Page 81 of Beds and Blades

The outfit was leather. Of course it was leather.

Sleek and fitted. It was the kind of leather armor that had resolved the tension between protection and mobility in favor of both, simultaneously. A sleeveless upper piece with structured shoulder guards that gave her silhouette a commanding edge while leaving her arms free for the work they were clearly built to do.

The leather was worn and slightly scuffed, something used rather than displayed. Straps and belts crossed her torso and waist in patterns that suggested gear and weapons as a matter of course rather than decoration.

Tight leather pants contoured to legs that had clearly been doing serious work for years. Knee-high boots built for terrain that didn’t ask permission. Fingerless gloves that offered grip and protection while maintaining dexterity.

And then there was the physique.

I recognized the category immediately: the women at my gym who walked directly past the elliptical machines and went straight to the weight room.

Broad-shouldered, with deltoids that gave her upper body a squared, powerful silhouette. Arms defined by dense, functional muscle rather than ornament. Her lower body carried the same logic. Thighs with the kind of muscle that suggested deadlifts were a professional requirement. Her body was compact and purposeful, shaped by sustained effort and actual necessity.

Every muscle looked as if it had earned its place.

“Congratulations,” she said, setting the tray down. Her eyes went to the ring again. “I’m happy for you. Both of you.”

“Thank you for the food.”

“You’re going to need fuel. A lot of it. Today is going to require it.”

I looked at the tray. On the rough-hewn wood sat a thick slice of coarse bread, a wedge of cheese, several slices of salted ham. A small bowl of warm pottage steaming beside an apple and a scatter of nuts. A clay mug containing something that smelled of bergamot.

“What’s the drink?” I asked.

“Tea.”

I looked at her. “I expected something like morningroot, given that I have already consumed deeproot and moonroot.”

“No,” she said, with a warm smile that did something to the stern lines of her face.

“It’s just tea.”

She sat on the edge of the room’s small chair with the relaxed posture of someone who had earned the right to take up space anywhere she chose.

“I’m so happy for you both,” she said. “When I came to this garrison, I noticed an aching behind his eyes. You learn to read the people you serve with. I learned to read Scipio years ago.” She smiled. “Since you came to this fortress, I have watched that aching disappear. This morning I spoke with him. I have not seen him like that in years.”

“And you,” she said. “I’m sure you enjoyed your claiming.”

I considered this.

Was this girl talk? I had not done much of it in my life. My friendships had tended toward the collegial rather than the confessional. The kind of talk that involved coffee and academic complaints rather than feelings rendered directly.

Varia watched me with patient expectancy. She had all the time in the world, and she was interested in how I would handle this.

I picked up the mug of tea. It smelled exactly like tea. This was more comforting than I expected.

“I enjoyed it,” I said, with what I hoped was appropriate brevity.

Varia’s smile suggested that brevity would not be sufficient.

“Come on,” she said. “Tell me more.”

There was no embarrassment in it. No teasing quality designed to make me uncomfortable. She had grown up in a world where Yravel’s principle was not a subject for whispered conversation behind closed doors. It was a foundational theological reality. Desire was sacred here. The claiming was the most significant spiritual event two people could experience. Being enthusiastic about it was not something to manage or apologize for.

I had thirty years of a different cultural framework to unlearn. I was willing to do the work.

I decided to be the type of woman who had this conversation.