Then she touched me.
Not the way most people did. Her fingers moved with care—all slow, deliberate, and tender. She smoothed the balm over the gash, working it in with a touch that didn’t just treat pain, but noticed it. I acknowledged it.
Painflaredfrom the raw flesh, but the instant her hand brushed my skin, a soothingcalmwashed over the area.
It was warm. Not from the ointment, but from her. From whatever lived inside her now. Whatever had whispered to her in the thorn maze. Whatever made her skin glow in the firelight, even when she didn’t realize it.
That warmth moved through her fingers into mine, slowly, like a promise I didn’t know how to name.
And I gazed at her face. A soft furrow was visible between her brows. How her eyelashes glimmered in the light. The gentle press of her lips as she focused.
I didn’t pull away.
I couldn’t, even if I'd wanted to.
A deep sadness tinged her murmur. “You flinch as if no one has ever cared for you.”
I tore my gaze away. “I haven’t.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then said, “You’re good at hiding it.”
“And you’re not good at hiding it,” I said without thinking.
She blinked, surprised. “Hiding what?”
“That you’re the strongest one here.”
That silenced her. She looked down at my shoulder, at the spot where the Vorrhound wound was still healing. She placed her gentle hands there. Her thumb brushed near it, not quite touching.
“That’s not true,” she whispered. “I’m surviving.”
I turned to her then. Her face was close, too close, and every inch of me wanted to memorize it. The way her hair curled slightly near its ends, the freckles beneath her eyes, the way her bottom lip trembled when she was uncertain.
“You survive like a flame survives a storm,” I said before I could stop myself. “You shouldn’t still be burning…but you are.”
Shegulpedin a slow,tremblingbreath, fighting for control. Her eyesglistenedwith a fragile vulnerability, a shimmering veil holding back a storm.
Erindor, you fool.
I looked away, then cleared my throat. “That’s…not what I meant to say.”
“No?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“No. I mean, yes. But not like that.” I cursed myself silently. “I’m bad at this.”
“At compliments?”
“At—” I gestured vaguely. “People.”
She smiled faintly but didn’t let go of my hand. “You’re not as bad as you think.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but her fingers brushed the back of mine again, and the words dried up.
Our eyeslocked, a connection forged deeper than mere sight.
In our depths, a steady warmthpulsed, a quiet promise that I wasn't prepared to confront.
The fire crackled between us, but it wasn’t the heat I felt. It was her.
