Chapter 27 Thalia
THALIA
The river whispers secrets to the stones, its voice the only sound in this pocket of peace beyond the festival's reach.
I sit with my feet dangling in the cool water, watching moonlight fragment across the current like scattered silver coins.
My hands rest in my lap, fingers tracing the faint glow that still emanates from the vine sigil when darkness falls—a reminder that my life changed forever three nights ago.
Footsteps approach through the grove, heavy but careful. I don't turn around. I know that gait, the way he moves like controlled thunder through the world.
"You came."
"Did you think I wouldn't?"
His voice carries that familiar roughness, like gravel beneath silk.
I finally look over my shoulder to find him standing at the edge of the clearing, his massive frame outlined against the trees.
Even in shadow, he seems to take up more space than should be possible, as if the very air bends around his presence.
We move toward each other with the careful deliberation of people walking across thin ice. Each step feels weighted with consequence, with the knowledge that every moment we steal together pushes us further from the safety of pretense. When we're close enough to touch, we stop.
His hand rises slowly, fingers rough with calluses from years of weapon work. When he cups my cheek, his palm engulfs half my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with surprising gentleness. I press my own hand against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart through leather and cloth.
"These days have been agony." The words rumble from his throat like distant thunder. "To have you so close yet too far."
A laugh escapes me, bitter and sharp. "I've felt that way my whole life."
Something shifts in his expression, those dark eyes searching my face as if trying to read a map written in a language he doesn't quite understand. His thumb continues its slow path across my skin, and I find myself leaning into the touch despite every instinct screaming that this is dangerous.
"Tell me."
The request is simple, but it opens floodgates I've kept sealed for years. I look away from his intense stare, focusing instead on the river's endless movement.
"Well… I was seven when they took me. Raiders hit our village during harvest season—ironic, considering." I gesture vaguely at my marked arm. "My parents tried to hide me in the grain cellar, but smoke has a way of drawing people out of small spaces."
His hand hasn't moved from my cheek, anchor and comfort both. I continue speaking to the water, letting the words flow like the current itself.
"Rytha's father claimed me for her household. Said I had clever hands, good for detailed work. They trained me in herbs and healing, in how to bow properly and speak only when spoken to. In how to make myself small enough to disappear."
"Thalia..."
"I used to dream of forests." The confession slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest as an open wound. "Green places where no one owned anything, where the trees grew wild and free. Now I only dream of silence. That… Silence would be enough. Or, well… it used to be."
He makes a sound deep in his throat, something between a growl and a sigh. When I finally meet his gaze again, I see something I don't recognize—guilt mixed with something fiercer, more protective.
"You should have had those forests."
"Should have had a lot of things."
The space between us seems to shrink without either of us moving. His other hand finds my waist, fingers spanning the narrow curve with ease. I can feel the controlled strength in his grip, the careful way he holds me as if I might break under too much pressure.
"You're not small now," he murmurs, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Not to me."
When he leans down, I rise to meet him halfway.
Our lips touch with the slow deliberation of people savoring something precious and finite.
This isn't the desperate hunger of our previous encounters—this is deeper, more dangerous.
A claiming that goes beyond flesh into something that might actually be my soul.
His mouth moves against mine with practiced skill, but there's reverence in the way he kisses me, as if he's trying to pour years of unspoken apologies into this single moment of connection.
I taste wine on his tongue, feel the careful pressure of tusks against my lips, and wonder how something so wrong can feel like the first right thing in my entire existence.
His hands shift to my waist, fingers splaying wide as he draws me down with him.
The grass cushions our descent, damp with evening dew that seeps through my thin dress.
He settles against the base of an old oak, pulling me onto his lap with the same careful reverence he's shown all night.
My knees bracket his hips, and I find myself looking down at him for once—this massive warrior who could snap my spine with a careless gesture, cradling me like something precious.
"Tell me something," I whisper, fingers finding the leather ties of his vest. Not to undress him, just to touch, to ground myself in this impossible moment. "Tell me who you are when no one's watching."
His laugh comes out harsh, bitter around the edges. "You wouldn't want to know that man."
"Try me."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. His hands rest on my thighs, thumbs tracing absent patterns through the fabric of my dress. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of years.
"I was bred for war, not for… this." He gestures between us, encompassing whatever fragile thing we've built in stolen moments.
"My first kill came at twelve. A human raider who thought he could take Thorran grain stores.
My father handed me a blade and said, 'Show me you're worth the food we feed you. '"
The casual way he says it makes my chest ache. I shift closer, letting my forehead rest against his. "What happened?"
"I cut the man's throat. Felt his blood on my hands, watched the life leave his eyes. And you know what my father said?" His grip tightens slightly on my legs. "He said 'good' and walked away. That was it. No celebration, no comfort. Just acknowledgment that I'd finally become useful."
I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath scarred skin. "How many since then?"
"Too many to count. Too few to matter." He tilts his head back against the tree bark, eyes finding the stars scattered across the night sky.
"I've spent years learning how to kill efficiently, how to lead warriors into battle, how to turn rage into strategy.
But this—sitting here with you—I have no training for this. "
The vulnerability in his voice undoes something inside me. I lean forward, resting my head against the curve of his shoulder where neck meets collarbone. His scent surrounds me—leather and steel and something earthier, wilder. When I speak, my words are muffled against his skin.
"I think maybe we were both built wrong for the world we live in."
He smirks, wrapping his finger in a strand of my hair. "I think the only thing I might be right for is you."