Her hand finds mine under the water, lacing our fingers together. “This is better.”
I hum in agreement, resting my chin on the top of her head. The heat seeps into muscles I’ve kept locked for decades.
She reaches for a bar of soap and a rough cloth. “Your turn.” She works the lather over my chest, her movements slow and deliberate, scrubbing away the grime of the fight, the forest, the past. Her fingers trace the old scars, the newer scratches, with a reverence that tightens my throat.
She turns in the water, her knees on either side of my hips. “My turn.”
I take the soap from her. I start with her shoulders, working the tension from them, then down her arms. She tilts her head back, a soft sound of pleasure escaping her as I wash her back. I am careful, thorough. This is a new kind of ritual. A claiming of a different sort. When I am done, I pull her back against me, and we just sit there as the water cools around us, watching the candle flames dance.
CHAPTER 30
HARDIN
The Hollow is quieter now than I ever remember it being. Not dead quiet. Not the kind of silence that means something is wrong or waiting to strike. It is a living quiet, the kind that comes when the ground is steady and the air has let go of its tension.
A year has passed since war raged here, and though scars remain on the land, and on me, the Hollow breathes softer now, like the woods themselves know the fight has ended and chosen to keep us.
I wake each morning to fog curling low over the ridges, clinging to the branches like lace, lanterns glowing through the mist in the distance where the village stirs awake. There is always the smell of damp earth, moss heavy on the wind, and beneath it the faintest trace of woodsmoke from the hearths. These things have become my constants. They remind me where I am and why I stayed.
Most days begin the same. I split wood in the yard, the axe falling steady against cedar and ash. The rhythm is slow, deliberate, and the sound of wood cracking open is honest in a way magic never could be.
I could spell it all done in minutes with a rune and a thought, but this work, this ache of muscle and weight of callused hands, it grounds me. It reminds me of strength that is not meant for war but for building. Each log that falls into two clean halves tells me I am not just a weapon anymore. I am a provider. I am a man who builds.
Mari runs circles through the grass, curls bouncing as she chases ribbons of light she weaves from the air. Her laughter rings through the fog like a bell. The Hollow bends with her, leaves rustling when she passes, branches lowering as if the forest itself cannot help but reach for her.
She has grown in a year, taller, braver, stronger, and her magic has grown with her. It is not the wild, frightening thing it once was. It hums steady now, following her like a companion, never threatening, always hers. When she throws her arms wide and the light dances around her, I sometimes forget the battles that brought us here.
Krista watches her with that half-scolding, half-admiring look she always has, her hands still dusted with herbs and chalk from her shop. She steps out onto the porch, apron tied at her waist, hair loose around her face, cheeks warm from the heat of her cauldron.
Her voice carries soft but certain when she calls out, “Careful, Mari. Don’t pull too hard, or the spell will snap back.”
Of course, Mari ignores her. She trips over her own feet, tumbles into the grass, the ribbon tangling around her arm, and laughs harder than before.
Krista sighs, but when her eyes meet mine, they soften.
“She’s getting stronger,” she says.
I lean against the axe and take in the sight of both of them. My family. My home. “So are you.”
Her smile is quiet, small, but I see the pride in it, and the strength. It is not the smile of someone who doubts herselfanymore. It is the smile of a woman who built something out of ashes and believed it could hold.
The Hollow gathers that evening.
Lanterns are strung high between the branches, casting the square in warm golden light. Music rises from fiddles and flutes, old songs with rhythms that carry through the fog like heartbeat and memory.
The air smells of roasted meat and spiced cider, sweet bread glazed with honey, and smoke curling from open fires where families gather. Laughter carries across the square, loud and unguarded, and children chase one another with sparks of charms bursting from their pockets like fireflies.
Krista’s shop has a table here, filled with charms wrapped in twine and tied with pressed flowers. She hands them out to neighbors with a smile that no longer trembles, her voice sure, her presence welcomed. People take them and tuck them into sleeves or tie them to their belts, not out of politeness, but because they believe in her work. They believe in her.
Mari climbs onto a bench, curls wild, cheeks flushed, arms flung wide as she tells anyone who will listen how she made her ribbons of light dance. She gestures so wildly she nearly topples over, and the crowd laughs, not cruelly, but with the warmth of people who want her to keep shining. Krista hides her face in her hands, shaking her head, but the smile beneath it is bright, her eyes wet when she lowers her hands again.
I stand at the edge of the square, as I often do. Not apart, but not in the center either. I watch. I have always been the watcher.
The Hollow used to look at me with suspicion, whispers curling in the dark about the exile, the orc with blood on his hands. Tonight, they look at me differently. Sariah raises her mug toward me, wolf’s grin flashing. Roderik nods once, sharpand stiff, but there is respect in it. Even Vess meets my eyes, inclines her head, her lips twitching like she is tempted by the impossible—a smile.
I am no longer the exile standing at the edge. I am part of the Hollow.
Krista slips through the crowd and finds me. She doesn’t speak at first, just presses her hand into mine, fingers warm, grip steady. When she leans close, her breath brushes my jaw, and she whispers, “This is ours.”
