"Still working?" Her voice carries forced warmth, like honey poured over bitter herbs. "The sun is setting. Surely even the great Galthan of Thorran deserves rest."
I continue my methodical sharpening, letting the silence stretch between us before responding. "Good steel requires attention. Neglect leads to failure when it matters most."
She settles beside me on the fallen log I've claimed as my workbench, close enough that the silk of her ceremonial robes brushes against my leather vambrace. The scent of expensive oils and incense clings to her skin—a stark contrast to the honest smell of metal and stone that fills my nostrils.
"I brought wine." A clay vessel appears in my peripheral vision, its surface decorated with intricate patterns that probably cost more than most warriors see in a season. "Thought you might appreciate something stronger than festival ale."
"Thoughtful."
The word comes out flatter than I intended, but Rytha either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore my tone. She uncorks the vessel with practiced ease, the rich aroma of fermented grapes mixing with the evening air. When she offers it to me, I accept without enthusiasm, taking a small sip before returning my attention to my blade.
"You've been distracted." The observation drops between us like a stone into still water. "The others notice."
My hand stills against the whetstone for just a moment before resuming its steady rhythm. "Have they?"
"Tarnuk mentioned you nearly took his head off during sparring yesterday. Said you were fighting like a man with demons on his shoulders."
I grunt noncommittally, testing the axe's edge with my thumb. A thin line of blood wells up where the steel meets flesh—sharp enough to split hairs or cleave bone, depending on the need. Satisfied, I set the whetstone aside and begin cleaning oil from the blade with a worn cloth.
"There is much to think about," I say finally, meeting her amber eyes for the first time since she arrived. "Marriage doesn'tsolve anything—laws do. We need to focus on how to bring the clans together. Not ourselves."
Her expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a flicker of something cold passing through those carefully painted features. The smile remains in place, but it loses some of its warmth, becoming more of a mask than genuine emotion.
"Of course the alliance comes first." Her voice maintains its honeyed tone, though I catch the slight edge beneath the sweetness. "I simply thought... well, a strong partnership between us would strengthen our peoples' bond."
"Strength comes from unity of purpose, not personal attachment."
The words taste bitter on my tongue, each syllable a small betrayal of the truth burning in my chest. But this is the dance we must perform, the careful steps required to maintain the illusion that everything proceeds according to plan. That I haven't spent every waking moment thinking about golden eyes and calloused hands, about the way someone whispers my name like a prayer in the darkness.
Rytha takes a longer drink from the wine vessel, her gaze never leaving my face. "You sound like my father. All strategy, no heart."
"Hearts make poor generals."
She laughs, but there's no humor in the sound. "Perhaps. But they make excellent motivation for warriors."
I return to cleaning my axe, using the mundane task as an excuse to avoid her penetrating stare. The cloth moves in smooth circles across the steel, removing every trace of oil and debris until the metal gleams like polished silver. It's honest work, requiring nothing more than patience and attention to detail—qualities that seem increasingly rare in this place of masks and hidden agendas.
"Tell me," Rytha continues, shifting closer until her thigh presses against mine, "what keeps the great warrior awake at night? What thoughts disturb your rest?"
The question is loaded with implications I dare not acknowledge. I know what she's fishing for, the admission she hopes to draw from my lips. But I've spent too many years learning to guard my words, to reveal only what serves my purpose.
"The same things that should trouble any leader. How to protect our people. How to ensure the alliance holds beyond this festival. How to build something lasting instead of temporary."
Something that would set me free, not cage me in. And the woman sitting next to me is all chains and locks.
She takes another sip of wine, the liquid catching the dying light like liquid amber. When she lowers the vessel, her smile has shifted into something sharper, more calculating.
"Is there..." She pauses, letting the words hang between us like smoke. "Anything else you might be thinking about? Perhaps someone else?"
The question strikes like a blade between ribs, precise and deliberate. I keep my hands steady on the cloth, continuing to polish steel that already gleams like winter ice. My jaw tightens despite my efforts to remain impassive.
"Thinking about the border—tactics." The words come out rougher than intended, betraying more than I'd like. "Not some fragile human."
Her smirk spreads across her painted lips like spilled wine. "Good. You're smart enough not to ruin everything over a curiosity."
The word 'curiosity' digs in like boot between the ribs. I set down my axe with deliberate care, the weapon's weight settling against the log with a soft thud. My hands ball into fists before I force them to relax, muscle by muscle. She watches everymovement, those amber eyes cataloging each reaction like a hunter studying wounded prey.
I rise to my feet, my full height casting a shadow across her seated form. The evening breeze carries the scent of cooking fires and distant laughter from the festival grounds, but all I can focus on is the need to escape this conversation before I say something that destroys everything.
