Chapter 15
Dawn came pale and cold through the cave's entrance, painting the stone walls in shades of gray and gold.
Ralvar lay awake, Delia's warmth pressed against his side, her breath soft and even against his chest. She'd fallen asleep with her hand fisted in his tunic—the one he'd pulled back on during the small hours—as if afraid he might disappear. He hadn't slept. Hadn't wanted to.
Every moment with her felt borrowed. Stolen from a world that had spent a lifetime teaching him that good things ended in blood.
But Northwatch was close now. A few hours' travel. By midmorning, she would be under clan protection, and no human contract would be able to touch her.
He allowed himself one more moment. Then he eased himself from beneath her, moving with the silence his training demanded.
She stirred but didn't wake.
He checked the cave entrance first, scanning the forest below. Nothing moved. The birds were singing their dawn chorus, undisturbed. If the guards had tracked them through the night, they'd left no obvious sign.
But they were out there. He could feel it in his bones, the same instinct that had kept him alive through fifteen years of border command.
They wouldn't give up. Delia was valuable.
Not to them personally, but to whoever had paid for her contract.
And they would be punished if they returned empty-handed.
He coaxed the fire back to life, added a rabbit he'd snared, and let it cook while he kept watch. The smell of roasting meat eventually drew her from sleep.
"Ralvar?"
He turned. She was sitting up, the borrowed tunic slipping off one shoulder, her hair a tangled mess around her face. Even rumpled from sleep, even with shadows under her eyes, she made his chest ache.
"Food," he said, nodding toward the fire. "And then we move. Northwatch is close."
She shifted, and he watched her test her ankle. Her eyebrows rose.
"It feels better." She sounded surprised. "The swelling's down."
"Of course it is." He pulled the meat from the fire, dividing it. "The plants worked."
"You sound offended that I doubted them."
"Mountain Clan remedies do not fail."
She smiled.
Ralvar went still, the meat momentarily forgotten. He studied her face, cataloging every detail of the expression he'd never seen before.
"What?" she asked.
"You're smiling."
"Is that not allowed?"
"It's..." He shook his head slightly. "I've seen you frightened. Exhausted. Tearful. Hungry. Wanting." The last word came out rougher than he'd intended. "But this is the first time I've seen you simply... happy."
She considered that. "I think I might be," she said slowly. "Happy, I mean. Or at least closer to it than I've been before."
The admission settled in his chest, heavy and dangerous. She might be happy. With him. In a cave on the edge of orc territory, wearing his clothes, eating rabbit cooked over a campfire. Happy.
He didn't know what to do with that. Didn't know how to hold something so fragile without crushing it. Six years ago, he'd stopped believing in good things. Good things ended in ambush. In blood. In names carved into stone.
But she was smiling at him like he'd done something right.
And gods help him, he wanted to keep earning that smile. Wanted to see it every morning. Wanted to make sure nothing ever took it from her again.
He crossed to her and handed her the larger portion of meat. When she tried to protest, he silenced her with a look.
"You need your strength. Eat."
She ate, making no effort to hide the sounds of appreciation.
When they'd finished, he crouched before her and carefully took her ankle. The swelling had indeed reduced. The bruising was yellowing at the edges, healing faster than he'd expected.
"Better," he confirmed. "But still not walking weight. One more day, maybe two."
"I can try—"
"No." Firm but gentle. "I will carry you to Northwatch. It's less than an hour from here."
"An hour?"
"We covered a lot of ground yesterday. I wanted us close enough to reach safety at first light."
She didn't argue. Didn't complain about being carried again, about the indignity or the inconvenience. She simply nodded and began pulling herself together, gathering the tunic around her, reaching for her dress.
He loved her for that. For the quiet resilience that refused to break no matter how hard the world pressed.
Loved.
The word caught him off guard. He turned away, busying himself with scattering the fire's remains, giving her privacy to dress and himself time to examine the feeling that had bloomed in his chest.
"I'm ready."
He looked back. She was dressed, her injured ankle held carefully off the ground as she braced against the cave wall. Her eyes met his, and he saw his own fierce tenderness reflected back at him.
"Come," he said, crossing to her. "We'll reach the watchtowers by midmorning."
He lifted her as he had before, settling her against his chest with her arms around his neck. She weighed nothing to him, but the warmth of her, the solid reality of her body pressed against his, was a weight he'd carry gladly for the rest of his life.
She reached up and touched his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "Ralvar. Thank you."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I know." She rose slightly in his arms and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, where his lips met the smooth ivory of his tusks. "I'm doing it anyway."
A sound rumbled through his chest. His arms tightened around her.
"When this is finished," he said, "when you're safe and sanctuary is granted—I am going to worship you until you forget gratitude exists. Until the only word you remember is my name."
Heat flickered in her eyes. "Promises, promises."
"That," he said, turning toward the pale morning light, "is not a promise. It is an oath."
They left the cave as the sun crested the eastern peaks.
The forest was different in daylight.
The threatening shadows of the previous days had retreated, replaced by beams of golden light that cut through the canopy and dappled the forest floor. Birds called. Small creatures rustled in the underbrush. The air smelled of pine and morning dew.
It should have been peaceful.
But Ralvar's instincts said otherwise.
He moved quickly but carefully, his path weaving between the massive trees, avoiding clearings where they might be spotted from a distance.
The terrain grew steeper as they climbed.
He could see the dark line of the mountains ahead, the narrow gap of Blackridge Pass cutting between two peaks. Another hour. Perhaps less.
"You're tense," Delia murmured against his neck.
"Habit."
"It's more than habit. What do you hear?"
He'd underestimated her again. She read him too well, this human woman who should have been a stranger.
"Nothing yet," he admitted. "But I feel—"
The arrow whistled past his ear.
He threw himself sideways, twisting to shield Delia with his body as a second arrow struck the tree where his head had been a moment before. The impact sent bark flying.
"Contact!" someone shouted from below. "She's here! Move!"
Guards. At least four, scrambling up the slope through the trees, crossbows raised. He could see the one who'd fired, a man with a beard, reloading frantically.
"Hold onto me," Ralvar growled. "Do not let go."
He ran.
Not away. He couldn't outpace them while carrying her, not uphill, not with them spreading out to cut off his path. Instead, he ran toward a cluster of boulders he'd spotted earlier, a defensible position where the rocks would funnel his enemies into a narrow approach.
Another arrow hissed past. A third struck a stone and shattered.
He reached the boulders and set Delia down in the shelter of the largest one, pressing her back against the cold rock. "Stay here. Do not move. Do not look."
"Ralvar—"
"Promise me."
Her eyes were wide, frightened, but not of him. For him. "I promise."
He turned to face the men coming up the slope.
There were five of them. The two wagon guards and three outriders, just as he'd estimated. They'd spread into a loose line, trying to flank the position, crossbows tracking his movements.
Fools. They thought numbers would save them.
The first guard breached the boulder line, and Ralvar moved.
He'd trained for this since he could walk. His body knew the patterns the way other creatures knew breathing. His blade cleared its sheath in a silver arc that opened the first man's throat before he even registered the attack.
Blood sprayed. The guard fell.
The others hesitated—that fatal moment of shock that separated warriors from pretenders—and Ralvar used it. He closed the distance to the second man in two strides, caught the crossbow with his free hand, and crushed the mechanism before driving his blade through the guard's chest.
Two down. Three remaining.
"Monster!" the bearded man screamed, fumbling to reload. "Filthy beast—"
Ralvar didn't waste breath on replies. He advanced, and they broke.
One of the outriders ran. Ralvar marked his path and dismissed him. He'd never make it back to human territory alive, not alone in the Wilds.
The other two held their ground. The younger guard drew a short sword with shaking hands while the other finally got his crossbow loaded.
"We have a legal contract," he said, voice cracking. "She belongs to Castellan Vorn. You're—you're harboring stolen property—"
"She is not property." Ralvar's voice was flat. Cold. "She is not yours. And you will die if you take another step toward her."
"The law—"
"Your law means nothing here."
The young guard broke first. He charged with a scream that was more terror than battle cry, sword swinging wild.
Ralvar sidestepped the clumsy blow, caught the guard's wrist, and twisted. Bone cracked. The sword clattered to the ground. He kicked the man in the chest, sending him tumbling back down the slope.
The other man fired.
The bolt took Ralvar in the side.
No—not quite. He'd turned at the last instant, felt the iron tip slice across his ribs rather than punch through them. It hurt vaguely, but he'd endured worse.
He crossed the remaining distance before the man could reload.
"Wait—" he gasped, backing away, crossbow raised like a shield. "Wait, please—"
Ralvar grabbed the crossbow and ripped it from his hands. Grabbed the man's shirt and lifted him clear off the ground.
"You hunted her," he said, very quietly. "You would have dragged her back to a place where she would have died. Worked to death. Used up. Forgotten."
His face was gray with terror. "I was just—following orders—"
"So was the envoy who betrayed my warriors."
He saw understanding dawn in the man's eyes. Saw the moment he realized he wasn't going to survive this.
"Please—"
Ralvar dropped him.
He hit the ground hard, scrambling backward, but Ralvar didn't pursue. He stood over the man, blade dripping, chest heaving, and let the silence stretch.
"Run," he said finally. "Run back to your masters. Tell them the Mountain Clan has claimed her. Tell them—" His voice dropped to a growl. "—that she is under my protection, and I am not merciful."
The pitiful human ran.
Ralvar watched him go, watched the young guard with the broken wrist limp after him, and waited until they disappeared into the trees.
Then the pain hit.
Blood was spreading across his tunic, dark and wet, pulsing with each heartbeat. The wound wasn't fatal—he'd survive worse on training grounds—but it was deep. The bolt had carved a furrow across his ribs, slicing through muscle, possibly nicking bone.
He'd need stitches. Herbs. Rest he didn't have time for.
He pressed his hand against the wound and turned back toward the boulders.
Delia was exactly where he'd left her, pressed against the stone, her face pale. When she saw him emerge from the treeline, she tried to stand.
"Stay," he said. "Your ankle."
"You're hurt."
"A scratch."
"Ralvar." Her voice was sharp. Commanding. Not the voice of a frightened woman, but of someone who had just watched a man carve through her enemies. "You're bleeding. I can see it from here."
He looked down at his hand. It was red. The blood had soaked through his tunic and was dripping onto the rocks at his feet.
Perhaps... more than a scratch, then.