She moves through the space slowly, running her fingers along surfaces. Examining the few personal touches I’ve accumulated over the years. A blade I forged myself. Maps of realms that no longer exist. A carved figure of a dragon my mother made before she died.
She doesn’t ask about any of them. I appreciate that. She reads the room the way she reads everything—with economy and restraint.
“The gods can’t reach us here?”
“Their attention slides away.” I move to the fireplace, begin building a fire from the wood I’ve kept stacked here. “They can’t focus on this territory. Can’t find it if they don’t already know where it is.”
“And they don’t know.”
“I’ve never told anyone.” The flint catches. I coax the flames to life, feed them until they’re steady. “You’re the first person I’ve brought here. The first I’ve wanted to bring.”
When I turn, she’s watching me with eyes that have always seen too much. Not the power or the threat or the lifetimes of violence—me, the dragon who spent ages running from an executioner he couldn’t kill.
Until her.
“Why?”
I close the distance between us. Cup her face in my hands. Her skin is cool from the walk, but she leans into my palms like they’re the only source of heat in the world.
“Because this is the only place I’ve ever found where I can stop planning. Stop calculating. Stop waiting for the next threat.” My thumbs trace along her cheekbones. “And I want you here. In my space. In the one place that’s truly mine.”
“Tyr…”
“I’m not good at this.” The words come out rougher than intended. “Talking. Explaining. I’ve spent a lifetime keeping myown counsel, and now you’re here, and I don’t know how to—” I break off. Gather myself. “I want you to see where I go when the world becomes too much. The only peace I’ve ever known.”
She rises on her toes. Presses her mouth to mine.
Not demanding. Not desperate. A contact that says she heard me even if I couldn’t find the right words. Her hands rest against my chest, feeling my heartbeat, grounding both of us in this moment.
When she pulls back, her expression has shifted. More open than I’ve seen her. More certain.
“Show me the rest.”
I showher the water source first—an underground spring that surfaces in a hollow behind the shelter. Clear and cold, untouched by the punishing ice that coats the rest of the realm. She kneels at the edge, cups water in her hands, drinks.
I watch her throat work as she swallows. Watch the droplets run down her chin. Watch her wipe them away with the back of her hand.
Centuries of control. Centuries of restraint. And I’m undone by watching a woman drink water.
“What?” She catches me staring.
“Nothing.” Everything. “Come on.”
I show her the supply stores next. Preserved food that will last decades in this space where time moves strangely. Dried meat and fruit. Grains that haven’t spoiled despite their age. Enough to sustain us for years if we needed to stay hidden that long.
“You’ve been preparing for this.” She runs her fingers over the carefully stacked provisions. “For a long time.”
“I’ve been preparing to endure.” I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her explore. “This is the first time I’ve considered what it would mean to endure with someone else.”
She glances at me. Holds my gaze for a long moment without speaking.
I guide her around a formation of crystallized ice—neutral ice, carrying no punishment. “They know it exists in theory. But knowing and finding are different things.”
She asks practical questions. I give practical answers.
But underneath the logistics, tension builds. Every accidental touch. Every moment her arm presses against mine as we walk. Every time I reach for her automatically and she leans into it without thinking.
We’ve been intimate before. Twice now. Desperate, consuming encounters driven by need and danger and the uncertainty that we might not live to see another dawn.
