4. Draven
DRAVEN
"Thanks for this."
Isolde's voice carries genuine warmth as she leans against my arm, her weight settling into my side with surprising ease.
Liora's cleaning cloth removed most of the wolf's blood from my face and hands, but I can still feel the phantom stickiness on my skin—a reminder of violence that clings despite soap and water.
Maddie marches ahead of us through the village square like she's leading a military parade, her auburn curls bouncing with each determined step. The woman moves with purpose that would be admirable if it weren't directed at managing my life.
Every face in the square turns toward us. Mrs. Penwhistle abandons her conversation with the fishmonger's wife to stare openly. Young Timmy stops mid-sprint to gawk at the sight of the town's tracker supporting a limping stranger. Even the blacksmith pauses his hammer to watch us pass.
Their eyes burn like brands against my skin.
I've grown used to the stares over the years—the mixture of wariness and grudging respect that follows me through these streets.
But today feels different. Today they're not just watching the orc who keeps their borders safe; they're watching me with a woman, and the speculation in their gazes makes my jaw clench.
Isolde shifts her weight, her injured leg causing her to stumble slightly.
I steady her without thinking, my arm tightening around her waist. The movement brings her closer against my side, and despite the unwanted attention, I find myself noticing how perfectly she fits against me.
Her warmth seeps through the fabric of my shirt, chasing away the cold judgment of watching eyes.
The honey and lavender scent that clings to her hair mingles with the crisp autumn air, creating something unexpectedly soothing. For a moment, the stares matter less than the steady rhythm of her breathing and the trust she places in my strength.
"Almost there," I mutter, more for my benefit than hers.
The Golden Crust's wooden sign comes into view, painted with wheat sheaves that capture the afternoon light. Maddie pushes open the door with theatrical flourish, releasing a wave of warm air scented with fresh bread and cinnamon.
Inside, I help Isolde to a cushioned chair near the window. She settles with a grateful sigh, immediately testing her injured leg's position. Liora's salve has already begun working—the swelling has reduced, and the angry red of the puncture wounds has faded to a manageable pink.
"Pick anything you like from the display," Maddie calls from behind the counter, gesturing toward shelves lined with golden pastries and crusty loaves. "Everything's fresh this morning."
I approach the counter warily, studying the array of baked goods like they might attack. Honey-glazed rolls glisten next to braided bread dotted with herbs. Tarts filled with seasonal fruits sit alongside something that smells like cinnamon and promises.
Maddie leans across the counter, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I need to ask you something."
The serious tone catches me off guard. I glance back at Isolde, who's examining her bandaged leg with clinical interest.
"She's the only family I have left." Maddie's words carry weight that settles heavy in my chest. "And she's clearly the type to wander off exploring without thinking about the dangers. You saw what happened today."
"She made a mistake. Won't happen again."
"You don't know her like I do." Maddie shakes her head, auburn curls catching the light from the window. "Isolde's brilliant with her bees and her business, but she gets so focused on possibilities that she forgets about risks. Always been that way, even as a child."
I study Isolde through the reflection in the bakery's front window. She's testing the flexibility of her ankle, her brow furrowed in concentration. There's something about her careful movements that speaks of someone accustomed to relying on her own strength.
"What are you asking?"
"Keep an eye on her. Just while she's here establishing her trade routes. Make sure she doesn't wander into trouble again."
The request hits like a trap snapping shut. I came here for a pastry and escape, not to become a babysitter for Maddie's wandering cousin.
"I'm not a nursemaid."
"I'm not asking you to be." Maddie's voice drops even lower. "I'm asking you to do what you already do—patrol the borders, track threats. Just... maybe expand your route to include wherever she decides to explore."
The request settles into my bones like winter cold. Every rational part of my mind screams against it—I'm a tracker, not a guardian for wandering merchants. My routes are calculated for maximum efficiency, not babysitting duty.
But Isolde's quiet thanks still echoes in my ears. The trust in her voice when she leaned against me. The way she challenged my tone instead of cowering.
"Fine."
Maddie's face lights up like sunrise. "Really? You'll—"
"I'll expand the patrol routes. Nothing more."
I reach for a honey-glazed roll before she can extract any additional promises. The pastry feels solid and warm in my palm, evidence of Maddie's skill and the comfort she creates in this space.
The bell above the door chimes with crystalline precision, cutting through the bakery's ambient warmth. I don't need to turn to recognize the measured footsteps that follow—heels clicking against wooden floors with practiced elegance.
"Draven. What a pleasant surprise."
Vaelis Thandor glides into my peripheral vision like moonlight on water.
Her silver-blonde hair reflects the afternoon light streaming through the windows, and her pale gold skin seems to glow against the deep sapphire of her perfectly tailored dress.
She moves with the fluid grace that comes from centuries of practice, each step calculated for maximum impact.
"Vaelis."
"I've missed seeing you around town." Her voice carries the musical quality that makes other races assume elves are inherently wise rather than simply practiced at manipulation. "Your patrols have kept you quite busy lately."
She positions herself between me and the counter, close enough that her expensive perfume—something floral and complex—mingles with the bakery's simpler scents. The proximity feels deliberate, designed to command attention.
"The borders require monitoring."
"Of course they do." Her laugh sounds like silver bells, carefully modulated for charm. "Though perhaps next time there's danger, you could rescue me instead. I promise to be far more grateful than whatever wild creature you've been wrestling with today."
Her fingers brush against a faint bloodstain on my sleeve that Liora missed during her cleaning. The touch lingers longer than necessary, and her pale eyes hold mine with unmistakable invitation.
Heat spreads across my neck. Not desire—discomfort at being cornered in public, at having my choices presumed rather than offered.
From the corner of my vision, I catch Isolde's reflection in the window.
She's stopped testing her injured leg and now watches our interaction with the focused attention of someone reading a map.
Her hazel eyes move between Vaelis and me, cataloguing details with the same precision she likely uses to assess her hives.
The weight of her observation makes my skin itch worse than Vaelis's presumptuous touch.
The walls of the bakery close in like a trap. Vaelis's perfume mingles with the yeast and honey until I can't breathe properly. Her fingers still rest against my sleeve, claiming ownership of space that isn't hers to take.
"Oh, Vaelis, have you met Isolde? She's my cousin, here establishing trade routes for her honey business. Draven rescued her from a wolf earlier today."
The words tumble out with Maddie's characteristic enthusiasm, but I catch the undercurrent of mischief. She's testing waters, seeing how Vaelis reacts to the introduction of competition.
Vaelis's smile sharpens to something that could cut glass.
"How... fortunate that Draven happened to be nearby."
The pause before 'fortunate' carries enough ice to freeze the Hollow's entire water supply. Her pale gaze flickers between Isolde and me, calculating distances and angles like a predator assessing threats.
I've had enough of being discussed like a prize bull at market.
The bakery's front door stands three steps away. Three steps to escape the weight of expectations, the suffocating presumptions, the careful maneuvering that treats my choices like chess pieces to be moved by other hands.
I take the first step.
"Draven—" Vaelis's voice rises, losing some of its musical control.
The second step carries me past Maddie's startled expression.
"Wait, where are you—" Maddie begins.
The third step brings my hand to the door handle. The brass feels cool and solid beneath my palm, real in a way that cuts through the bakery's perfumed air.
I push the door open without looking back.