I had wanted him to kiss me.
The admission refuses to soften no matter how many times I attempt to examine it from different angles. There had been no panic in that moment when he leaned closer, no instinct to retreat from the creature standing inches away from me despite the horns, and the unmistakable power that radiates from him like heat from a forge.
If anything, the opposite had been true. Part of me had leaned toward him in return.
It makes no sense. I know almost nothing about him beyond the few things he has chosen to reveal: that he is a wrath demon,that he can destroy half the village if provoked, and that some ancient bond now ties my fear to his power in ways neither of us fully understands.
None of that should inspire the quiet warmth that now lingers in my chest whenever I think of him. Yet it does. The bond pulses faintly beneath my ribs as though echoing the thought. Perhaps that is part of the problem.
The connection between us is not merely magical; it is physical, emotional, instinctive in ways that feel both fascinating and deeply unsettling. When he stands near me, the tension that has followed me through Briarthorn these past days fades into something steadier, as though the world itself has shifted into alignment around his presence.
He makes danger feel manageable. That realization alone would be troubling enough. The fact that I find his confidence strangely appealing only complicates matters further.
I close my eyes with a soft groan and turn onto my side, determined to push the thought away before it takes root any deeper than it already has.
Unfortunately, the bond does not seem inclined to cooperate.
When morning arrives, the warmth beneath my sternum remains controlled and alert, like the quiet awareness of someone watching from just beyond sight.
The square is already crowdedwhen I arrive. Word spreads quickly in Briarthorn, and the rumors surrounding me have clearly grown more elaborate overnight. Conversations quiet the moment I step into the open space near the well, though the silence carries less fear than it did the day before. Now it carries something sharper. Expectation.
Matron Yselle stands around the platform with several elders gathered around her, their expressions grim in the pale morninglight. When she notices me approaching, her gaze fixes on me with the careful precision of someone who has spent the entire night constructing an argument she now intends to deliver.
“Elowen Virel,” she says, her voice carrying clearly across the square.
The crowd shifts, forming a loose ring of curious villagers who pretend not to stare too directly while doing exactly that.
“I have been informed,” the matron continues, “that the recent disturbances within Briarthorn appear to coincide rather remarkably with your presence.”
I remain where I am, resisting the urge to fold my arms defensively.
“Disturbances?” I ask evenly.
“Three unexplained fires,” she replies. “And the sudden arrival of underworld’s symbols carved into the doors of two respectable citizens.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd. The bond stirs faintly beneath my ribs, but I draw a slow breath the way Threxian taught me.
“I am a healer,” I say carefully. “Not an arsonist.”
Matron Yselle’s expression tightens slightly.
“And yet witnesses report seeing… unusual phenomena surrounding you.”
Before I can respond, another voice cuts through the tension.
“That is speculation, Matron.”
Sister Amelithe steps forward from the edge of the gathering, her gray robes brushing softly against the stone of the square.
“Accusing someone of consorting with infernal forces requires more than frightened gossip.”
Several villagers exchange uneasy glances. I have spoken with Sister Amelithe only a handful of times over the years, usually when she stopped by the apothecary for tinctures or herbs for the small infirmary attached to the chapel. She hasalways carried herself with a quiet patience that makes people lower their voices without realizing they have done so.
Unlike most of the villagers, she has never treated me as though my work with herbs bordered on something suspicious. If anything, she seemed genuinely curious about it, asking thoughtful questions and listening carefully to the answers. Seeing her step forward now, placing herself deliberately between me and the matron’s accusations, sends an unexpected warmth through my chest.
The matron regards the priestess coolly. “You believe these events are coincidence?”
“I believe fear has a habit of inventing convenient villains,” Amelithe replies.
