My eyes were drawn to him. I reached out gently, my fingers dislodging a leaf tangled in his dark silk hair.
He turned toward me, shadows flickering across his face.
“Your scar…” I said softly. “How did you get it?”
At first, I thought he wouldn’t answer. The moment his eyes truly met mine, a jolt went through me. He didn't just see the surface; his eyes delved deeper, and under that relentless scrutiny, the carefully constructed walls around his heart seemed to tremble, threatening to crumble.
“I was ten,” he whispered. “The raider. The one who slaughtered my mother in front of me. I didn’t even think after she fell. After I was too late. I picked up a kitchen knife and put it to his throat. Not before he nicked me with his sword. That was the day I stopped being a child. The sword came first after that. Always.”
The familiar ache of held-back tears prickled in my throat.
“You are more than a sword, Erindor. I see it every day.”
He didn’t look at me. But he didn’t move away when I touched his shoulder again.
My hand lingered, fingertips brushing the edge of the scar. I watched the muscles shift beneath his skin, the subtle rise and fall of his breath.
The Veilfire above cast shifting color over his face, reds and violets bleeding into gold. I watched him through my lashes, heart stuttering. A strange silence pulsed between us.
He glanced at me then, shadows in his eyes. “You’re staring.”
My eyes, unwilling to linger, darted away as a wave of heat washed over my face. “Sorry. I…I’ve seen nothing like that scar. Or…you. Like this.”
“Like what?”
“Human,” I whispered.
He blinked. “Most days I forget I am.”
I shook my head. “You’re more human than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re just buried under armor.”
His voice dropped. “And you see through it?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Not always. But when I do, I like what I find.”
He inclined his head, his eyes, dark pools of unknown depths, finding mine. My hand remained, a silent anchor, fingers tracing the ridges above his scar. Every breath brought a new awareness of him: the sharp tang of pine, the subtle metallic hint of steel, and, most powerfully, his inherent, captivating warmth.
“If you keep touching me like that, Princess...” he said, voice husky, “...I might forget I’m not allowed to want you.”
And for the briefest second, I felt it again.
A flicker of heat deep in my chest. Not like blush or embarrassment, but something steady. Quiet. A warmth that unfurled beneath my ribs like the hush before a storm. My fingers twitched where they touched him, and from the corner ofmy eye, the mark on my forearm pulsed faintly; gold, soft, and gone again.
I sucked in a breath. No one else saw.
Did he feel it too?
A sudden chill seized me, freezing me in place. My lungs refused to draw air, and the fingers recoiled as if burned. My eyes flew to him, then the sky, then anywhere but his mouth.
Heat rushed to my face like fire beneath my skin, my pounding heart echoing in my ears. He looked so solid beside me, so strong, wounded, and real. It wasn’t fair that he made me feel unsteady by breathing.
Then he blinked hard, the spell breaking. “Sorry,” he said quickly, looking away. “I didn’t mean—That wasn’t—gods, that came out wrong.”
“No, I—” I stammered. “I just—I wasn’t expecting—”
He ran a hand through his hair, turning further from me, clearly flustered. “Forget I said anything.”
But I couldn’t.
