32. Dren
32
DREN
T he dying fire casts shadows across Eira's sleeping form. I track every rise and fall of her chest, memorizing the way her pale hair catches the firelight. My fingers tingle, wanting to brush that errant strand from her face. But I remain still, a sentinel in the darkness.
The night wind whips around me, but all I can focus on is her. The soft curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder. The slight furrow between her brows even in sleep. The way her fingers curl into the fabric of my cloak – the one I draped over her three nights ago that she hasn't returned.
I shift my weight, silent as death, moving closer without disturbing the quiet. The settlement lies ahead, perhaps two days' journey now. Two days until everything changes again. Two days until she could walk away forever.
My chest constricts at the thought. I've survived torture, battle, the pits themselves – but losing her would break something in me I'm not sure could ever be fixed.
She stirs in her sleep, a small sound escaping her lips. My body moves before my mind can stop it, inching closer, ready to wake her from whatever dream haunts her. But she settles, and I freeze, caught between the need to protect her and the knowledge that my touch isn't welcome right now.
I curl my fingers into fists, fighting the urge to gather her into my arms like I once did while she slept. To bury my face in her hair and breathe in her scent until the world makes sense again.
Instead, I watch. And wait. And break a little more with each passing moment.
The morning sun filters through the trees as we break camp casting dappled shadows across Eira's body. She's gathering her dagger and my cloak, her movements precise and controlled.
A breeze lifts her hair, and she turns, meeting my gaze. The hardness in her green eyes softens for just a moment – but it's enough. My heart races at the flash of longing I catch there before she looks away. That glimpse tells me everything I need to know. She feels it too, this pull between us that refuses to die.
As we set out, I hang back, watching her walk ahead with Murok. Every step she takes draws my eyes like a moth to flame. The way she moves, graceful despite her weariness, the slight tilt of her head as she listens to Murok speak – I memorize it all.
Grash brings up the rear, his massive form casting long shadows across the forest floor. I fall into step beside him, my movements silent as always.
"She loves us," I murmur, the words carrying the weight of absolute truth. I know it as surely as I know how to kill, as deeply as I know the shadows I move through.
Grash's jaw tightens. "You sure?" His voice is rough with hope and doubt.
"She wouldn't still be here if she didn't." The words come without hesitation. I've watched her every move since she discovered our mission's truth. She's had countless chances to slip away in the night, to disappear into the wilderness. But she stays.
The tension in Grash's broad shoulders eases slightly at my words. He knows I don't speak unless I'm certain, and I've never been more certain of anything.
I move ahead without another word, closing the distance between myself and Eira. My place is here, just behind her left shoulder, where I can watch for threats and protect her from whatever comes. It's where I've always belonged since the moment I first saw her in the pits.
She doesn't acknowledge my closer presence, but I catch the slight change in her breathing, the way her steps falter for just a heartbeat. She knows I'm here. She always knows.
The forest path narrows, and I adjust my stride to match Eira's pace. My eyes track every movement around us – the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs, the shifting shadows. Nothing will touch her. Not while I draw breath.
She stumbles slightly on a root, and my hand shoots out, steadying her elbow. The contact sends electricity through my fingers, but I force myself to let go when she regains her balance. Her sharp intake of breath tells me she felt it too.
"I don't need your help," she mutters, but there's less bite in her words than before.
I say nothing, but I don't move from my position at her left shoulder. Let her protest. Let her push me away. I'll still be here, watching, protecting, loving her with every silent breath.
Murok glances back, his eyes knowing. "There's a stream ahead. We should stop for a moment."
Eira's shoulders tense at his words. She hates stopping, hates being reminded of her human limitations. But I can see the tremor in her legs, the way her breathing has grown heavier.
"No." Her voice is steel wrapped in silk.
I step closer, close enough that my chest nearly brushes her back. "You need water," I say, my voice low enough that only she can hear. "Let me take care of you."
She whirls to face me, green eyes blazing. "I don't need?—"
"You do." I hold her gaze, unflinching. "And I need to give it."
Something flickers in her expression – confusion, longing, fear. She looks away first, but not before I catch the slight softening around her mouth.
"Fine," she says. "But only for a moment."
It's not submission – Eira never submits to us, not truly. But it's acceptance, however small. And for now, that's enough. I'll earn the rest, day by day, action by action, until she understands that my devotion isn't a mission or a duty. It's as essential as breathing.
She is my purpose now. My reason. My everything. And I will prove it with every breath I take.
The stream gurgles over smooth stones as I guide Eira toward the water's edge. Her feet slip slightly on the wet rocks, and my hand instinctively catches her arm, steadying her.
"I can manage," she mutters, but doesn't pull away.
The sunlight catches in her pale hair, making it gleam like spun gold. I want to pull her next to me until she stops fighting this thing between us.
Instead, I crouch beside her at the water's edge, one hand hovering near her elbow as she cups water in her palms. The stream is clear enough to see the pebbles at the bottom, the small fish darting between shadows.
Grash and Murok fill their water skins upstream, giving us space while staying close enough to watch over her. Always watching, always protecting, even when she doesn't want it.
A breeze rustles through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and... something else. My nostrils flare, catching a whiff of leather and oil.
My muscles lock. There, in the shadows between the trees – movement. Silent. Practiced. The glint of dark armor.
My fingers dig into Eira's arm, halting her motion as she reaches for more water. She looks up, ready to protest, but must see something in my face because she goes still.
"Dren?" Her voice is barely a whisper.
I don't answer. Can't answer. My eyes track the shadows, counting. One. Three. Five. More.
Murok notices next, his body tensing like a drawn bow. Grash's hand moves to his axe.
Dark elves. They've found us.
The forest goes quiet, like it's holding its breath. We're surrounded.