“Equipment. Do you need anything? Your sword?”
It’s still in my room. I didn’t even check what happened to it in the fire. I like the feel of its weight at my side. And Icanfight left-handed, even if I’m not as good. But it was an imperial sword, given to me by the War-Father himself. And if I can’t trust the armor…
“I don’t suppose you have a blade I could borrow instead?”
Roiven's firm expression crooks into a smirk.
He turns on his heel and walks to a tall wooden cabinet that takes up the better part of one of his large room’s walls. The handle clicks as he swings both doors open wide, and I gape at the armory inside. There must be two dozen swords here, not to mention the daggers.
“Why do you have so many weapons?”
Roiven steps aside as I approach, running my eyes over the hilts. Sheathed, I can’t tell much about them, but the metalwork on just what’s visible is beautiful. One is worked to look like a twisted branch, but I can see how it would fit neatly in a hand. Another has a large purple gemstone set into the pommel.
“An interest of mine.”
“Collecting them?” I reach for a blade in the middle that looks like a good length for my style of fighting. It’s got a one-handed grip, with an s-shaped crossguard. The pommel looks like a scallop shell, which makes my heart ache around the empty hole the kraken left. The scabbard is lightweight, red-gold wood, with metal accents.
“Making them,” Roiven says. I turn to look at him in surprise, the sword in hand. He offers me a grim smile and grabs the scabbard so I can pull the sword free one-handed.
It's damnably beautiful.
“Youmadethis?” I ask. I hold the blade up in front of me. The steel is thin, and folded so many times the smooth surface seems to ripple. It’s lightweight. Easy to cut things with a sword this fine, though a higher chance of the blade breaking.
I step back from Roiven and swing it in a quick figure eight. The movement feels clumsy in my left hand, but the blade is nicely balanced. I find myself wishing I’d spent more time practicing with my left hand. But the movement isn’t entirely foreign, and I at leastdon’t embarrass myself in front of him. I can hold my own this way, so long as my opponent isn’t very good.
“I made that one for you.”
“What?” I nearly drop the sword as I turn back to look at him, eyes wide.
“Notforyou,” Roiven quickly amends, and I don’t think it’s my imagination that his cheeks look a little red. “After we fought. When I was having nightmares, wondering if there were others, or if I should have kept you alive. I poured everything I was feeling into making that blade, and then I outvoted the rest of the coven and began sneaking onto Hellions.”
I stare at him in disbelief. Something must be wrong with Roiven if a woman who tried to kill him inspired him enough to make a blade this pretty. The witch clears his throat and holds the scabbard up. I slide the blade back into it, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Do you want help fastening the belt?” he offers. His voice is tight.
But I can tell he wants to. Every part of him is full of longing.
“I might,” I admit, as much for my sake as his. Maybe I could figure doing it out one-handed—it isn’t like I’m useless—but I’m new to life without my enchanted arm, and there’s no need to waste time.
He fetches a leather belt, then pauses in front of me, belt in one hand and sword in the other. Roiven stares at my waist for a second, then up to my eyes.
“Would you rather someone else did this?”
“No. I mean, if you don’t have time…”
“It won’t take long, I just wasn’t certain…”
Gods, we’re being as awkward as children with a first crush. As if just last night he wasn’t inside me. As if we aren’t married, whether or not I agreed to it.
“Put the sword on for me. Please,” I interrupt.
Roiven steps close, and I feel my mouth go dry as my heart beats a marching rhythm. He reaches around me, his arm grazingmy hip as he threads the belt between my right arm and my waist. I lift my living arm quickly and clear my throat.
He slides the scabbard onto the belt and tightens the leather across my waist. One of Roiven’s palms holds the buckle in place just below my navel. I stare at his collar.
“Would your arm be easier in a sling?”
“Maybe.” I barely get the word out. He nods sharply, finishes with the belt, and turns to another one of the cabinets.
