Chapter 17 Elowen
ELOWEN
The crowd leaves slowly. Fear rarely retreats all at once; it withdraws in cautious steps, the same way it gathered earlier that morning. Voices remain tense as the villagers disperse along the marsh path, their warnings lingering in the air like the fading echo of thunder.
“This is your last chance, Elowen,” Matron Yselle tells me before turning away. “If another incident occurs, the council will not hesitate to intervene.”
The words are meant to sound measured and reasonable, yet the threat beneath them is unmistakable. They believe they are being merciful.
I watch until the final lantern disappears around the bend in the road, until the last pair of suspicious eyes turns away from my cottage. Only when the quiet settles fully over the marsh do I allow my shoulders to lower.
The bond hums faintly. He is already inside. I close the door behind me and turn toward the hearth.
Threxian stands beside the small wooden table as though he has always belonged there.
The fading morning light catches the dark curve of his horns and the quiet ember-glow beneath his skin, though the infernal presence that once filled every corner of the room now feels strangely…
familiar. Somehow comforting. His golden gaze lifts when I step into the room.
“Well,” he says mildly, “that could have gone worse.”
I lean back against the door with a tired breath, pressing my palm briefly to the wood as though the solid surface might help hold the weight of the morning outside.
“Your standards for ‘worse’ are very different from mine,” I reply, glancing toward the window where the last of the villagers are disappearing down the marsh path.
“True,” he admits, his voice calm and almost reflective. “In my experience, most hostile gatherings end with considerably more fire and death.”
I turn back toward him immediately.
“That,” I say, crossing my arms, “is exactly what we’re trying to avoid.”
His mouth curves faintly at the firmness in my tone, as though he finds the reminder more amusing than reprimanding.
“I noticed.”
The quiet that settles afterward feels different from the tense silence outside. The cottage seems smaller somehow, warmer, as though the presence of him has filled the space with something grounding. The bond hums softly beneath my ribs, no longer volatile but gently alive.
For a moment we simply look at each other.
“You were watching,” I say finally.
Threxian lifts one shoulder in a slow shrug.
“Of course I was watching. You stood in front of a mob that wanted to see you burn. I would hardly miss that.”
His tone is casual, but the warmth that ripples through the bond betrays the truth beneath it. He had been paying attention to every word, every movement.
“Did I do all right?” I ask quietly.
The question slips out. Something in his expression changes when he hears it. The faint amusement fades, replaced by a deeper intensity that makes the air between us feel suddenly closer.
“You did it while covered in mud and refused to burn anyone alive,” he says slowly. “I would consider that an impressive achievement.”
I cannot help the small smile that tugs at my mouth.
“That is a very specific compliment.”
“It is also entirely accurate.”
I push myself away from the door and move toward the table, my hands resting on the familiar wood as I gather my thoughts.
“They’re planning to confine me if anything else happens.”
“I am aware.”
This makes me glance up sharply.
“You spoke to someone.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Corvin Halbrecht.”
The name catches me off guard.
“The woodcutter?”
“The same.”
I frown slightly as I lean back against the table.
“What did he want?”
“To warn me.”
I blink at him.
“You?”
“He appears to possess better judgment than most of the villagers currently shouting outside,” Threxian replies dryly.
He shifts his weight against the wall, folding his arms loosely across his chest, the movement drawing my attention briefly to the quiet strength in his shoulders.
“He believes the council intends to place you in the old grain store near the chapel.”
The image forms instantly in my mind. Cold wood walls. A locked door. Guards outside.
“A cage,” I say softly.
“Yes.”
A chill slips down my spine despite the warmth of the cottage. I rub my temple with two fingers.
“That would go badly.”
“Catastrophically.”
His voice is calm, but the bond carries the darker truth beneath it. If they trap me somewhere small, surrounded by fear and suspicion, the control we have worked so hard to build might shatter.
I lift my gaze to him again.
“You didn’t kill anyone.”
One dark brow lifts.
“That sounded almost disappointed.”
“I’m proud of you,” I correct quickly.
The faint amusement that returns to his expression warms the room more than the fire in the hearth.
“That may be the most unexpected praise I have received in several centuries.”
I shake my head.
“We need a strategy.”
“Oh, I have several.”
“None of which involve burning the council.”
“That eliminates my top three.”
Despite everything, I laugh quietly. The sound seems to please him more than he expected. I take a step closer before realizing what I am doing.
“Threx—”
The nickname slips out before I can think it through. The moment it leaves my mouth, silence follows. His eyes narrow slightly.
“Threx?”
My cheeks warm instantly.
“I… shortened it.”
He tilts his head, studying me with a strange kind of curiosity, as though tasting the sound of the word in the air.
“Only you,” he says slowly, “would dare shorten the name of an infernal warlord.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“And what question is that?”
“Do you hate it?”
For a moment he simply watches me. Then he smiles.
“No.”
The bond warms softly between us.
“I rather like it.”
Something shifts in the air after that. The tension that had been lingering from the morning loosens slightly, replaced by something quieter and unexpectedly gentle.
I clear my throat and glance toward the shelves near the hearth.
“Well… if you’re staying here plotting ways not to burn the village down, you might as well eat.”
He tilts his head again.
“Are you cooking?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“I assume demons can eat soup.”
“We can,” he says thoughtfully. “Though it is rarely offered.”
I move through the small kitchen with familiar motions, chopping herbs and setting a pot over the fire. The quiet domestic rhythm feels strangely comforting after the chaos outside.
Behind me, Threxian watches with open fascination.
“You realize,” he says after a moment, “that this is the strangest evening of my existence.”
I glance over my shoulder.
“You’ve lived for centuries.”
“Yes.”
“And cooking dinner surprises you?”
“I have destroyed fortresses,” he says calmly. “I have watched kingdoms burn.”
“And?”
“And now I am sitting in a healer’s cottage waiting politely for soup.”
I laugh softly.
“Well, Threx, you’ll survive.”
The nickname makes his wings shift faintly behind him.
The soup takes longer than usual. Not because the ingredients are complicated, but because I keep glancing over my shoulder.
Threxian has taken the chair beside the small wooden table, one elbow resting on the surface as he watches me move through the kitchen with an intensity that makes it difficult to pretend he is not there.
“Do demons always stare at people while they cook?” I ask without turning around.
“Only when the person cooking is my mate,” he replies calmly.
“That does not make it less unsettling.”
“I disagree.”
I sigh quietly, stirring the pot. The scent of herbs fills the cottage as steam curls toward the rafters. Normally the rhythm of preparing food calms me, but tonight the awareness of him sitting only a few steps away turns every small movement into something strangely self-conscious.
When I finally set two bowls on the table, he leans forward slightly with open curiosity.
“You are feeding me mortal food,” he says thoughtfully.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.”
I slide into the chair across from him.
“Well, try it before you judge it.”
Threxian studies the bowl for a moment as though evaluating some ancient ritual rather than a simple meal. Then he lifts the spoon and tastes it.
For several seconds he says nothing. My stomach tightens.
“Well?”
His golden eyes lift to mine.
“This is… unexpectedly excellent.”
Relief slips through me before I can hide it.
“That is the most dramatic reaction anyone has ever had to vegetable soup.”
“You underestimate how rarely demons are served dinner.”
“Is this truly your first bowl of soup?”
“No,” he admits. “But it is the first one prepared with the intention of keeping me alive.”
“That is not the intention.”
“Ah,” he says with faint amusement. “Then I misunderstood.”
I watch him take another spoonful. The satisfaction that floods through the link when he enjoys the food surprises me more than anything else that has happened today.
“You like it,” I say.
“A lot.”
“You’re not just being polite?”
“I am many things, Elowen,” he replies dryly. “Polite is rarely one of them.”
I laugh softly. He watches the reaction with quiet interest.
“You should do that more often,” he says.
“Laugh?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It makes this house feel warmer.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
For a few minutes we eat in comfortable quiet. The fire crackles softly in the hearth while the marsh wind brushes gently against the windows. The moment feels… ordinary.
A healer and a demon sharing dinner. The absurdity of that realization makes me smile faintly.
“You’re staring again,” I say.
“You noticed.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why is that good?”
“Because it means you’re not afraid of me anymore.”
The words land softly between us.
“I was never afraid of you,” I say before thinking.
His brow lifts.
“That is demonstrably false.”
“I mean now.”
He studies me with a quieter expression than before.
“That,” he murmurs, “is far more dangerous.”