Cormac's eyebrows rise. "Are you certain?"
The truth feels both obvious and revolutionary. "When I'm near Astrid, the wolf settles. We're... aligned. Balanced."
"The soul recognizes itself," Thistle says solemnly, rearranging the flowers in the vase on the counter.
"It's more than that," I say, searching for words to explain what feels beyond language. I fail, there are no words that do what I’m feeling justice.
Cormac studies me, his expression thoughtful. "Hawke experienced something similar with Melinda, though his curse manifested differently than yours. And from what I’ve heard he didn’t experience relief from it until he bonded."
The word 'bonded' sends a cascade of contradictory emotions through me. My wolf surges forward. Bonding with Astrid is precisely what he wants, has wanted from the moment we first locked eyes. I can envision our souls fully intertwined, her strength merged with mine and the curse that has grown inside of me for centuries finally broken.
The relief that image promises is almost painful in its intensity. To be free of the constant struggle against my own nature, to no longer fear losing control and becoming a feral monster without a shred of humanity.
Yet I push these selfish desires back. Bonding is irrevocable. Eternal. She doesn't even know what she truly is, let alone what I am to her. To bind her to me without full understanding would be unforgivable, no matter how desperately my wolf howls for completion.
"I’ll take the ambrosia." I pocket the flask. "Just in case."
"So," Nettle interrupts, waving a tiny knife for emphasis. "What will you wear next time? The Henley shirt looked very nice. We have it in three colors."
"We could try the tank top," Bramble suggests, flour dusting his green-brown skin as he pauses his dough-kneading. "Show more muscles?"
"No," Thistle objects, setting down his flower arrangement with a definitive tap. "Too aggressive. We're trying to court her, not intimidate her."
I watch their debate with growing amusement. Three brownies arguing over my wardrobe like mothers preparing a son for his first hunt.
"The Henley," I decide, ending their squabble. "Dark blue. With my regular jeans and boots." I glance at the kitchen clock. "And I'll need food to bring her for dinner."
This pronouncement sends the brownies into another flurry of activity, abandoning their previous tasks to focus on this new mission.
"Have you told her yet?" Cormac asks quietly. "About the soul shard? About what you truly are?"
"Some." I run a hand through my hair, loosening it from its half-knot. "She's not ready to hear all of it."
"Or you're not ready to tell her," he suggests, but without judgment.
He's right, of course. The truth is that she carries a piece of my soul. That our fates are bound together by forces older than either of us. But she's spent her entire life hiding what she is, I can't expect her to embrace an even more impossible truth overnight.
"One step at a time," I say finally. "First, I earn her trust. Then her friendship. Then, perhaps, something more."
"Very noble," Thistle approves, though the slight roll of his eyes suggests he finds my approach unnecessarily cautious. "Though I maintain that simply claiming her would be more efficient."
"She would shoot me," I remind him, fighting a smile.
"Only a little," Nettle argues. "And you heal fast."
"No claiming," I say firmly, though my wolf rumbles with reluctant agreement at the brownie's suggestion. "I need to leave soon, though, she'll be there before dusk for the night surveillance shift."
"The food will help," Bramble assures me, shaping dough into what appear to be miniature croissants with practiced efficiency. "Females appreciate providers."
"She can provide for herself," I point out. "She's a warrior, not a helpless maiden."
"All the more reason she'll appreciate someone who recognizes her strength yet still offers support," Cormac interjects. "Warriors need companions who understand the burden they carry."
His words strike a chord. Astrid has been fighting alone for so long—against GUIDE, with GUIDE, against her own nature, against a world that would destroy her if it knew the truth. She's a warrior without an army at her back, carrying a solitary burden that would crush most souls.
Not anymore. Not if I can help it.
"Take these," Thistle says, handing me a small leather pouch that smells of dried herbs and something ancient. "Protection charms against the hellhounds. They won't attack you directly, your wolf is too dominant, but better to stay off their radar all together."
