He had crossed a line there. He knew it. The trouble was, the alternative felt worse.
Her mouth opened, then closed. “That’s not true.”
“It is,” he said. “You’re starved for warmth and acceptance. It makes you too trusting.”
He cursed at himself for reprimanding her, but he couldn’t stop the agitation boiling out. Her fingers tightened on the reins. The bracelet glowed faintly, restraining her sparks, aggravating him further.
“I’m not helpless, Nythir.”
He believed her. That wasn’t the issue. The world didn’t care whether someone was helpless—it cared whether they were protected.
“I never said you were helpless,” he replied. “I said you’re trusting. Those are different.”
She looked away, jaw tight. Guilt slid cold through his chest. He wasn’t angry at her—he was furious at the world that had left her so desperate for ordinary kindness.
“I just want you to be careful,” he added quietly.
“I am careful.”
“You teleported into Ashvale,” he said.
She glared at him. “Are you ever going to let that go?”
“No. Just make sure to teleport me with you next time.”
She sighed, and some of the tension eased from her shoulders.
They rode until the sky shifted from blue to lavender. The caravan master called for a halt on a flat stretch between two low hills. The carts were rolled into a loose circle to block the wind, and a fire was built in the center.
The smells of cooking meat and woodsmoke filled the air. Conversations rose and fell. Lyssara shared stories. Vorrik ate loudly. Merchants laughed. The day had been surprisingly calm, leaving Nythir on edge.
Essie perched on a log near the fire, boots dangling above the dirt. Her green dress was streaked with dust along the hem, a smudge of road grime on her cheekbone. She looked… happy.Tired, but happy. For the first time since she joined them, she looked at ease in her surroundings.
“That one’s Orion,” Vorrik said, pointing at a constellation with a strip of dried meat hanging out of his mouth. “Hunter of wild sheep. Lyssara told me if I misbehaved, he’d come down and take my tusks.”
Lyssara snorted. “I said I would take your tusks.”
Essie laughed, head tipped back, gold sparks barely visible where the firelight reflected in her eyes. Nythir pretended not to watch, though the warmth her laughter brought made him want to.
Teren drifted closer, two tin mugs in hand, far too confident for someone who had known them less than a day.
“Brought extra,” he said, offering one to Essie. “Just watered wine. Helps with saddle ache.”
Nythir stepped between them before he could stop himself.
“I told you,” he said pleasantly, “she’s training with us tonight.”
Teren blinked, then shifted his gaze over Nythir’s shoulder. “Well, what does she say?”
Nythir hated him a little.
Essie peeked around him, eyes flicking between the two. “I can do both,” she said cautiously. “A little training, then sit somewhere that doesn’t smell like fish and orc feet.”
Vorrik looked offended. “My feet smell like triumph.”
“You can barely walk,” Lyssara said. “Triumph lost.”
Teren grinned. “See? She’s got good taste. I’ll only steal her for a bit. Just to show her where the stream is. Quieter there.”
