"You ordered armed men to seize a woman under clan protection." Targesh's voice could have frozen fire. "In our territory. Surrounded by our warriors. After being told explicitly that she was not leaving." The contempt in his gaze was absolute. "Your stupidity does not constitute our crime."
The magistrate's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You and your men will leave," Targesh continued. "You will return to Castellan Vorn and inform him that his 'property' is a free woman of the Mountain Clan. You will tell him that anyfurther attempts to claim her will be answered with force. And you will pray—" His voice dropped to the sound of grinding stone. "—that he has the wisdom to accept this outcome."
Harren was already backing toward the gates, his trembling hands raised in surrender. The younger guard scrambled after him, dignity abandoned in favor of survival. Only the magistrate lingered, his face a mask of frustrated fury.
"This isn't over," he said. "Treaties have provisions. Diplomatic channels—"
"Use them." Targesh's smile was all teeth. "And see how far they carry you."
The humans fled.
Ralvar watched them go. Watched Harren's hunched shoulders disappear through the gates, watched the younger guard stumble twice in his haste to escape, watched Magistrate Corwin's rigid back recede into the distance with his useless documents and his shattered authority.
They were gone.
The rage drained out of him slowly, like water seeping through sand. It left him hollow and shaking.
He'd almost killed them. If she hadn't stopped him—if her hand hadn't found his wrist—he would have painted the courtyard with their blood.
And Delia would have watched.
"Hey."
Her voice again. Softer now. She'd moved around to face him, her hand still wrapped around his wrist, her eyes searching his face.
"Where did you go?"
Away.The word almost escaped.Somewhere dark. Somewhere I didn't want you to follow.
"I almost—" His voice cracked. "Delia, I would have—"
"I know." No judgment in her tone. "But you didn't."
"Because you stopped me."
"Because you let me stop you." She reached up, cupping his jaw. Her palm was warm against his skin, grounding him in the present. "That's not the same thing, Ralvar. Youchoseto hear me. You chose to stop."
Part of him wanted to reject it, wanted to insist that he was dangerous, that he'd endangered everything. But she wasn't afraid. She was standing in front of him, touching him, looking at him like he was worth saving.
"Delia." Her name was all he could manage. All he had words for.
"I'm here." She rose on her toes, pressing her forehead against his chest. "I'm right here."
A shadow fell across them.
Ralvar looked up to find Warchief Targesh standing three paces away, his massive arms folded across his chest, expression unreadable.
He felt Delia tense against him. Felt her breath catch, her body preparing for judgment she couldn't anticipate. So he held her closer and met the warchief's gaze.
"Well spoken, Delia Harrowmere."
The words rumbled through the courtyard, and Ralvar felt Delia startle. She lifted her head from his chest, turning to face the warchief with wonder in her eyes.
Targesh's weathered face had softened slightly. Not quite a smile—Ralvar wasn't sure he'd ever seen the warchief truly smile—but certainly warmer than his usual granite expression.
"You have the voice of a warrior," Targesh continued. "The heart of one too."
