The door eased open. Firelight spilled over broad shoulders.
Veyrion stepped inside carrying a carved wooden tray balanced in one hand. A pot of steaming tea sat atop it, two cups beside it.
“I heard you weren’t feeling well,” he said. His voice was softer than I expected. No wolfish grin. No blade-edged humor. Just quiet steadiness. “I thought I’d check on you.”
Of course.Eira.
He set the tray on the low table near my bed, then straightened. His frost-bound eyes swept over me—quickly, deliberately, not lingering. “You needn’t force yourself to the hall if you don’t wish to,” he added. “But nobody should be alone during Yule.”
Steam drifted upward, carrying the aroma of spiced herbs and honey. My fingers twisted tighter in the fur around me. “I appreciate the thought,” I said carefully, watching him from beneath my lashes, “but I’d rather be alone.”
He didn’t argue. Didn’t move toward the door either. He simply poured the tea, the soft trickle filling the silence, and set one steaming cup within my reach before lifting the other into his hand.
“Then consider me a shadow,” he said at last, tone quiet, measured. “Ignore me if you like."
He lowered himself into the chair across from my bed, cloak spilling around him. Firelight carved the hard planes of his face. There was no grin, no mockery—only that unmovable presence, steady as the mountains outside.
I looked away, throat tight. Stars—why couldn’t he just leave me to my misery?
Veyrion only sipped his tea, unfazed. Heat flared in my chest—bitter and jagged. “Did you come here to gloat?” My voice cracked, and I hated it—hated the salt burning in my eyes. “To remind me you were right about him?”
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe even a flash of hurt—but it vanished too quickly to catch.
He set his cup down with a deliberate clink and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “If I wanted to gloat,” he said evenly, “I would’ve done it in the hall last night, when he bared fangs and proved my point in front of everyone.” He tilted his head slightly—not cruel, but unwavering. “That’s not why I’m here.”
I turned my face away, staring at the firelight spilling across the floorboards, trying to smother the crack in my chest with anger. “Then why?” I demanded. “You got what you wanted—Alaric exposed, me broken. Isn’t that enough for you?”
He stilled, like he was bracing for impact. He leaned back in the chair, one arm stretching lazily across the armrest as though he had all the time in the world. “No,” he said simply.
I lifted my chin, meeting his icy eyes with all the defiance I had left. “Just leave. I meant what I said—I don’t want you here. I don’t need you.”
His mouth curved—not wolfish this time. Thin. Tired. Like he recognized the lie wrapped inside my words and didn’t bother calling it out. “You may not want me here,” he murmured, quiet enough that I almost thought I imagined it. “But you need someone.”
I hated him for saying it. Hated that my throat ached, that my chest trembled, that some part of me was afraid he was right.“You think too much of yourself,” I managed, voice thinner than I wanted.
His grin returned—infuriating, familiar. “No,” he said softly. “I think just enough.”
Silence stretched between us, broken only by the crackle of fire and the faint whistle of steam from the pot. I told myself to send him away again. To demand the door. But the words wouldn’t come.
Veyrion watched me with maddening patience. “The third night of Yule,” he said at last, “is for what comes after. Families gather—not only to feast, but to look back on the year behind them. Through the longest night, the fire is kept.”
He stared into the flames, voice low. “Every hearth is allowed to die, just once—so no one forgets what it means to lose the light. When the sun rises, the flame is carried from that fire to every home. Old fire becoming new.”
“It’s meant to be done together,” he continued. “The night is not always kind. It’s easier to survive the dark when you have bodies beside you and voices in the air.”
I curled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, staring at the fire. “And yet here I am.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said.
His tone was even, but something in it reached past my defenses before I could stop it.
“Let me show you something,” he added. “You don’t have to speak. You don’t have to stay. Just… see it.”
Suspicion flared. “Where?”
His eyes glinted in the firelight, storm-gray and unreadable. “A surprise.”
“That’s vague,” I said flatly.
