Page 27

" Y ou sure about this?" Uldrek asked as we reached the edge of the market square. "We don't have to go today."

I adjusted my shawl against the crisp morning breeze. "I'm sure. Leilan promised she'd watch Ellie all morning if needed."

"And you trust her?" His tone wasn’t suspicious—just honest, the kind of question he asked because he cared, not because he doubted.

"Yes," I said, surprised to find I meant it. "Hobbie will be there too. And Gruha. Ellie will be fine for a few hours."

He nodded, seeming satisfied. "Good. That's good."

We walked in comfortable silence after that, leaving the bustle of the market behind.

The sounds of haggling merchants and rattling carts gradually faded, replaced by the quieter rhythm of residential Everwood—children playing in small yards, laundry flapping on lines strung between buildings, the occasional greeting called from one neighbor to another.

"How much farther?" I asked as we turned down a narrower lane lined with low stone walls. Ivy climbed along them, lush and green, partially obscuring the weathered stone beneath.

"Not far," he said, glancing back. "Just past the baker's."

The city shifted around us as we walked deeper into the Riverside District. The buildings grew older here, their roofs uneven with age and weather. Many had small gardens beside them, bursting with late summer flowers and herbs. I caught the scent of lavender and rosemary on the breeze.

It felt strange walking these quiet streets without Ellie.

Her weight was an absence against my hip, and I found my hand occasionally rising to adjust a sling that wasn't there.

I'd left her at Tinderpost House only a handful of times before—always with Leilan, Gruha, or Hobbie, always nearby, always with a twisting knot of worry in my stomach.

Today, the knot was smaller. Not gone, but manageable.

"Do you miss her?" Uldrek asked suddenly, as if reading my thoughts.

I smiled despite myself. "Is it that obvious?"

"You keep checking your side like something's missing." He shrugged. "Not hard to figure out what."

"I'm not used to it," I admitted. "Being away from her. It's still hard."

"But you're doing it."

There was something like approval in his voice that made me straighten slightly. "Yes," I said. "I am."

We turned a final corner, and the lane opened up to reveal a row of small cottages set back from the stone path. Their facades were varied—some with fresh paint, others weathered to a gentle patina—but all had the same solid, enduring quality of buildings that had stood for generations.

Uldrek slowed, then stopped in front of one with faded blue shutters and a slightly crooked porch.

The stone path leading to it was cracked in places but edged with overgrown herbs—I recognized thyme and rosemary, their scent rising as our footsteps disturbed them.

A small, dented windchime hung by the front window, barely clinking in the gentle breeze.

Uldrek cleared his throat. "Here," he said.

I took in the sight of it—modest, a bit worn around the edges, but solid. The walls were thick stone, and the roof tiles were uneven but secure-looking. A carved lintel above the door bore a simple pattern of leaves and vines.

"It's not much," Uldrek said into the silence. "But it stood through the war, so... figured it might hold a little longer."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "You think that's a selling point?"

He shrugged, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Just saying—it's stubborn."

"Like someone else I know," I murmured, which earned me a brief chuckle.

I stepped onto the cracked path, conscious of Uldrek watching me.

The windchime clinked softly as I passed, as if in greeting.

Up close, I could see that the blue shutters had been repainted at some point, the newer color slightly mismatched with patches of the original that showed through where the paint had flaked away.

"The owner died during the war," Uldrek explained as we reached the porch. "Her daughter inherited it, but she lives in Valara now. Doesn't want to come back."

"So it's been empty all this time?"

He nodded. "Kazrek mentioned it. His sister rented it for a while, but she’s gone back home to Port Haven."

I ran my hand along the weathered wooden railing of the porch. It was sturdy despite its aged appearance. "And you found it before anyone else could?"

"Maybe," he said, a trace of smugness in his tone. Then, more seriously, "Want to see inside?"

He produced a heavy iron key with a simple pattern etched into its head. It turned easily in the lock, and the door swung open with only the faintest creak.

I stepped across the threshold, immediately enveloped by the scent of old wood, dust, and dried herbs.

Sunlight filtered through the windows at an angle, catching the floating motes that our entrance had disturbed.

The main room was modest but welcoming—a narrow hearth dominated one wall, while a simple wooden table sat beneath the front window, positioned to catch the morning light.

Two doorways led off from the main space—one to what appeared to be a small kitchen area, the other to what I assumed were sleeping chambers.

The house creaked beneath our feet as we moved further inside, but it wasn't the protesting groan of unstable structures. It was the comfortable settling of a place that had stood long enough to know its own voice.

"It's quiet," I said softly.

Uldrek nodded. "Far enough from the market to avoid the noise but close enough to walk. And the river's just behind those trees." He gestured toward the back window. "Good for water. And..." he hesitated, "...nice to look at. Sometimes."

I moved slowly around the perimeter of the room, letting my fingers trail along the wall.

The plaster was worn in places but solid, the hearth clean and well-maintained.

I paused at the mantel, noticing the faint outlines where objects had once sat—perhaps family treasures, removed when the owner died.

"Kitchen's through here," Uldrek said, leading the way through one of the doorways.

The kitchen was small but functional, with a stone sink beneath a window that looked out onto a tiny herb garden. Cabinets lined one wall, and a small woodstove sat in the corner.

Uldrek checked one of the cabinet doors with a grunt. "Hinge is loose," he noted. "Easy fix, though."

I opened another cabinet, finding it empty but clean. "Furnished?"

"Partially," he said. "The big pieces stay. Table, bed, stove. We'd need our own... everything else." He looked slightly embarrassed. "I don't have much. Just what's in my pack."

"I don't have much either," I reminded him gently.

He nodded, looking relieved. "We'd figure it out."

The bedroom was larger than I'd expected, with windows on two sides allowing for cross-breezes. A solid wooden bedframe stood against one wall, bare of linens but sturdy-looking. A simple wardrobe completed the furnishings.

"The other room's smaller," Uldrek said, gesturing toward the final doorway. "Could be for Ellie.”

We stepped into the smaller room, which was bathed in warm light from a single window. The space was empty save for a low shelf built into one wall—perfect for a child's height.

"Ellie would love this," I said softly. "She's already trying to pull herself up on everything. She'd use that shelf to stand."

I moved to the window to test the latch, finding it secure but easy to operate. "Good," I murmured. "Easy to open for air, but not for tiny fingers."

Uldrek stepped behind me, reaching past to check the frame above the window. "Solid," he confirmed. "No rot."

He was close—too close, his heat radiating against my back.

His arm remained braced above mine, his chest nearly touching my shoulder.

I meant to turn slightly, to make some practical comment about the window or the light or anything mundane.

Instead, I found myself looking up into his face, suddenly struck by the intensity of his gaze.

He wasn't smiling now. His eyes were dark and intent, fixed on mine with an expression that made my breath catch. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and tucked a stray curl behind my ear, his knuckles brushing my cheek as he did.

I exhaled, and the sound trembled between us.

"If I kiss you here," he said, "I might not stop."

The words hung in the air, weighted with possibility. This wasn't like our kiss in the training yard—impulsive, fueled by adrenaline and surprise. This was a choice. Deliberate. Considered.

I met his gaze steadily. "Then don't," I said, the words barely above a whisper.

For a heartbeat, he remained still, searching my face as if to be certain. Then he closed the distance between us, his mouth finding mine with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his eyes.

The kiss started slowly—tentative, a question more than a demand. But something shifted when my hands came up to grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. His arms encircled me, one hand splaying across my lower back, the other tangling in my hair as the kiss deepened.

My back pressed against the wall beside the window. His tusks grazed my skin—not painful, just present, a reminder of his otherness that sent a thrill through me instead of fear.

He pulled back slightly, his breathing ragged. "Issy," he murmured, and my name in his mouth sounded different somehow—cherished.

I reached up to touch his face, my fingers tracing the edge of a scar that ran along his cheekbone. "I want this," I said, the words feeling like a discovery. "I want you."

Something flickered in his eyes—relief, wonder, hunger. Then he was kissing me again, deeper, his hands more insistent as they moved down my sides.

I felt a tide rising within me—desire, yes, but something else, too. A sense of reclamation. Of choice. Every touch between us was because I wanted it, because I'd invited it, because I was present in my own skin.