Delia's nightmare seemed worse.
She cried out in a genuine cry this time, high and frightened, and her body jerked like she'd been struck. "No—" The word was clear despite her sleep. "Please, no, I can't—don't make me—"
Ralvar was on his feet before he knew he'd moved.
The blade clattered to the stone floor. His body surged toward her, every nerve screaming to reach her, to hold her, to shelter her from whatever horror was pursuing her through unconsciousness—
He stopped.
Three feet away. Close enough to touch if he extended his arm. Close enough to see the tears leaking from beneath her closed eyelids, the desperate twist of her features, the way her fingers clutched at the furs like she was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.
But he stopped.
Because she was afraid. Because she'd fallen asleep trusting, however tentatively, that he would stay on his side of the fire. Because if she woke to find him looming over her in the darkness, every bit of progress they'd made would shatter.
Stay back,he commanded himself.She needs to wake on her own. She needs to—
Her eyes flew open.
For one heartbeat, she stared at him without comprehension, pupils blown wide, breath coming in ragged gasps, body still caught between nightmare and waking. Then recognition flooded her face, and with it, fear.
But not just fear.
Something else.
She looked at him—at the massive orc warrior frozen mid-motion, at the arms that had reached for her and then stopped, at the careful distance he was maintaining despite everything in him screaming to close it—and her expression shifted.
"You stopped."
Her voice was hoarse. Raw from sleep and crying and whatever terrors had been chasing her. But the words were clear.
Ralvar swallowed.
"You were afraid."
"...Yes."
The admission hung between them. Honest. Simple. A truth that cost her something to speak.
Ralvar felt his chest expand.
"I will not come closer unless you wish it."
The firelight painted her face in orange and gold, catching the tear-tracks on her cheeks, the confusion in her dark eyes, the way her lips parted slightly like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
He waited.
This was what he'd told her—that she could only trust his actions, not his words. That he couldn't prove his intentions with promises. That she would have to watch him, over time, and draw her own conclusions.
This was part of that watching. This moment, right now, where he stood frozen in her fear and showed her that her comfort mattered more than what he wanted.
"I wasn't—" She stopped. Swallowed. "In the dream, I wasn't here. I was back in the wagon. They were telling me what happens to the workers at the site, and I couldn't—I couldn't get out, I couldn't run, they'd tied my hands tighter and—"
Her voice cracked.
Ralvar's hands curled into fists at his sides. The rage was back—the dark, savage urge to find the men who'd done this and make them understand exactly what they'd created. This trembling creature. This woman who woke crying from nightmares of her own people.
Her own kind did this to her.
