“I know.”
“But you could have left. Could have wanted a different life. An easier one. Someone who wasn’t…” He pauses. “This.”
His grip tightens on my wrist. “You didn’t.”
“I told you. Leaving isn’t what I want. You are. All of this is.”
He looks at me for a long moment. Then nods once, releasing me.
“Good. Now get dressed.” He’s back to commands instantly, the moment of vulnerability already behind him. “We have a long way to go and I want to be in my territory before nightfall.”
I stand beside him in the golden light of a thawing world. The future is uncertain. We changed something fundamental, and the consequences haven’t arrived yet.
But I’m not facing it alone. And neither is he.
“Come on.” I start walking toward the rising sun. “Keep up, dragon.”
He falls into step beside me, his palm settling against my lower back like it belongs there. Like it always has.
THIRTY-TWO
TYR
The boundary recognizes me before we cross it.
A shift in pressure, subtle but unmistakable. The world loosens. The weight I’ve been carrying since we first set foot in frozen territory slides off my shoulders.
Zephyra stumbles at the transition. The crossing isn’t visible, but it’s tangible—a curtain between one existence and another. I catch her arm before she can fall, steady her against my side.
“What was that?”
“The edge of my territory.” I keep my hand on her longer than necessary. Can’t seem to stop doing that. “We’re in my domain now.”
She looks around, taking in the landscape. I watch her face as she processes it.
Grays and silvers stretch in every direction. Not frozen—the ice here carries no punishment. It exists as ice should exist: cold, neutral, indifferent. The horizon shifts when you look at it directly, never quite in focus. Reality is flexible here. Malleable. It bends to my will because I carved this place out of existence long before we met.
The light comes from everywhere and nowhere. No sun. No stars. A diffuse luminance that casts no shadows, creates nodirection. Time moves differently in this space. Hours can feel like days or moments, depending on how you move through them.
“It’s…” She pauses, searching for the right word, “still.”
“Sound carries differently here.” I guide her forward, my hand sliding from her arm to the small of her back. The contact is automatic now—my body gravitates toward hers without conscious thought. “Words matter because they don’t linger. You have to mean what you say.”
We walk in silence for a while. The landscape flows around us, unchanging but not monotonous. Infinite and intimate at the same time. I carved this place out of reality when I needed somewhere the executioner couldn’t reach—a pocket of existence that belonged to no flight, no authority, no god.
The shelter comes into view as we crest a low rise. Minimal architecture—stone walls, solid roof, space enough for two. Not a fortress. Not defensive. A home, if I’d ever used that word for anything.
“You built this?”
“A long time ago.”
“It’s…” She studies the structure, “smaller than I expected.”
“I didn’t need more.” I guide her toward the door, hand still pressed to her back. “I didn’t plan on sharing it.”
We approach. I push open the door and wait for her to enter first. Old instinct—making sure the space is safe before she commits to it. Even here, even in territory I control absolutely, the protective impulse remains.
The interior is sparse. A fireplace against one wall. A bed I constructed from salvaged timber decades ago. Shelves holding supplies preserved by the strange properties of this place where time moves sideways. A table. Two chairs. Everything necessary, nothing extra.
