7. Eirene
SEVEN
EIRENE
The executioner fills my doorway.
He has to duck to enter—the cottage wasn’t built for someone his size, wasn’t built for anyone but small, desperate witches who needed a roof more than comfort. The top of his head nearly brushes the low ceiling, and his shoulders span the narrow space between the bed and the hearth.
The child still sleeps. I checked the moment I stepped inside, felt the rise and fall of his chest, saw the healthy flush returning to his cheeks.
Whatever the Shadow Court did to him, my tithe paid for his healing.
He’ll wake with gaps in his memory and no understanding of why his mother’s lullaby makes him cry.
Small mercies. The only kind I can offer.
“Water?” I move toward the crooked shelf where I keep my few supplies. Careful steps. Gentle voice. The soft border-witch, harmless and helpful. “You’ve traveled far. The encampment is a day’s ride from here.”
The orc watches me. Doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze tracks every movement I make—the way I reach for the clay pitcher, the angle of my body relative to the door, the distance between us. Calculating. Assessing.
He’s positioned himself between me and the only exit. Instinct, probably. Hundreds of executions have trained those reflexes deep.
He knows what I’m doing. The realization settles cold in my gut. He’s not fooled by the gentle act.
I pour the water anyway. Offer the cup with both hands. My fingers are steady despite the exhaustion dragging at my bones. Years of bleeding have taught me how to function when my body wants to collapse.
“Thank you.” He takes the cup. His hand dwarfs mine—rough with calluses, scarred across the knuckles, built for violence. The brush of his fingers against my skin sends a jolt racing up my arm.
I pull back. Too fast. His gaze sharpens.
The contact lasted less than a second, but I can still feel the ghost of it—the roughness of his skin, the heat that seemed to radiate from his palm. My own hand tingles where we touched, and I curl my fingers into a fist to stop the sensation.
Stupid. I turn away, busying myself with nothing—straightening a jar of dried herbs, adjusting the blanket over the sleeping child. He’s here to kill you, and you’re reacting to his touch like some love-starved girl.
The cottage feels smaller with him in it.
The single room that’s been my home for eight years has shrunk to the space between his body and mine—four feet at most, close enough to smell the leather and iron of his armor, the road dust, and beneath it all, warmth.
Woodsmoke and dark spice and a masculine heat that makes my pulse stutter in ways I cannot afford.
I keep my back to him while I work the warding into the floor.
The magic is subtle—a whisper of power threaded through the worn wooden boards, tied to my blood and bound by my will.
If he attacks, if he draws that blade at his hip and swings for my neck, the ward will trigger.
It won’t stop him. Nothing I have would stop someone his size, his skill.
But it will slow him. Give me a heartbeat to react.
A heartbeat might be enough.
“The boy.” His voice is a low rumble, rough-edged and direct. “What happened to him?”
“He stumbled through the Twilight Gate.” I turn to face him, leaning against the crooked shelf with manufactured ease. “The boundary almost killed him. I paid his tithe instead.”
“With a stolen memory.”
“With a gift freely given.” The lie slides off my tongue smooth and practiced. It’s not entirely false—the memory came loose easily, loosened by the Shadow Court’s touch. But I took it without asking. Without consent. That’s the part the order objects to.
He studies me with those unsettling eyes.
Not forge-fire, I realize now that I’m seeing them up close.
More like liquid metal, orange-gold and burning, set deep in a face built of harsh angles and controlled violence.
The iron rings on his tusks catch the dim light from the window, each one etched with runes I can’t read.
“You’re warding the floor.” Not a question. He drains the cup and sets it aside with surprising gentleness, the clay clicking softly against the rough-hewn table. “I can feel it. Every time you shift position, the magic pulses.”
Damn.
I don’t insult us both by denying it. “You’re standing between me and my only exit. Can you blame me for taking precautions?”
“No.” He steps to the side. Deliberately. Creating a clear path to the door. “Better?”
The gesture catches me off guard. Executioners don’t accommodate their targets. They don’t make concessions, don’t show consideration. They judge and they kill and they move on to the next name on the list.
“Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it.
“You said dawn.” He folds his arms across his chest—a barrier of muscle and armor, but no longer blocking the door. “Until then, you’re not my prisoner. You’re a witness. I have questions.”
“Questions.” I let disbelief color my voice. “The execution order has already been signed. What could my answers possibly change?”
“Nothing.” His gaze holds mine, unwavering. “But I want to understand what I’m ending.”