not trust, not comfort. Just exhaustion winning the war.
He carried me to my chamber and, with a care I wouldn’t have expected, lowered me onto the bed. He drew the furs over me, movements quiet, deliberate—almost reverent.
He turned, shadows clinging to his back as he stepped toward the door. “Thank you.”
He stilled.
The weight of the words hung between us. I’d never thought I would thank him—for anything. Not after the way he’d forced me here. Not after the threat to Alaric. Not after taunts, schemes, his “mercy.”
And yet the word had come. Not just for carrying me to bed after too much mead. For the answers from the elders—however indirect. For the injured he’d gathered and hidden. For The Covenant that spared lives. For refusing to be the monster I’d convinced myself he was. For speaking the truth even when it hurt.
Deep down, I knew when he’d spoken his vow before the elders, it had been for me. I didn’t know why, or what he meant to protect me from. Only that he meant it.
He owed me nothing. I had given him nothing but mistrust, suspicion, and spite. Yet he’d carried me, covered me, shielded me in ways I hadn’t asked for.
Which could only mean one thing. Perhaps he wasn’t only terrible.
The pull was there—the impulse to know him better. So was the memory of what curiosity had already cost me.
"Goodnight, Neri." The door closed softly behind him, leaving the scent of pine and smoke lingering long after he was gone.
The Black Marrow, Port Ymirskald
Eira pressed the bundles into my arms at dawn—pine boughs, dried fruit, ribbon—laughing as she told me to “spread the fire.”
I felt their eyes on me as I crossed the deck of The Black Marrow, arms full: evergreen bound with kelp twine, strings of dried citrus and berries, cinnamon bark knotted into the line so the cold air carried something warm instead of only salt.
No one said anything. They leaned against rails, paused mid-task, pretended not to watch while watching all the same.
Yule was meant to be shared. Fires and voices and light pushing back the dark.
