Chapter 8
Ruka
Jordan's presence in the village felt like stumbling upon water in the desert—unexpected, precious, life-giving.
My nephew was healing in ways I'd barely dared hope for.
Just yesterday, he'd been bouncing off the cabin walls like an overexcited pup, pleading with his mother to let him tear around outside with the other tusklings.
When she wasn't fussing over Ardin, Jordan threw herself into clan life with an enthusiasm that both warmed and wounded me.
Mornings belonged to Zuhra, who'd claimed Jordan as her personal project in all things village-related.
I'd spot them making rounds together—Zuhra's hands painting pictures in the air as she explained hunting party logistics, territorial dispute mediation, winter food storage and distribution.
Jordan absorbed it all, firing off questions about our customs and history with such genuine interest that Zuhra practically preened.
Afternoons found Jordan elbow-deep in the communal kitchens, flour streaking her face as she worked beside our cooks.
She picked up rootmash preparation like she'd been making it her whole life, learned which streambed herbs could transform a basic stew into something worth fighting over, discovered the secret to making even the stringiest game meat melt on the tongue.
In return, she introduced concepts from her world—safe food temperatures, preservation methods that had already prevented spoiled meat from poisoning half the village.
But watching her with Morg—that's when Jordan truly came alive.
The old healer had claimed Jordan as the apprentice she'd always wanted, and they'd disappear into Morg's workshop for hours, surrounded by hanging herb bundles and clay pots reeking of medicinal salves.
Morg shared the mysteries of fever-breaking mountain flowers, joint-soothing bark teas, and the delicate art of poultice application.
And Jordan revolutionized Morg's practice in return.
She demonstrated infection-preventing wound care, showed bone-setting techniques that ensured proper healing, and taught blood-staunching methods that had already kept two overzealous sparring partners from bleeding out.
Watching them collaborate—heads together over some new concoction, voices hushed and focused—I didn't see teacher and student anymore.
I saw equals. Partners building a bridge between two worlds.
But the evenings? Those belonged to me alone.
As twilight painted the mountains, we'd slip away from the village's warmth and chatter.
My home became our sanctuary—a space where the rest of the world fell away with each log I added to the fire.
Jordan would claim her corner of the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her in that peculiar way of hers, and I'd settle nearby, close enough to catch the subtle shifts in her expression as firelight danced across her features.
Our conversations wandered like mountain streams—sometimes deep and rushing with meaning, other times meandering through shallow, pleasant territory.
She'd describe the metal birds that carried people through her sky, and I'd counter with tales of the great eagle-like fowl that nested in our highest underground peaks.
We'd debate the merits of her world's healing magic versus our traditional remedies, argue playfully over which realm had superior cuisine, share fragments of our pasts like precious gifts.
The dangerous moments came without warning.
A shared glance that lingered too long. Her scent—that maddening sweetness—intensifying until it wrapped around us both like invisible silk.
The air would thicken, charged with everything we weren't saying, and I'd watch her pupils dilate, her breath catch, her lips part slightly as if she might finally—
But she never did. And neither did I.
Instead, we'd retreat to our separate rooms, seeking refuge in sleep and dreams where the barriers between us didn't exist.
Days blurred together in this exquisite torture. Jordan had stopped being the stranger who'd stumbled into our world. She'd become essential—as vital to the village's rhythm as the changing seasons, as necessary to my existence as air.
She'd become home. My home.
And that terrified me more than any battle I'd ever faced.
The transformation sweeping through my clan bordered on the miraculous.
Elder Subik's persistent cough—that wet, rattling wheeze that had plagued him for three brutal winters—had simply evaporated within days of Jordan's intervention.
Old Throk's festering wound, angry and defiant despite Morg's most potent remedies, now sealed itself with clean pink flesh.
Even the expectant mothers gathered in excited clusters, trading whispers about the breathing techniques and positioning methods during birth that Jordan had demonstrated, their faces glowing with newfound hope.
She'd slipped into the fabric of our lives as naturally as rain soaking into thirsty earth, as if the gods themselves had guided her stumbling steps into our village.
Children shadowed her everywhere, their small voices pleading for just one more story about her world.
The elders actively sought her wisdom now, their initial suspicion melting like spring snow into genuine admiration. And I...
I was drowning in feelings I had absolutely no right to harbor for someone destined to leave.
The cruelest twist? I wasn't the only one who'd noticed her worth.
Jordan had become a lodestone for every unmated male in the clan.
How could they possibly resist? She moved through our world with an ethereal grace that seemed almost choreographed, her compassion as instinctive as breathing, her mind sharp enough to trade barbs with our most learned healers.
To call her beautiful would be like calling the sun warm—technically accurate but laughably insufficient.
She was luminous, magnetic, utterly mesmerizing.
I'd marked my territory in every conceivable way except the one that actually mattered.
Inserting myself between her and interested males.
Materializing at every meal, every gathering, every moment I could remotely justify.
My glares had achieved near-mythical status—silent threats that most males possessed enough survival instinct to respect.
Most. But not all.
Kael, it seemed, had either the courage of a warrior or the brains of a river stone.
The bastard circled Jordan like a wolf who'd caught the scent of something sweet, always there with assistance she didn't need, suggestions for excursions she didn't want, compliments that dripped from his tongue like honey and made my blood boil.
I stood on my porch, arms crossed tight enough to crack ribs, watching Jordan kneel in the garden plot near my dwelling.
She was tending the mint patch, her fingers moving through the leaves as Morg had taught her.
The old healer had been pleased with how quickly Jordan learned—not just which plants were which, but how to harvest them properly, encourage their growth, speak to them the way our people did.
Afternoon sunlight caught in Jordan's hair, highlighting the strands with gold, and she hummed softly as she worked—some melody from her world that wrapped around my heart like a vine, beautiful and suffocating.
And there, hovering at the garden's edge like a fly that refused to be swatted, was Kael.
He crouched beside her, murmuring something I couldn't hear from this distance.
Jordan glanced up with that polite smile she gave everyone, then returned to her work.
A dismissal, clear as day. But Kael, apparently too dumb to catch subtlety, didn't move.
His fingers drifted to a leaf she'd just touched, lingering there—too close, too familiar.
The porch railing creaked under my grip.
He spoke again, gesturing toward the forest with exaggerated enthusiasm. Another invitation. Another transparent attempt to lure her away from the village. To be alone with her. Jordan shook her head with that maddening kindness of hers, pointing to her work, explaining she needed to finish.
Any male with sense would have retreated.
Kael settled in like he had all the time in the world.
My feet carried me across the distance before conscious thought caught up.
"Jordan," he purred, his voice dropping into what he clearly imagined was an irresistible register. He sounded like a toad. "Tonight, let me show you the glowing mushrooms. Deep in the forest. They light up the darkness—very beautiful. Very romantic."
I materialized between them before Jordan could respond, my shadow swallowing Kael whole.
"Kael." His name came out like gravel grinding. "Don't you have patrol duty?"
"Not until—"
"Now. You have it now."
His jaw tightened, rebellion flickering across his face, but even he wasn't stupid enough to challenge his chieftain. Not here. Not over this. He rose stiffly, stalking away with one last pathetic, longing glance at Jordan.
"Ruka." Jordan's voice danced with barely suppressed laughter. "Was that really necessary?"
I turned to face her, and the sight nearly undid me—hair escaping its tie in wild tendrils, those sharp eyes glittering with amusement that cut straight through my chest.
"Absolutely."
She shook her head, fighting a smile. "He was just being friendly."
"He was being predatory. There's a difference."
"And that bothers you?" The question hung between us, delicate as spider silk.
Everything bothered me. That males circled her like wolves scenting prey. That I wanted to claim her but had no right. That she would vanish from my life soon, leaving nothing but the ghost of her laughter haunting these paths.
That I was a chieftain bound by duty to an entire people, not just my own selfish desires.
"Yes." The word came out raw, stripped bare.