It was old, the stones dark with age and moss, the upper portions crumbled away by time or violence. But the base was intact, and the doorway that Ralvar ducked through was solid enough, leading into a chamber that was small and cold but dry.
Dry. After so much time in the cold and the rain, after the soaking and the mud and the slow leeching cold that had been pulling her toward death, the simple absence of water felt like a miracle.
Ralvar set her down carefully, lowering her onto what looked like a sleeping pallet in the corner—furs spread over pine boughs, clearly assembled by someone who used this place regularly. When her weight left his arms, Delia wanted to protest.
No. Stay. Warm.
She crushed the thought violently.
"I need to build a fire." He was already moving toward the center of the room, where she could see the blackened stones of a fire pit. "Don't try to stand on that ankle."
As if she was going to try to stand. As if she was going to do anything except sit here on this pile of furs and try not to shatter into pieces.
Delia watched him work. Steady hands placing kindling. Patient adjustments to the draft. A striker that sparked once, twice, and caught on the third attempt.
The flames licked to life.
Orange light filled the watchtower, and suddenly she couldseehim. Really see him, not just the dark silhouette he'd been in the forest.
He was terrifying.
She'd known that already, had felt it in her bones from the moment he appeared. But seeing the massive shoulders and scarred green skin, the war-marks that covered his arms and chest, the tusks that curved from his lower jaw, the sheer inhumansizeof him—
She should have been screaming again.
But she wasn’t.
Because the firelight also showed her other things. The care with which he tended the flames. The way he glanced at her periodically, like he was checking that she was still there, still alive, still within his ability to protect. The blood on his knuckles that wasold, dried, from a fight that happened before he found her.
He'd been fighting humans. Killing them, probably. And then he'd found her, and he'd...
He'd knelt down. Shown her his empty hands. Spoken to her like she was a frightened animal that needed gentling.
None of this made sense.
"Here."
She flinched. He was holding out something. A bundle of cloth. When she didn't immediately take it, he set it on the furs beside her.
"Dry clothes."
Delia looked at the bundle. Then at Ralvar. Then at the fire.
"I'm going to check the perimeter," he said, already turning away. "You can change. I won't look."
And then he was gone, ducking through the doorway, disappearing into the darkness outside, and she was alone.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
The fire crackled. The warmth of it was starting to reach her now, sinking through her frozen skin, and her shivering had intensified in response. That was good, she remembered. Shivering meant her body was still fighting. It was when the shivering stopped that you were in trouble.
She looked at the bundle of cloth.
It was a tunic. Orc-sized, which meant it would hang to her knees on her. But dry. Warm.
Delia changed quickly, peeling the sodden dress away from her skin and pulling the dry tunic over her head. The fabric was some kind of woven linen, worn soft by use. It smelled like pine and woodsmoke and something deep and warm.
It smelled likehim.
