“Stop,” he says again, the word less a command and more a plea.
I blink, force my eyes open.
He’s not angry. He’s terrified. His jaw clenches, eyes wide, every inch of him coiled and ready to fight the intangible.
“I’m fine,” I croak. It’s a lie.
He knows it. “You were saying Dana’s name. The High Lord is watching her, isn’t he? He could use her to find you.”
I try to pull free of his arms. “Then help me,” I whisper. “Help me reach her.”
He shakes his head, but the doubt is there.
“You could make things worse for her,” Rythar growls. “He is waiting for it. I can feel the surveillance through the jungle senses.”
I turn in his arms, press my ear to his chest, and let his presence fill the space where the fear used to be. He rocks me slowly. The motion is soothing, almost hypnotic. Eventually, my pulse slows. I close my eyes, let the world shrink to the sound of his heart and the cool, damp air of the root chamber.
The next time I open my eyes, the light is different.
I’m sprawled on a mossy pad in the main chamber, cocooned in a light blanket. A warm, watery glow spills through the ceiling, filtered by the living root thatch overhead. For a moment, I can’t remember where I am. My mouth tastes of mint, and the ache behind my eyes is a warning that whatever I did, I shouldn’t do it again.
Rythar’s gone, but not far away.
The air is thick with his scent, that blend of green and spices and sex. A mug of broth sits beside the sleeping pad. It’s still steaming. He’s been watching me. I take a slow sip of broth. It’s salty, faintly sweet, and delicious.
I pad barefoot through the house, trailing my fingers along the strange walls. The hallway curves gently, following the path of a vine thick as my torso. There’s more here, parts I haven’t seen.
The next room is small, circular, with an aperture in the ceiling that lets in a shaft of morning light. The moss here is softer, finer. There’s a sleeping pad grown directly into the floor, and a stack of clean clothes folded with the kind of precision that only comes from a lifetime of military routine. Many human lifetimes, in Rythar’s case.
A second door, this one more hidden, is set into the wall. I hesitate, then push it open. The walls beyond are lined with soft, woven vines. There’s a tiny shelf, a basket of painted stones, and a set of wooden toys lined up in perfect order. One is a small animal, hand-carved, the paint pristine. It’s waiting.
I don’t know why, but my eyes sting.
I sit there for a long time, cradling the toy in my lap.
It’s been years since I saw a child. This is a house built for futures, not just survival. The concept is almost too much.
I remember what Rythar said that night in the mating chamber. A hundred children. A thousand years.
I hold the toy tight until my hands stop shaking. I’m not afraid of a future with Rythar, of the two of us raising a child as mother and father. I’m afraid it won’t happen.
And Rythar is so hopeful that he’s already built us a nursery.
I turn, and there’s Rythar. He’s so silent I don’t even hear him approach. He fills the doorway, shadows falling across his face.
He says nothing. Just looks.
I hold the toy up.
“You built all this for children we don’t even have,” I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He shifts his weight and steps into the room. “I fortified it for you, for now,” he says. “But yes. I built this area for our children.”
My hands go tight around the animal’s belly. “Why bring me here now?”
He says nothing, frowning. “Perhaps I should have kept this section closed.”
I set the toy down. “What aren’t you telling me?”
