The bedroll's pelt held the day's warmth when she crawled into it. The leather strip at her braid tugged lightly when she turned her head on her arm. Outside, someone—Shazi, by the cadence—sharpened her blade with unhurried patience. Steel against stone, stroke after stroke. The sound should have been menacing. It soothed something in Eliza's chest instead. There were edges in this camp, yes. There were also hands that tended them, kept them from rust and from indiscriminate harm.
From the perimeter, Rakhal's voice moved low in the dark, a thread passed from watch to watch. She could not make out the words and did not need to. It was the steadiness of the sound that mattered, the way it braided into the forest's own hum as if it had been there since the trees were saplings.
Eliza pulled the pelt to her chin and let her eyes fall closed. Tomorrow, there would be more moving pieces—more snares to set, more eyes to meet and hold. For now, she knew how to add wood to the fire in the direction that did not offend; she knew how to find the rhythm underfoot when the ground gave; she knew how to put a blade to work without spilling more than was owed.
When sleep came, it replaced her pulse with the whetstone's rasp—the sound of vigilance, of a camp that had made room for her worth.
She heard his tread at the doorway without startling. Her body recognized him before her mind did, warmth spreading through her limbs in response. He checked and left. She foughtthe urge to call him back, her skin remembering his touch with perfect clarity.
The knife lay beside her, cleaned and wrapped in cloth. Between her and the dark. Between her and the man who was half dark himself. A boundary. A promise. A line she would not cross without choosing—and when she chose again, it would be with both hands outstretched and her eyes open, no longer afraid of the hunger that had awakened between them.
Chapter
Fifty-Three
The forest forgot how to make noise.
At first it was a thinning—the drip of water softening, the insect-song folding into itself. Then even the mist seemed to hold its breath. The orcs lifted their heads as one. Shazi’s hand went to her blade without flourish; the sentries leaned from their perches, motionless. Across the clearing, Eliza straightened from the fire, her fingers brushing the hilt of her dagger, her gaze instinctively finding Rakhal.
He didn’t tell them to run. There was nowhere to run that he couldn’t reach first.
The earth beneath his boots tightened. The shadow in his blood stirred, whispering a word older than speech.
Master.
Not him.
He came without sound, without scent, simply a shift in the air, and then a man stood where there had been emptiness.
Tall. Spare. Gray as stone under snow. His robes didn’t reflect light so much as persuade it to bend elsewhere. His eyes were dull silver, ancient and steady, not bright enough for comfort. Even the air adjusted around him.
“Azfar,” Rakhal said, and his voice came out low, rough, a mixture of relief and dread.
Azfar’s gaze found him and lingered, quiet as a blade held flat against a whetstone. A slow tilt of the head, as if he were waiting for the sound of Rakhal’s name to finish crossing the space between them.
“Rakhal,” he said at last. The single word carried no judgment, yet contained too much to be simple acknowledgment.
Shazi muttered something that might have been a prayer or a curse. No one lowered their weapons, but none raised them either. Even the shadows at Rakhal’s wrists prickled and shifted, torn between obeisance and defiance.
Azfar’s pale eyes swept the camp—the ring of thorn-barked trees, the low fire, the disciplined stillness of the orcs—and then came to rest on Eliza. His expression didn’t change. There was no lust, no derision, only the clinical interest of a scholar examining a new and fragile invention.
“So,” Azfar said softly. “This is the anchor.”
Eliza’s hand tightened around her dagger. Rakhal growled before he could stop himself—a sound too deep to be human.
“Careful, old one.”
The corner of Azfar’s mouth curved faintly. “If I meant harm,Marakhal,your shadow would already be eating itself.”
At his words, the shadows at Rakhal’s wrists stirred, ashamed and eager both. Rakhal stepped forward until the space between them was a blade’s width.
The tension in his chest loosened—Azfar had come. He would know what to do. Relief broke through the fear like a heartbeat through bruised ribs.
Then came the other truth: what if Azfar didn’t?
“You came,” Rakhal said.
Azfar blinked slowly. “You called,” he replied. “You’ve always called. Even before you had words for it.”
