Chapter 1

Soreya

Two years later…

The scent of crushed mint mingles with sun-baked stone in our small backyard, creating the kind of peaceful afternoon that still feels like a gift I don't quite deserve. Two years, and I'm still not used to having a space that's truly mine—ours. The terracotta planters overflow with herbs I've been cultivating, while the young fruit trees we planted last spring stretch their branches toward the sky, heavy with the promise of next season's harvest.

I run my fingers along a low-hanging branch, checking the small green pears that will be ready for market in another month. Master Theren pays me better rates now that I'm a supplier rather than an employee, though I suspect Korrun's occasional visits to "discuss business" have something to do with the improved terms. The old man never could quite meet those amber eyes without fidgeting.

The familiar rhythm of heavy hooves on stone reaches me before I see him, and something warm uncurls in my chest the way it always does. Even after all this time, the sound of Korrun coming home still makes my pulse quicken. I glance up from the pear tree, automatically scanning the backyard entrance.

He fills the archway completely, seven feet of sweat-slicked muscle and leather training harness that hangs loose around his broad chest. Sunlight catches the lighter streaks on his face, making them gleam like polished bronze, but it's the scattered cuts dotting his forearms that make me abandon the fruit tree entirely.

"You've been hit again," I murmur, crossing to him on bare feet that know every uneven stone by now.

My hands find his shoulders automatically, fingers tracing the familiar landscape of scars both old and new. There's a fresh scrape near his left shoulder blade, angry red against the sable-brown hide I've mapped a hundred times in darkness and sunlight both.

He bends down to meet me, those massive hands settling at my waist with the same careful gentleness he's always shown. His kiss tastes like salt and leather and something distinctly him that makes my bones feel liquid.

"The fighters are getting quicker," he says against my mouth, pulling back just enough to speak but not enough to break contact entirely.

The words carry his usual easy confidence, but his gaze drops toward the ground as he says them, and something cold settles in my stomach. In two years of watching him come home from training sessions, I've learned to read the subtle language of his expressions. The way his ears twitch when he's frustrated. How his tail moves when he's pleased with a student's progress. The particular set of his jaw when something isn't quite right.

This is that last one.

I wipe my hands on my skirts, transferring the mint and stone dust to fabric that's seen countless such moments. The simple brown wool is practical, comfortable—nothing like the worn rags I used to wear when we first met. Korrun made sure of that, though he'd never say as much directly.

"These look deeper than usual." My fingers trace another cut, this one along his forearm where someone's blade found its mark. "And more frequent."

"Training's been intense lately." He straightens to his full height, but doesn't step away from my touch. Never does, which still amazes me sometimes. "New batch of fighters came in last week. They're eager to prove themselves."

The explanation makes sense. It should ease the knot of worry that's been growing tighter with each fresh injury he's brought home over the past few months. New fighters are unpredictable, desperate to make their mark. It's natural they'd be more aggressive, less controlled.

But something about the pattern bothers me. The cuts aren't random—they're strategic, placed where they'd slow him down or throw off his balance. These aren't the wild swings of nervous beginners.

"Which one did this?" I ask, fingertip hovering just above the shoulder scrape.

"Does it matter?" His voice carries a note of something that might be irritation, though it's gentler than true annoyance. "It's nothing a bit of zabilla gel won't handle."

He's deflecting. After two years together, I know when Korrun's avoiding a direct answer. Usually it means he's trying to protect me from something he thinks will worry me unnecessarily. The trouble is, his idea of "unnecessary worry" and mine don't always align.

I step back just far enough to get a better look at him, taking inventory. The harness leather is scuffed in places that suggest more contact than a typical training session would warrant. His breathing is slightly labored, not from exertion but from the careful way someone moves when their ribs are tender.

"How many?" I ask quietly.

"How many what?"

"Fighters. At once."

The pause before he answers tells me everything I need to know. "Training doesn't work that way, Soreya. One instructor, one student. You know that."

"Usually." I cross my arms, studying his face. "But not always."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Sometimes the advanced students spar together while I supervise. If someone gets careless..." He shrugs, the gesture causing him to wince slightly. "Accidents happen."

The word accidents sits wrong in my mouth. I've watched Korrun train fighters for two years, seen how precise and controlled he is. How he anticipates problems before they develop, steps in before anyone gets seriously hurt. Accidents don't just happen around him—they're prevented.

But I also know that pushing too hard will only make him retreat into that stubborn protectiveness that sometimes makes me want to shake him. So instead, I reach for the small clay pot of zabilla gel we keep on the shelf by the kitchen door.

"Sit," I say, gesturing toward the low stone bench beneath the mint plants.

"I can handle it myself."

"I know you can." I dip two fingers into the cooling gel, feeling its familiar texture. "Humor me."

He settles onto the bench with a grace that belies his size, though I catch the slight hitch in his movement as he bends. Definitely tender ribs. The leather harness falls away easily when I work the buckles, revealing the full extent of today's damage.

More cuts than I initially thought. A developing bruise along his left side that will be spectacular by tomorrow. The shoulder scrape that goes deeper than it first appeared.

"This needs cleaning first," I murmur, reaching for the water basin.

"It's fine."

"It's not fine." The words come out sharper than I intended, and Korrun's ears flick back in surprise. I take a breath, moderating my tone. "Let me take care of you. Please."

Something shifts in his expression at that. The careful guardedness softens into something vulnerable that he rarely lets show. One massive hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across the scar along my jaw.

"No one's ever..." He trails off, then starts again. "I'm not used to having someone worry."

The admission does something to my chest, makes it tight and warm and aching all at once. Of course he's not used to it. How could he be? Korrun gives care so naturally, so constantly, that it's easy to forget how little he's received in return over the years.

"Well, you'd better get used to it," I tell him, pressing a soft kiss to his palm before turning back to the zabilla gel. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

The cleaning process is methodical, soothing in its familiarity. I've done this enough times to know exactly how much pressure to use, how long to let the gel sit before checking the wound again. My hands move with practiced efficiency while my mind churns through possibilities I don't want to consider.

Korrun sits still under my ministrations, occasionally making soft sounds of contentment when I work out a particularly tight knot in his shoulders. The trust in his stillness humbles me. This massive, powerful man who could break me without effort sits patiently while I fuss over injuries that probably don't even register as pain to him.

"There." I cap the zabilla gel and step back to assess my work. "That should help the healing."

"Thank you." His voice carries a warmth that makes my pulse skip. "For all of it."

I settle beside him on the bench, careful not to jostle his injured side. The afternoon light slants through the backyard at just the right angle to turn everything golden—the stone walls, the herb plants, the lighter streaks in Korrun's fur.

"The fighters really are getting quicker?" I ask after a moment.

"Some of them." He leans back slightly, and I feel the solid warmth of him against my shoulder. "There's one in particular who's been pushing boundaries lately. Testing limits."

"What kind of limits?"

"The kind that keep training sessions from turning into actual fights."

The careful neutrality in his voice doesn't fool me. This isn't about an overeager student—this is about something more serious. Something that's putting him at risk in ways that go beyond normal training accidents.

But I also know Korrun well enough to recognize when he's reached the limits of what he's willing to discuss. Pushing now will only make him more protective, more determined to handle whatever this is on his own.

So instead, I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. His dwarf mine completely, callused and strong and infinitely gentle.

"Just..." I pause, searching for words that won't sound like nagging. "Be careful? These injuries are getting worse, and I can't help worrying."

"I'm always careful." He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "Promise."

The word settles something in my chest, though the underlying unease remains. Korrun has never broken a promise to me. Not once in two years. If he says he'll be careful, he means it.

I just hope careful will be enough.