That traitorous heat burned at his ears again. “Mine keep heat better than the ones you had before. Special wool from the Shivering Vale.”
“They look comfortable.” She touched the thick material. “Kailorien…did youwarmthese by the hearth?”
“It’s nearly Dark, and mornings carry frost.” He refused to be embarrassed by the truth of it. “Sit.”
She did and he knelt to pull the socks over her chilled feet. Her skin was still too cool.
“Auryn…your body is always cold to the touch. Is this…a sign of illness?”
She tilted her head. Shook it. “I am always cold. I think it is just part of what I am.”
He rubbed her calves briskly, careful to warm without chafing, then braced her heel to slide the leggings up, the tunic next. His hands knew armor; they learned cloth with the same precision. When her fingers fumbled at the tie of the cloak, he covered them with his own and finished the knot. Did not look at her mouth. Absolutely didnotlook at the slender hollow of her throat or think about the way her breath brushed his knuckles.
“You treat me like stardust in a jar,” she observed, though he couldn’t read the tone of her words.
“You are,” he said evenly. “Fornow.”
Her smile flickered, not offended—seen. She reached, unthinking, and set her palm at the center of his breastplate where his runes lay quiet beneath. The contact sang against the metal. He could feel the shape of her hand as if the onyx were his own skin.
“I am not the river,” she murmured. “You don’t have to hold me back from the banks.”
“I don’t intend to hold you back.” He rose, fastening the last clip of her cloak. “I intend to keep you walking along them.”
Her eyes crinkled, soft mischief sparking.
“Boots,” he said, deadpan, because if he met that mischief too directly, he would lose the morning.
She let him guide her heel into the first boot, then the second. When he tightened the laces, she watched his fingers. He pretended not to notice. He slid her gloves on, then his own gauntlets, flexed his hands once and offered his arm.
She took it, small and sure, like the gesture had always belonged to them.
“Slow,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” she answered. “I’ll stay in my jar for today.”
They stepped to the tent flap. The morning pressed cool and damp against their faces, smelling of wet grass, mud, and woodsmoke. The sky was a low lid of cloud; the light had the flat tone of the Emerald Moores just before the Cycle of Dark deepened. A Riftwarden stood twenty paces away with his rod lifted, the copper rings along it trembling to some note only he heard. Auryn’s gaze lingered on him, but she followed when Resh tugged her along.
Farther off, women of the Blades ran a slow set, drills softened for the mud. The scouts’ horses steamed in the chill, heads down in feed bags.
Conversation hushed as they emerged. Men glanced, then looked away with studied care: a hand brushing a charm at a throat, a thumb across a scar, a coin passed from palm to palm and tucked into a pocket as if it might find its way to her later. The word that was not a word moved through the air like breath—Sokâr—and died before it reached her feet.
The hair along his nape lifted.
Not a symbol. Not for you.
He straightened unconsciously, an extra inch of height, the authority that could scatter attention when he chose. Auryn’s fingers tightened on his arm with a pulse of gratitude—whether for his steadiness or the air itself, he could not say. Her eyes had a thin sheen of brightness; the walk from bed to door had taxed her more than she’d admit.
“Food,” he said, to anchor the moment.
“Food,” she echoed, softer, as if the word were a blessing.
They moved toward the nearest cookfire at a measured pace. He matched her stride to the rise and fall of her breath, shaving the distance into small, even pieces she could manage. Twice she tilted, and twice hisarm readjusted before the sway became a stumble. At the fire, the cook—a broad woman with ash on her cheek and a scar splitting one brow—looked up, startled, then broke into a grin she tried and failed to contain.
“Morning, Commander. Morning, my Lady.” The last word came out half-swallowed, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed it. “Porridge is on. Broth if you want the thinner. Bread’s fresh.”
“Broth,” Resh said promptly. “And the bread.” He scanned the ladles, the bowls, the heat of the coals. “Not too hot.”
Auryn hid a smile against his arm. “Not too hot,” she repeated obediently, then lifted her attention to the cook. “Thank you.”
