Lounging in a deep chair, ankle resting on my knee, I felt a rare sense of peace settle over me. It had been too long since I last visited Clay’s manor. This sanctuary, with its stillness and the faint scent of aged wood and books, was a reprieve from the world outside.
I swirled the spiked cider in my mug, watching the liquid catch the light. “You have spotted goats,” I said, each word deliberate, as if speaking them aloud might make them sound less ridiculous.
Clay was particular about who he allowed in his home. He’d sooner house Tallon and Egath in the city than let their chaos touch his manor. Years spent tending wounded soldiers left him polite yet stubborn. He couldn’t be bothered with dramatics or being forced around people he didn’t care for.
And we were friends, so when he leaned forward, a boyish grin tugging at his lips, I scoffed but gestured for him to continue.
“Moonspots,” he said, emphasizing the words like they were sacred. “They’ve only been seen in wild herds. Remember Stormcloud, the buck we caught last spring? He’s already sired his first batch of kids. Those marvelous speckles are a unique hair variation—”
He launched into an enthusiastic monologue about goat genetics. I let his words wash over me as I tipped my head back against the cushion, my eyes drifting shut.
What room would they give Nienna? Not that I intended to visit her chambers, aside from escorting her if needed. Clay’s minimal staff would handle such tasks, and the Sols were more than capable of attending her.
She would want a balcony. I cursed myself for not mentioning it earlier. Nienna belonged to the sky. She thrived in open spaces, where the wind kissed her skin and freedom called to her. My stomach twisted at the thought of her leaning too far over the edge. She’d been raised atop the Spire, where heights were second nature, but this wasn’t home. No dragons waited below to catch her should she fall.
Still, this manor could offer her its own kind of comfort. The stone walls held a quiet warmth, their surface worn smooth by time and care. It was a place that embraced its visitors, offering peace to those willing to let it in. She would find solace here. I was sure of it.
If they placed her in a western-facing room, she’d have a view of the sunset. I could picture the warm glow casting her in gold, setting her hair aflame. The light would wrap around her, softening every dip and curve. Her lips would glisten, tempting me—
My eyes snapped open. Clay stood by the towering bookcases, rifling through a shelf until he pulled a leather-bound volume free.
“Wouldn’t it be harder to dye the hair of spotted goats?” I asked, grasping at the thread of his earlier ramblings. “The colors wouldn’t take evenly.”
Clay whirled around, clutching the book to his chest with theatrical flair. “Kallias, you wound me!” He staggered toward a chair and collapsed into it with mock despair. “Wool is for dyeing. The hair of the Kuh’lir is for weaving. The natural patterns are prized art! Not something to tamper with!”
I sipped my cider, relishing the fiery warmth as it slid down my throat. “No dyeing then?”
He glared at me.
A low chuckle escaped me. I waved at his book. “Fine. Go on.”
Clay perked up, flipping through the pages with zeal. “Now, long-haired Kuh’lir come from the northern herds, but I’ve heard whispers of a herd withcurls!Can you imagine it?”
I lifted the mug again, hiding my grin behind the rim. Clay’s passion was contagious, even when it was about goats.
“You look ready to face an army alone,” I said, scoffing as Greaves shrugged into yet another belt of throwing knives. He slung it across his chest like a bandolier,the leather taut against his frame. My arms folded as I studied his absurd array of weaponry.
Blades peeked from every piece of clothing. How he managed to move without the clattering of a blacksmith’s workshop was beyond me.
A hilt jutted from each boot, and the three curved knives strapped to his thigh gleamed in the firelight. At his waist hung a short sword, two daggers, and a throwing hatchet. Another pair rested at the small of his back, while ten more projectiles gleamed from the leather strap stretched across his chest. A longsword perched over his shoulder, its handle worn from use.
He adjusted the belt with practiced ease, revealing the glint of two blades at his wrists. I knew he had at least three more hidden beneath his clothing.
And that didn’t even account for the poisons tucked among his garments.
“A man can never have too many weapons,” he grunted, the words gruff but laced with satisfaction.
“Clay might disagree. Your arsenal’s an insult to his security.”
He smirked, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that made him look younger. “I bet your girl will be wearing her blade tonight.”
The shift of my feet betrayed my unease. My girl? Nienna wasn’t mine. But I knew she’d wear my dagger tonight, and my thoughts wandered to where she might conceal it.
Unlike Greaves, my attire was understated—far removed from palace formality. The weight of my usual mantle was absent. I wore a simple tunic beneath a green overcoat, with black trousers tucked into worn riding boots. No jewelry adorned me besides my signet ring. My sole weapon, a dagger, rested at my hip. I wouldn’t wear a sword in my friend’s home.
“She needs to know how to use that blade,” Greaves said, cutting into my thoughts. “Wearing it out is enough to deter some fools, but if anyone presses, they’ll realize she only knows which end to point at people.”
“And who should teach her?” I sighed, running a hand through my damp hair. The baths here left much to be desired, but I refused to show up to dinner reeking of horse.
