With a sigh, I crept out of bed and corralled my hair into an unruly bun. After expanding the ancient axe harness from a thigh garter to a waist belt, draping a blanket around my shoulders, and strapping on my boots, I left the cabin.
A bridge near my doorstep connected to another walkway, so that’s where I headed. Throughout the enclave,flames swayed inside box lanterns. Unless Lyrik bothered to light each one, which seemed unlikely, the blazes somehow discerned whenever night fell, brimming to life on their own. Another example of the rogue’s expertise.
The canopy glistened with a thousand shades of Autumn, dark colors pouring across every rooftop. The lights illuminated a crescent-shaped bench at the midpoint of a bridge, the platform extending over an abyss, with a gable roof and tassels of foliage curtaining off the area.
My lips tilted. Briar hadn’t given us all the spicy details, but she had described the historic landmark where she and Poet reunited months into her banishment. Based on her rosy complexion when she talked about it, they’d had themselves one hell of a long celebration.
One of the tupelo branches curled inward as I passed, the sight wringing a fascinated gasp from my throat. This one seemed hesitant. Either that, or it prepared to lash out if I made an unwelcome move.
Lyrik had confirmed the lore about trees guarding this place, bidding welcome only to those who respected nature with a true heart. If someone trespassed without the enclave’s approval, fates help them.
But while Mama spent her life fearing that every Autumn tree nurtured a vendetta against me on behalf of the great oak, I believed differently.
“You’ve got nothing to fear. I only use this on villains.” I patted the axe, then rested one hand on my chest and whispered, “I’ll be your ally, if you let me.”
After a moment, the branch unfurled, the echo of stretching bark akin to worn leather. Like a hand, it reached for me. Wavering, I set my palm in its leaves, exposing the symbols branded across my skin.
Proof of an old punishment. Evidence of Mama’s offense.
Despite this, my lying tongue went silent. I owned these markings, bared my truth, and let the tree decide what to make of it.
In contemplation, one leaf brushed the symbols. Then it released my hand and unraveled toward the south like a pointing finger.
Slowly, I trailed in that direction. The intersection of two crossways formed another terrace, where a pair of swings dangled from the boughs, the chains adjustable for the rider’s height. A long-forgotten excitement trickled through my chest. Although Mama showered me with love, I never had a childhood full of adventure, friends, or swings. But I’d always yearned for one of these attractions when I was little.
Grinning, I stepped toward the swing. In tandem, a silhouette flew through the trunks like a bird-of-prey. I halted, reaching for my axe. Then as the outline sharpened into view, my arm lowered, and I crept nearer to the railing.
On the neighboring platform, a solitary knight trained. The late hour poured moonlight across the planks, creating an optical illusion of him moving atop the celestials, while he spun his broadswords against an invisible opponent. Above a pair of loose, low-slung hose, his unclad torso flexed, carrying the night on his shoulders, the muscles varnished in sweat. An angelic but deadly bird-of-prey exercising weapons instead of wings.
Aire spun-paused-spun. He stabbed-cut-stabbed, the swords weightless in his grasp. Strings of perspiration cut down his throat and darkened the tips of his hair.
The smooth skin. The slender V of his waist. The grid of muscles.
Aire’s body slammed to a halt, his swords bracing, his abdomen rippling like a river bed. With his back facing me, he jerked the forelocks from his head and panted, “It’s rude to stare.”
I saw no point in denying it. “What can I say? You’re stareable.”
In a single, efficient motion, Aire turned and disarmed, setting his weapons against the rails. He diced a hand through his hair, his chest expanding with the movement, accentuating a series of battle scars. Pink lashes rode over one shoulder, slid around his waist, and nicked his biceps.
Still winded from the workout, he gusted out, “Forgive me if I was too loud. I did not wish to disturb you.”
Tell that to his missing shirt. The absence of clothing disturbed me all right.
Not about to broadcast this effect, I pulled the blanket tighter around my pebbled breasts. “It takes a lot to disturb me. Besides, it’s nice to know I’m not the only one with a weaponry obsession.”
Aire nodded, his features relaxed after burning all that energy. “You vowed to protect your mother through weapon smithing. Why did you choose designing them instead of joining the ranks?”
I tugged the makeshift shawl even firmer around me. “Maybe I’m not disciplined enough for drills.”
“That is so far from the truth, I won’t dignify it with a response.”
“And what’s so wrong about crafting weapons instead of the alternative?”
Aire broke into motion, sauntering forward with a rueful expression. “That came out wrong. I only meant you’ve never confided in depth about this passion, and I wish you would.”
My arms loosened. I thought of the whetstone ensconced in my cabin. His present, inscribed with the hope that I’d keep my edge. I hadn’t told him how often I pressed the cool stone to my markings whenever they hurt, or that I had brought the tool with me.
“As a soldier, you want to defend people. As a weapon smith, I want to empower them.” I thumbed the axe’s handle. “If it’s tailor-made for their needs, anyone can wield a blade.”
