Page 45

T he night had grown colder, a bitter wind sweeping down from the northern hills. Ellie's sobs had settled into hiccuping whimpers against my neck, her small body radiating heat through the sling. I bounced gently as I walked, the steady motion more for my comfort than hers.

"It's all right," I murmured, though I knew the tremor in my voice gave me away. "We'll be somewhere warm soon."

My own tears had dried, leaving my face tight and raw in the night air.

I hadn't meant to cry—had held myself rigid with the effort of containing it until I was well past the cottage, out of sight of windows where he might be watching.

Then they had come without permission, silent and hot down my cheeks.

How had everything fallen apart so quickly? This morning, I'd woken in our bed, in our home, with a future stretched before us. Now, I was walking through the dark with my child and a hastily packed bag, fleeing an argument that made no sense to me.

I don't need protection anymore. Such a simple statement. A truth I had been so proud of, so relieved to recognize. And somehow, those words had cracked the foundation of everything between us.

The bond is broken . His voice echoed in my mind, flat and certain. I touched the mark at my collarbone, feeling nothing but skin. No warmth. No pulse. Just a scar where magic had once lived.

But did that really change what we were to each other?

Did it erase the weeks of learning each other, building trust, creating a home?

Did it undo the mornings I'd woken to find he’d already changed and fed Ellie so I could sleep an extra hour?

The evenings we'd spent by the fire, his voice low as he told stories of his travels?

The thousand small kindnesses that had nothing to do with protection and everything to do with care?

Apparently, to him, it did.

Ellie squirmed in the sling, her small fist tugging at my hair. I winced, gently untangling her fingers.

"I know," I said softly. "I don't understand it either."

The street curved, and Tinderpost House came into view, windows glowing amber against the night. No grandeur, no pretension. Just sturdy stone walls and a door that was never locked to those who needed it.

I pushed the gate open. The small courtyard was neat as always, with herbs growing in tidy rows along the pathway. I climbed the three steps to the door and knocked, the sound too loud in the quiet evening.

Footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal Gruha, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, a dish towel tucked into her belt. Her eyes narrowed when she saw me, flicking from my face to Ellie and back again.

She didn't ask why I was there or what had happened. She just grunted, "Well, you're late for dinner," and opened the door wider.

Relief washed through me as I stepped inside.

The familiar smells of Gruha's hearty stew, fresh bread, and beeswax candles enveloped me like an embrace.

The main room was warm and bright, the long wooden table dominating the center.

Four women sat around it, bowls and cups before them, conversation flowing easily.

Leilan noticed me first, her delicate features brightening. "Issy!" she exclaimed, then faltered as she registered my expression. "And Ellie. What a nice surprise."

Dora bounced up from her seat. "Is that my favorite little one? Come here, sweetheart." She hurried over, already reaching for Ellie.

I surrendered my daughter to her practiced hands, grateful for the momentary relief. Dora cradled Ellie with expert care, cooing and bouncing as she returned to the table.

"Sit," Gruha commanded, pointing to an empty chair beside a woman I remembered as Kazrek's mate, the ink-maker. "There's plenty."

I sank into the seat, suddenly exhausted. "Thank you."

"You remember Rowena," Leilan said, gesturing to the tall, coppery-haired woman beside me. "She’s been helping me figure out how to stabilize that new red—I guess ink wants different things than silk, but some of the base pigments overlap."

Rowena gave me a small smile, her clever eyes missing nothing. "Good to see you again, Issy."

"And you," I murmured.

Gruha set a bowl of stew before me, the rich aroma making my stomach clench despite my emotional turmoil. I hadn't realized I was hungry until that moment.

"Eat," she ordered, already turning away.

I managed a few spoonfuls, letting the familiar sounds of dinner conversation wash over me.

Leilan and Rowena discussed dye mordants while Dora bounced Ellie on her knee, singing a nonsense song about market day.

The normalcy of it all began to settle my nerves, though the ache in my chest remained.

As the meal wound down, the others gradually dispersed—Leilan to finish some mending, Dora to the kitchen with dishes. Gruha vanished into her office, muttering about accounts. Soon, only Rowena and I remained at the table, nursing cups of mint tea.

I traced the rim of my cup with one finger, gathering courage. "Can I... can I ask you something? About the claiming mark?"

Rowena's expression remained neutral, but her eyes sharpened with interest. "Of course."

"Does yours..." I hesitated, then pressed on. "Do you ever feel it?"

She touched her neck absently, where I knew her own mark lay beneath her collar. "No," she said. "Not usually."

"Not usually?"

She considered for a moment. "It's like... well, like a ring you've worn so long you forget it's there. Until something reminds you."

"But have you ever felt it? The magic?"

"Once," she said quietly. "When Maeve was in danger..." She shook her head. "The mark burned then. Called to Kazrek. Brought him to us. But other than that? It's just skin."

I swallowed hard. "Uldrek thinks... he says our bond is broken. Because the mark went quiet after the hearing."

Understanding flickered in her eyes. "Ah."

"He thinks it means..." My voice caught. "He thinks it means I don't need him anymore. That I was only with him for protection."

Rowena set her cup down carefully. "And what do you think?"

I stared into my tea, watching the small leaves settle at the bottom. "I think he's wrong. Whatever the mark is or isn't doing, it doesn't change how I feel about him."

Rowena nodded slowly. "Kazrek once told me that the claiming bond isn't really about magic. The bite, the mark—they're just symbols. Old traditions. The real bond is what you choose every day."

"Try telling Uldrek that," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "He's convinced himself that once I stopped needing a protector, I stopped wanting him."

"Men," Rowena said with a soft snort. "They always want to be needed, don't they? Especially the strong ones. The ones who've spent their lives being useful."

I thought of Uldrek—his certainty, his pride, the way he'd placed himself between me and danger without hesitation. The way he'd taught me to defend myself, even knowing it meant I might not need his shield.

"The claiming mark was active during the hearing. I felt it. But afterward, when Gavriel was taken away, it just... stopped. Like a candle being snuffed out."

Rowena leaned forward slightly. "Issy, the magic responds to need. To danger. That's its purpose. But the relationship? That's about choice."

"I have chosen him," I said, frustration tightening my voice. "Every day since the claiming, I've chosen him."

"Have you told him that?"

I opened my mouth to say yes, then closed it again, remembering Uldrek's accusation: Why haven't you ever said you love me?

"I thought he knew," I said softly. "I thought it was obvious."

Rowena gave me a gentle smile. "Nothing is obvious when it comes to hearts. Especially to someone who's used to being valued only for what they can do, not who they are."

Before I could respond, Ellie let out a wail from across the room. Dora, who had been quietly playing with her by the hearth, looked up apologetically.

"Sorry," she called. "I think someone's getting tired."

I pushed back from the table. "It's late for her. I should get her to bed."

Rowena nodded, though I sensed she had more to say. I crossed to Dora, who handed Ellie over with obvious reluctance.

"Such a sweet little bug," she said, brushing a finger over Ellie's flushed cheek. "Always welcome here, both of you."

Ellie continued to fuss, rubbing her face against my shoulder with increasing distress. Gruha appeared from her office, arms folded across her chest.

"Your old room is still empty," she said matter-of-factly. "I just put clean linens on the bed."

The room at the top of the stairs welcomed me like an old friend—small and spare, with sloped ceilings and a narrow bed pushed against the wall. The window was cracked open, allowing in the evening's chill and the distant sounds of the town settling for the night.

I sat on the edge of the bed, unfastening my shirt to nurse Ellie.

Her hungry mouth latched on immediately, her fussing subsiding into contented little grunts.

I brushed my fingers through her dark curls, marveling as always at how soft her hair felt, how perfect her small hand looked curled against my breast.

"What do we do now?" I whispered.

The quiet of the room settled around us, familiar yet strange after the weeks in our cottage. No Hobbie bustling around the kitchen. No steady sound of Uldrek sharpening blades by the hearth. Just Ellie and me, as we had been before.

But not as we had been. I wasn't the same terrified woman who'd first climbed these stairs, clutching my baby and a worthless seal of protection. I was stronger now. More certain. I knew how to throw a man twice my size. How to read ancient texts. How to trust my own judgment.

And I knew, with sudden clarity, that I wanted Uldrek. Not because I needed his protection. Not because he was convenient, or safe, or my only option. But because in all the ways that mattered, he was mine. Stubborn and wounded and gruff—and mine.

I chose him. When I'd walked into that tavern. When I'd lifted my hair for his claiming bite. When I'd opened my body and my heart to his touch. None of those moments had been about fear. They'd been about trust. About choice.

Ellie's nursing slowed, her eyelids drooping. I shifted her to my other breast, wincing slightly as she readjusted. The room was growing colder, but I didn't move to close the window. The chill helped me think clearly.

Rowena's quiet words echoed in my mind: The real bond is what you choose every day.

The mark—active or dormant—was just a symbol of what we'd built together. And if Uldrek couldn't see that, I would make him see it. Tomorrow. When we were both calmer, when I could find the right words to make him understand what he meant to me.

Ellie had fallen fully asleep, milk-drunk and heavy in my arms. I gently disengaged her and buttoned my shirt, then laid her in the center of the bed, building a nest of blankets to keep her from rolling.

The weight that had sat in my chest since our argument hadn't disappeared, but it had transformed—from a cold stone of hurt to something warmer, more determined.

I changed into the spare nightdress from my hastily packed bag and slipped into bed beside Ellie, curving my body protectively around her small form. The bed was narrow but comfortable enough. Still, it wasn't our bed. It wasn't home.

Home wasn't Tinderpost anymore. Home wasn't even the cottage, really. Home was where Uldrek was—stubborn, protective, wounded Uldrek, who had somehow become essential to me in ways that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with belonging.

"You're going to need to be patient with your father," I whispered to Ellie's sleeping form. "He's convinced himself of something that isn't true, and he can be very bull-headed."

Ellie made a small snuffling sound in her sleep, one tiny hand curled near her face.

"But we're going to fix it," I murmured, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "Because I do love him. And it's time I told him so."

How long I slept, I couldn't say. But something woke me—a sound that didn't belong. The creak of the front door opening.

I stiffened, instantly alert. The house was dark and quiet. Gruha would have bolted the door hours ago.

My pulse quickened. It's him , I thought, chest tightening with hope and apprehension. Uldrek. He'd come for me, to apologize or argue or simply bring me home.

I slid from the bed, checking that Ellie was still sleeping soundly. Then I moved to the door, opening it as quietly as possible. The upper hallway was dark, but a faint glow came from below—the dying embers in the hearth.

Barefoot, silent, I padded to the top of the stairs. The main room was dim, lit only by the low orange glow of coals.

"Uldrek?" I whispered, starting my descent.

No answer came, but I could make out a silhouette by the open door. Small. Round-shouldered. Familiar.

I slowed, confusion prickling along my spine. "Dora?" I said again, sharper this time.

The halfling turned toward me, her face catching the faint light. Her eyes were wide—but vacant. She opened her mouth like she wanted to speak, but no sound emerged.

Then, a figure stepped out from behind her, emerging from the shadows like they were part of him.

Gavriel.

He looked exactly as he had in the council chamber—composed, elegant, untouchable. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his clothing was impeccable even at this hour. He stood as if he belonged here, one hand resting lightly on Dora's shoulder.

Our eyes met across the dim room, and I saw quiet triumph in his gaze.

"Good evening, Isolde," he said, his voice like silk over steel. "I was beginning to worry I wouldn't get to see you again."