Chapter 19
Thorne
The Healer’s Pavilion, The Ember Vein Mining Camp
There is much to do to reinforce the wards protecting The Ember Vein before my fellow Lords return to their dominions.
The breach we uncovered must be sealed, every ward and protection spell re-threaded and fortified.
But I do not begrudge them their departure.
Two days away from their mates is already a great ask.
And I—gods, I understand that now.
Before anything else, I must make good on a promise.
To her.
To my viyella.
So I send word to the infirmary—no, I command it—letting the head Healer know we are coming.
All will make ready. And all will do so with care.
Because today is for her. For Delia.
My flame.
My Shula.
She walks at my side, her hand in mine, her fingers small but sure between my own.
There is joy in her steps, an energy that softens the harsh lines of the camp as we pass through it. Her smile is radiant.
She greets every miner we pass with warmth in her eyes, and it is they who are stunned—watching the Demon Lord of Fire be led like a leashed drake by this bright, human woman.
Alaric and Kael flank us behind, silent shadows of power. Grier walks ahead, leading the way with an honor guard I selected myself—one I trust to protect her should I fall.
Not that I plan to.
But for her, I take every precaution.
My viyella is soft. But never weak.
Still, she is precious to me.
And her mortality is such that I must take care.
Yes, she has withstood my flame—touched it and bore no scorch—but I cannot guarantee she would survive harm should someone dare to try. And if they do?
It will be the last thing they ever do.
She gives my hand a squeeze, and I glance down at her, already so attuned to the rhythm of her body that I feel her excitement before I see it.
Her gaze locks on a corner of the commons, where a traveling minstrel plays a weathered lute. The tune is clumsy but cheerful, and he sings with a crooked grin while children toss pennies into his hat.
A small crowd watches, grateful for even the simplest joy in this soot-stained place.
Delia lets out a delighted little sound—somewhere between a gasp and a laugh—and it curls around my ribs like a leash of light.
Gods. Her joy could fuel suns.
“The camp serves as a home away from home for many of the miners, milady,” Grier offers, noticing her attention. “It is often that entertainment provides comfort.”
I growl.
Low and dark.
He doesn’t need to speak to her.
Ever.
Grier stiffens immediately. A squeak escapes him as he turns back around, wisely choosing not to engage further.
Delia nudges me with her elbow, suppressing a grin. Her smirk is unmistakable.
“You’re ridiculous,” she murmurs, amused.
I grunt, unrepentant. “He spoke to you.”
“Yes, he did. About a musician. Who’s like seventeen.”
I narrow my eyes, unconvinced.
“He doesn’t need to speak to you.”
She laughs softly.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she whispers, eyes forward, lips barely moving.
“What thing?” I ask, though I know.
“You’re acting jealous.”
“I am possessive, not jealous,” I correct, voice low and sharp as a crackling ember. “I’m newly mated. It is natural I be covetous of you, Shula.”
“Ah,” she says, leaning closer, shoulder brushing mine. “So it’ll wear off then? With time, I mean.”
The very idea offends me down to the bone.
“Fuck no.”
She barks out a laugh, bright and delighted. A few nearby miners glance our way, then immediately pretend they didn’t.
Wise.
“Good,” she murmurs, and the word slides over my nerves like a caress. She tips her head back to look up at me, smiling. “’Cause I think it’s hot when you get all growly.”
“You have no idea how unwise it is to say that to me in public,” I grind out.
“I dunno. Seems to be working out for me,” she teases.
The fire in my chest roars.
I want to kiss her until every fool in this camp understands she is mine beyond question, beyond doubt.
“I will always be growly when it comes to you,” I tell her instead. That much, I can promise without burning the world down.
She reaches for me then, rising onto her toes, and steals a kiss—quick, hard, all mouth and heat and reckless trust.
Gods.
I nearly lose my mind right there in the middle of the commons.
Mine.
I don’t know what’s got me more on edge, that she likes this—or that she likes me like this.
The possessive edge, the way my temper snaps at anyone who looks too long or speaks too familiar.
For so long I have been told I am too much.
Too angry, too volatile, too dangerous to be close to.
But Delia doesn’t seem to mind.
She only steps closer.
The fire inside surges and I realize my fingers have tightened around her hand—just shy of bruising. I force myself to ease my grip.
She doesn’t pull away.
Doesn’t flinch.
Instead, she leans into my side, letting the heat pass between us like a shared secret.
“I didn’t mean for you to frighten Grier,” she says lightly. “He seems decent.”
“He is decent,” I admit grudgingly. “For a man who enjoys testing my patience.”
“He was just explaining the camp to me,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to charbroil every guy who makes eye contact.”
“I am not charbroiling anyone,” I mutter, though I am imagining setting Grier’s boots on fire the next time he looks at her too long. “But they should remember you are the viyella of their Lord. Respect is the least they can offer.”
“They have been respectful,” she counters. “Honestly, I think they’re more scared of you than interested in me.”
“Good,” I say immediately.
She snorts. “Of course you think that’s good.”
We pass a smithy’s stall—portable, smaller than the ones in Ashfell but still blazing. Sparks fly with every hammer fall.
A group of miners pause in their work just long enough to bow their heads as we walk by. Delia gives them a small, warm smile.
They straighten a little taller after that.
My chest tightens.
She has been here such a short time, and already her presence shifts the air.
Softens edges I never thought could be softened.
My people see her and straighten under her regard instead of shrinking from my temper.
She is not just good for me.
She is good for the Broken Plains. And that means she is good for all of Nightfall.
But I—greedy, undeserving creature that I am—want to keep every piece of her for myself.
“You’re doing that other thing again,” she murmurs.
“What other thing?”
“Brooding. You go all quiet and your eyes get darker and I can practically hear you mentally setting things on fire.”
“I am thinking,” I say flatly.
“Mm-hm.” She bumps her hip into mine. “Thinking about me?”
“Always.”
The word leaves before I can leash it.
Truth, raw and unvarnished.
She stumbles a step, just slightly, like the ground shifted under her feet.
“Thorne,” she whispers.
The bond between us gives a soft tug. That hot, bright thread from my heart to hers hums in recognition, pleased with my honesty.
I clear my throat, forcing my attention ahead. The healer’s pavilion rises into view—heavy canvas reinforced with carved bone struts and cooling wards etched along the seams.
Its entrance is marked by twin braziers burning low and steady, their flames a softer gold than my own.
“We are here,” I say, more roughly than I intend.
She looks up at the healer’s tent, then back at me.
“Nervous?” I ask.
“A little.” Her fingers flex in mine. “New realm. New medicine. New everything.”
“If you do not like what you see, we can change it or we can leave,” I tell her. “I will build you an infirmary in all of the Broken Plains from the ground up. Staff it with the best healers in Nightfall. Or burn any that displease you. Your word is law where your comfort is concerned.”
Her eyes go wide, then soften.
“Pretty sure that’s not how healthcare systems work,” she says quietly. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
“It is not sentiment,” I reply. “It is promise.”