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But the memories only flooded in faster. The way he had looked at me, like I was the only thing that mattered in the world. His voice, rough and hoarse, murmuring my name as if it was sacred. The way his body had moved over mine, between mine, as if we were forged together in that moment.

Damn him.

I should go down there. Help. Do something besides stand here like an idiot watching him. But the thought of facing him after everything that had passed between us... Seven save me, I wasn’t ready.

Lady Hargrave's words from the day before echoed in my mind. “You're brave, Soraya.”

I snorted softly. Brave? I didn't feel brave. I felt terrified. But maybe that was the point. Bravery wasn't about feeling fearless—it was about doing what needed to be done, even when I was scared out of my mind.

And right now, what needed to be done was down there, in the ashes of my old life.

“Damn it all,” I muttered.

My boots were by the door, and I pulled them on with more force than necessary, as if I could stomp out my doubts along with my feet.

Before I could lose my nerve, I marched down the stairs and out the back door. The crisp morning air hit me like a slap, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep and indecision. I strode toward the ruins of the forge, my steps growing more determined with each crunch of ash beneath my feet.

Vorgath turned as I approached, his expression unreadable.

I cleared my throat, willing my voice to sound steadier than I felt. “What are you doing here?”

Vorgath shrugged, tossing another piece of debris onto the pile. “Choosing.”

And with that single word, I was back in that night, but not the heat and thrill of it. The deeper part, the part I’d almost managed to bury. The choice we’d made to be together and what that meant to him. To me.

He was here, despite everything falling apart, despite every excuse I’d given him to walk away. Here he was, standing in the ruins, proving it to me.

A spark of defiance rose in me, mingling with a fear I hated to admit. “I don’t need anyone to do this for me,” I insisted. “I can handle it on my own.”

His gaze flickered to me, his brow arching slightly, but he didn’t stop working. “Never said you couldn’t.”

“So you’re going to just… keep showing up?” I asked, my voice unsteady despite myself.

Vorgath straightened up, rolling his shoulders. “Yes.”

“How do you even know I want to do anything with it?” I asked stubbornly “What if I’m too tired to rebuild? What if I just... can’t?”

His expression shifted, a flicker of pain passing over his face before he spoke. “Whatever you choose, I’ll be here.”

“And if I decide to burn it all down again?” I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze.

“Then I’ll bring the flint,” he said.

His hands stilled at his sides, covered in soot. Those hands had shaped steel, carried burdens, fought in wars, and yet, they were steady now. Waiting. Giving me time to decide. He wasn’t pressing, wasn’t pushing me to be anything but what I was—scared, uncertain, but standing here with him anyway.

He took a slow step toward me. His hand lifted, hesitating for just a second before he brushed a smudge of soot from my cheek. His touch was warm, rough against my skin, and I leaned into it, the tension in my shoulders easing as his thumb gently traced the edge of my cheekbone.

I turned my face into his hand, pressing a soft kiss to his palm, letting my eyes drift closed as I stayed there, letting him hold me. For the first time in days, the world felt steady again, his hand grounding me in a way that words never could. I could feel his pulse beneath my lips, steady and unshaken, like an unspoken promise.

His thumb brushed a little slower, lingering just at the corner of my mouth, and for a moment, I almost forgot about the ashes around us, about the ruins of what we’d lost.

Then, a sound carried from down the path—a faint chorus of gruff voices and the unmistakable rhythm of boots crunching against gravel.

“Ah.” Vorgath’s hand dropped back to his side, and he gave a small nod, gesturing over my shoulder. “Reinforcements are here.”

I turned, following his gaze.

There, framed in the broad opening of the gate, stood Grimble Ironfoot, his bushy, fiery red beard as unmistakably bright as the morning sun itself. Behind him trailed an assortment of dwarves, their short, sturdy figures and gruff attitudes instantly recognizable, hauling everything from hammers to planks of wood and stacks of stone.