"This is theft," he said, his voice pitched to carry. "Theft of lawfully contracted property. The Crown will hear of this. Treaties will be reconsidered. Trade routes—"
He turned to the guards behind him, his eyes wild with frustrated authority.
"This is ridiculous. She's Valdaran property. Seize her."
Chapter 25
The world had gone red.
Ralvar didn't remember drawing his blade. Didn't remember moving. One moment the magistrate's words were hanging in the air—seize her—and the next he was halfway across the courtyard, weapon in hand, every instinct screaming to killthem all.
Harren's face, slack with terror. The younger guard scrambling backward, tripping over his own feet. The magistrate's mouth opening to scream—
And then.
Her hand.
Small and warm and impossibly strong, closing around his wrist. Not pulling, not restraining. Just... touching.
"Ralvar."
Her voice cut through the red haze like sunlight through storm clouds. He heard it somewhere beneath the roar of his blood, felt it settle into his bones like an anchor finding purchase.
"Ralvar, stop."
He stopped.
His blade hung in the air, a handspan from Harren's throat. The guard had gone white, his weak chin trembling, a dark stain spreading down the front of his trousers. Behind him, the younger guard was on his knees, hands raised in surrender. The magistrate had retreated several steps, his careful neutrality shattered into naked fear.
None of that mattered.
What mattered was her hand on his wrist. Her voice in his ears. Her presence at his side, steady and certain, pulling him back from the edge of something he couldn't return from.
"Look at me."
He turned his head, found her eyes. Those warm brown eyes that had looked at him with fear in a rocky hollow, with wonder in a watchtower, with hunger in a cave lit by firelight. Now they held trust. It made his chest crack open.
"You don't need to do this," she said quietly. "I'm safe. You already won."
The blade lowered. He didn't remember commanding his arm to move, but it did, responding to her voice, her touch, her impossible calm in the middle of a courtyard full of armed orcs and terrified humans.
"They—" His voice came out rough, scraped raw by the rage still pounding through his veins. "They tried to—"
"I know." Her thumb brushed across his inner wrist, finding his pulse. "And they failed. Look around."
He looked.
The human delegation was surrounded. Not by warriors with weapons drawn, but by orcs who had simply closed in. Brenneth stood with his arms crossed, blocking any retreat toward the gates. Kessan had positioned herself behind the younger guard, her scarred face impassive. Thessaly was there too, her healer's bag clutched to her chest, watching with eyes that missed nothing.
And the warchief.
Targesh Ironhide hadn't moved from his position near the center of the courtyard. His iron-colored eyes were fixed on Ralvar, not with anger or disapproval, but with understanding.
Or recognition.
"The Mountain Clan does not kill unarmed men who have come under treaty protocol." The warchief's voice rolled across the courtyard like distant thunder. "Even when they deserve it."
Magistrate Corwin made a sound of outrage. "Warchief, I must protest. The assault on my person—the threats—"
