Chapter 7
Ralvar did not want to leave her.
He knew it was irrational. He'd spent fifteen years surviving alone in these mountains, had gone days without seeing another soul, had faced dangers that would make most warriors hesitate.
And now the idea of walking half a mile to check snares and hunt small game felt like abandoning a post under siege.
But the fire needed fuel. Their food supply wouldn't last another day. And if they were going to survive until her ankle healed, someone had to provide.
"I need to hunt."
Delia looked up from where she sat against the wall, his tunic still hanging loose on her frame.
The morning light had strengthened while he'd tended her wounds, and now it fell across her face in pale stripes through the ruined ceiling.
She looked better than she had in the night, but the shadows under her eyes told him she hadn't slept any more than he had.
"Now?"
"The dried rations in my pack will last perhaps one more meal. Two if we stretch them." He was already reaching for his weapons, the familiar weight of blade and knife settling against his body. "There's small game in these woods. Rabbits, grouse. Won't take long."
He watched her process this. Watched the fear flicker across her features before she forced it down, replaced it with something that was trying very hard to look like calm.
"What if the guards—"
"They won't reach us before midday if at all. The storm washed away the tracks near the road. They'll have to search blind." He secured the last blade and turned to face her fully. "And I won't go far. Close enough to hear if anything approaches the tower."
She nodded, but her hands had curled into fists in her lap, knuckles white against the dark fur.
Ralvar crouched down, bringing himself closer to her level. The movement was becoming easier now, this constant adjustment of his height, his presence, trying to make himself less overwhelming. He'd never had to think about such things before.
"I will be back," he said quietly. "Within the hour. Likely sooner."
"I know." Her voice was steady, but her gaze darted toward the open doorway. "I'll be fine."
"If anything happens—"
"I'll scream very loudly and hope you're as fast as you look."
The words came out dry, and despite everything, Ralvar felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
"I'm faster."
He rose and moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back. She was watching him, tracking his movement with an intensity that made his blood heat.
Come back, those eyes said. Even though she hadn't spoken it.
He intended to.
The forest swallowed him within twenty paces.
Ralvar moved through the trees like the predator he'd been trained to be.
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the woods were still wet and dripping, the loam soft beneath his boots.
Good hunting weather. Scent carried well in the damp, and the small creatures would be emerging from their shelters now that the storm had passed.
He found the snares he'd set two days ago as part of his regular patrol routine, a way to supplement rations when he was far from the outpost. Two rabbits hung limp in the wire loops, their fur slicked with rain. He freed them quickly and added them to his belt.
Then he began to circle.
The watchtower sat in a natural depression, surrounded by rising ground on three sides.
Good defensive position, which was one of the reasons he'd claimed it as a regular shelter.
But defensive positions only worked if you knew what was coming, and right now Ralvar's ignorance of the enemy's location gnawed at him like a broken tooth.
He moved north first, toward the road. The rain had done its work here.
The ground was churned mud where it wasn't covered in fallen leaves, any tracks from the previous night long since erased.
He found nothing. No bootprints, no broken branches, no sign that humans had passed this way since the storm began.
Good.
He circled east, then south. The border was quiet. The forest was quiet. Even the birds had resumed their morning songs, which meant nothing large or threatening was moving nearby.
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly.
The guards were searching blind, as he'd told her.
They'd likely started at first light, but without tracks to follow, they'd be combing the woods at random.
It could be hours before they came this close.
Days, even, if their captain was the cautious type.
Ralvar didn't intend to wait that long.
But for now—for this morning—they had time.
He turned back toward the watchtower, his pace quickening unconsciously. The hunt was done. The perimeter was secure. There was no tactical reason to hurry.
He hurried anyway.
The watchtower came into view through the trees, and Ralvar felt his chest loosen at the sight of it. Stone walls still standing. No smoke except from the chimney hole he'd cleared seasons ago. No sounds of distress.
She was fine.
He was being ridiculous.
He passed through the doorway—and stopped.
Delia had moved.
She was no longer lying on the furs where he'd left her, wrapped in their warmth.
She'd somehow pulled herself across the floor—dragging her injured ankle, he realized, seeing the disturbed dust—until she sat against the far wall, near his pack.
His spare tunic was bunched in her lap. A bone needle glinted between her fingers.
She was sewing.
The leather vest he'd worn during the raider fight—the one he'd stripped off and tossed aside last night—was spread across her thighs.
He could see the damage clearly now: a long tear along one seam where a raider's blade had caught him, another smaller rip near the collar.
Damage he'd intended to repair when he returned to the outpost.
She was repairing it now.
Her hands moved competently. The needle dipped and rose, dipped and rose, drawing the torn leather together with small, precise stitches.
She'd found his repair kit in the pack—the leather scraps, the waxed thread, the needles he kept for exactly this purpose—and she was using them like she'd done this a thousand times.
"You're back."
Her voice startled him. He hadn't realized she'd noticed his presence, so focused had he been on watching her work.
"I—yes." He stepped fully into the room, still holding the rabbits. "The snares were productive."
"Good." She didn't look up from her stitching. "I hope you don't mind that I... went through your things. I saw the tear in your vest and I thought—" A slight flush crept up her cheeks. "I thought I could help."
Ralvar moved closer, setting the rabbits down near the fire pit. His eyes stayed on her hands, on the neat line of stitches marching across the leather.
"You know leatherwork."
She nodded. "My uncle was a cobbler. I helped in his shop when I was young, before he died. I have steady hands, and the work paid better than washing linens."
"The stitching is good."
Her flush deepened. "It's just basic repair work. Nothing special."
"It's better than I would have managed." He knelt by the fire pit, beginning to prepare kindling for a cooking fire.
She studied him before saying, "You're not what I expected. None of this is what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Honestly? I expected to die." Her gaze dropped back to the leather in her lap, to the needle still pinched between her fingers. "When I ran into the forest, I expected to freeze to death, or fall off a cliff, or—" She gestured vaguely. "Get eaten by whatever monster found me first."
"And instead you got me."
"And instead I got you."
Ralvar set the kindling alight, watching the flames catch and spread. He reached for the rabbits, drawing his knife to begin preparing them. The work was familiar and gave him something to focus on besides the woman sitting across from him.
"I found something else in your pack," she said suddenly. "When I was looking for the needle."
Ralvar's knife paused.
She reached beside her, producing a small object from where she'd placed it on the furs. The firelight caught carved bone, worn smooth from handling. A small figure, barely three inches tall—a mountain cat, mid-leap, every line of its body speaking of power and grace.
"What is it?"
Ralvar set down the knife, wiping his hands on his thighs before reaching out. Delia placed the carving in his palm without hesitation, her fingers brushing his skin.
"A totem." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Every Mountain Clan warrior carries one. It's something to connect us to the clan when we're far from home."
Delia leaned forward slightly, studying the small figure. "It's beautiful. I've never seen carving this fine."
"My mother made it. She was a bone-carver. One of the best in the clan."
"Was?"
He turned the figure in his hand, watching the firelight play across the familiar lines.
How many nights had he held this same totem, drawing comfort from the weight of it?
How many patrols had it accompanied him on, tucked into his pack alongside needles and thread and all the other small necessities of a life spent on the border?
"She passed. Twelve winters ago. Fever took her, along with half the village."
"I'm sorry."
The words were simple and sincere. Not the empty platitude humans often offered. He could hear the difference.
"She would have approved of you." The observation escaped him before he could think better of it. "Going through a warrior's pack to find useful work. She had no patience for idleness."
Delia's cheeks flushed again, but she didn't look away. "I don't like sitting still. Even when I can't walk." She gestured at his vest, at the half-completed repairs. "And you saved my life. The least I can do is fix a seam."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I know." Her chin lifted slightly. "I'm not doing it because I owe you. I'm doing it because I can."
He held her gaze for a long moment. This woman. This impossible, stubborn, brave woman who had somehow stumbled into his territory and refused to behave like the victim she had every right to be.
"Then thank you," he said. "For the stitching."
She nodded, a small, uncertain smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. Then she returned her attention to the leather, and the needle began its dance again.
Ralvar watched her for a moment longer before turning back to the rabbits.
They worked in silence after that. Not the heavy silence of strangers, but something easier, more natural.
He prepared the meat and set it to cook over the fire.
She continued her repairs, the bone needle flashing between her fingers.
The watchtower filled with the smell of roasting rabbit and woodsmoke, and the light through the ruined walls slowly brightened toward something almost like warmth.