Tonight wasn't different. We shared ale and conversation while Lola worked on some embroidery project, occasionally joining our debate about patrol rotations and border security. Everything perfectly normal, perfectly fine.
Except I couldn't stop thinking about Serah.
About the way she looked three days ago when those warriors cornered her verbally near the training yard. About the panic that flooded her scent, sharp and acrid, before I could position myself between her and them. About how she's been avoiding populated areas since then, only venturing out during quiet hours when fewer people might notice her passing.
I want to see her. Want to talk to her beyond the careful, minimal exchanges we've managed so far. Want to understandthe layers of trauma my magic revealed that first day, want to know what put those scars on her back and that wariness in her eyes.
But wanting doesn't grant permission. And pushing too hard will destroy whatever fragile tolerance she's developed for my presence.
So I've been restraining myself. Keeping interactions brief. Maintaining careful distance. Staying quiet instead of falling into the natural humor and easy conversation that usually defines my relationships.
It's exhausting.
Being this controlled, this measured, this constantly aware of every word and gesture—it scrapes against my nature like rough stone against skin. I'm not built for brooding silence. Never have been. But every time I consider relaxing into my actual personality, I remember the terror in her face when she first woke in the healing chambers. Remember how she clutched that stolen knife like it was the only thing keeping her alive.
I can't risk adding to that fear. Can't be one more threat in a life that's clearly been full of them.
The night air hits cool against my skin when I leave Kaelen's dwelling. Stars scatter across the canyon sky, sharp and bright against darkness. Training yard sounds have faded hours ago. Most of the settlement sleeps now, only a few scattered fires still burning in windows carved into rock.
I should go home. Should retreat to my own chambers and try sleeping despite the restless energy crawling beneath my skin. Should stop obsessing over a human female who flinches every time someone moves too quickly near her.
Instead, my feet carry me toward the river.
The path winds down through lower terraces, past empty livestock pens and storage structures, into the narrow canyon where water cuts through stone in perpetual motion. Moonlightreflects off the surface, turning everything silver and shadow. The sound of current drowns out most settlement noise, creating pockets of privacy along the banks.
That's where I find her.
Serah sits on a flat boulder near the water's edge, legs pulled up, hunched over something in her hands. Even from a distance, I recognize the stolen knife—the one Zurkar confiscated after she woke in the healing chambers. She must have reclaimed it somehow, probably while Zurkar was distracted with other patients.
The blade catches moonlight as she works, cleaning rust and dried blood from the metal with methodical precision. Her movements are practiced, efficient, the kind of muscle memory that comes from repetition. From necessity.
I could announce myself. Should, probably. Approaching quietly might startle her, might trigger whatever defensive instincts keep her perpetually braced for violence.
But something stops me. Some instinct that says announcing my presence will give her time to hide the knife, to rebuild her walls, to retreat behind that careful neutrality she wears like armor.
So I just move closer, boots crunching deliberately against gravel so she hears me coming, and settle onto the boulder beside her. Not touching, leaving generous space between us, but close enough that the river's sound doesn't completely swallow conversation.
She tenses immediately. I feel it through the air between us, that coiled readiness to bolt or fight depending on circumstance. But she doesn't run. Doesn't demand I leave or threaten me with the blade currently balanced across her knees.
Instead, she just keeps cleaning. Wiping rust away with a scrap of cloth, testing the edge with careful fingers, examining the metal for weak points or cracks.
Other orcs might object to her having a weapon. Might see it as dangerous, as an insult to clan hospitality, as evidence she doesn't trust the safety we've provided.
But I don't care. If carrying that knife makes her feel less vulnerable, less exposed, then she should have it. Should have a dozen knives if it helps her sleep at night.
We sit in silence while she works. Minutes stretch between us, measured by the river's constant motion and the quiet scrape of cloth against steel. The tension is there like it always is—that awareness crackling between us, that pull my magic creates whether I want it or not.
Finally, Serah breaks.
"Are you always going to be this quiet around me?" Her voice carries sharp edges, irritation mixed with something that might be curiosity.
The question catches me off guard. I exhale slowly, considering how honest to be. "No," I admit. "This isn't actually who I am."
She glances sideways, one eyebrow arching in clear skepticism.
I shrug, the gesture feeling inadequate. "I didn't want to scare you by being my normal self. Thought the quiet approach might be less threatening."
"Your normal self," she repeats, tone flat.
