Chapter 12
Nansar
Consciousness returned in fragments—first pain, sharp and insistent behind my eyes, then the weight of my own limbs, heavy as waterlogged timber. A groan escaped me before I could stop it.
"Easy," came a voice, soft and worried. "Don't move too fast."
I pried my eyes open. The world swam into focus slowly: woven walls filtering amber light, and Chloe's face hovering above mine, creased with worry.
She lay beside me on a rough pallet, propped on one elbow, and even through the fog of pain I noticed how the light played in her hair, setting it ablaze with copper fire.
"What..." The word scraped out of my throat like gravel. "What happened?"
"You got knocked out." Her fingers ghosted across my forehead, carefully skirting what felt like an impressive lump. The gentleness of it sent unexpected warmth cascading through me. "The Welati found us."
Memory crashed back—silent figures materializing from the trees, my body moving to shield Chloe, then darkness. My pulse kicked up as understanding dawned.
"They didn't kill me." The words emerged flat with disbelief. I pushed myself up despite the room's sudden tilt. "The Welati let me live."
"Barely." Chloe's hand found my shoulder, steadying me. Her palm burned through the thin fabric. "They had weapons pointed at both of us. But I told them..." She faltered, color blooming across her cheeks in a way that made my chest constrict. "I told them you were my mate."
The air left my lungs. That she would claim me. That they would honor it. Everything I thought I knew about the Welati crumbled like sun-dried clay.
And beneath the shock, something more—a savage satisfaction at being called hers.
"That's... unexpected," I managed, thoughts churning despite my skull's protests. The Welati were supposed to be merciless. No prisoners. No exceptions. Yet here I breathed, tended and sheltered.
Chloe worried her lower lip, those storm-gray eyes searching my face. "Nansar, what if you're wrong about them? About the Welati?"
"Maybe." The admission tasted strange. "I've never actually seen them up close before. Never witnessed them kill anyone." I paused, sifting through memories. "When other prisoners turn up dead, the Welati get blamed. But I never saw it happen myself."
"They've been taking care of us," Chloe said. "Food, water, medicine for your head. They even gave me this." She gestured at the pale blue dress she wore. "Doesn't seem like something vicious killers would do."
I wanted to argue. Couldn't. The evidence surrounded us—I was alive, whole save for the headache, sheltered rather than buried.
Chloe leaned closer, fingers reaching for my temple. "Let me check that again."
I went still as she examined the injury, her touch impossibly light. Heat radiated from her fingertips, and I had to fight down a shiver that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with how close she was.
My horns began to itch again, that infernal tingling sensation creeping along their length from base to tip. I resisted the urge to reach up and scratch at them, knowing it would do no good. Combined with the throbbing ache in my head, it was almost unbearable.
"It looks better," she murmured, and suddenly the world narrowed to just us—her face so close I could count the silver flecks in those storm-gray eyes, her breath ghosting across my skin like a whispered promise.
The scent of her filled my senses, something sweet and wildly intoxicating that made my pulse quicken. "The swelling's gone down."
She reached for a small clay pot, and I watched, transfixed, as she dipped slender fingers into the herbal-smelling salve. When she turned back to me, there was something in her expression—a softness, a tenderness—that made my breath catch.
The moment her fingers touched my temple again, spreading the cool ointment across my skin, fire lanced through me.
Not pain—something far more dangerous. It wasn't just the gentleness of her touch, though that alone was foreign enough to undo me.
It was the care behind it, the concern shining in her eyes as she focused on tending to me with such devotion, as if I were something precious. Something worth saving.
My horns itched so badly I actually gave thought to chopping them off. Anything to distract from the way my heart hammered against my ribs, from the overwhelming urge to pull her closer and—
"There," she said softly, pulling back, and I had to bite down on a sound of protest. Her cheeks were flushed, and I wondered—hoped—she'd felt it too. That spark of something between us, that electric current that seemed to arc and crackle whenever we touched, growing stronger each time.
I cleared my throat, needing the distraction before I did something foolish. Chloe smiled, and the sight of it—shy and sweet and just for me—made my chest tighten. Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink. "The Welati brought food earlier. You should eat."
Fresh bread sat on a wooden platter, still warm with faint steam rising from the golden crust, alongside a clay pitcher of milk.
Simple fare, but more than I'd expected from supposed savages.
Chloe fetched the tray and brought it to the sleeping platform, settling beside me with an ease that felt both natural and terrifying.
She broke off a piece of bread and handed it to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange—such an innocent touch, yet it sent heat spiraling through me all the same.
We ate in silence for a moment, the bread soft and surprisingly good. The milk was cool and fresh, nothing like the stale rations we'd survived on the past couple of days.
"This is good," Chloe said, surprise evident in her voice. "Really good."
I nodded, taking another bite, though I found myself watching her more than focusing on the food—the delicate way she ate, the small sound of pleasure she made at the taste, the way her lips curved in contentment.
Everything about this situation contradicted what I thought I knew.
The Welati weren't monsters. They were people who baked bread and tended wounds and offered shelter.
What else had I been wrong about?
The door swung open before we'd swallowed our last bites, and a young Welati female stepped inside.
Colorful threads wove through her dark braids like captured sunlight, and though she couldn't have seen more than twenty cycles, something ancient flickered behind her eyes—a wariness that spoke of hard lessons learned young.
"The elder wishes to see you." Not a request. Her voice carried the weight of inevitability. "Come."
The look Chloe and I shared needed no words—equal parts trepidation and resignation.
When I stood, my body staged an immediate rebellion.
The room performed a sickening tilt, and only my palm slapping against the wall kept me upright.
Pain lanced through my head with each breath, but I locked my jaw and forced air through my teeth until the world steadied.
Our guide led us into the heart of the village, and with each step, my preconceptions of the Welati dissipated.
This was no savage encampment. Sturdy buildings embraced a central fire pit in a protective circle, their timber walls fitted with the precision of master craftsmen, thatched roofs thick enough to laugh at winter storms. Smoke curled from stone chimneys in lazy spirals.
Between the homes, children shrieked with laughter as they played some chasing game, their joy so pure and uncomplicated it made my chest ache.
Gardens exploded with life beside nearly every dwelling—vegetables climbing trellises, herbs spilling over borders in fragrant abundance.
This wasn't temporary. This was a home, built with care and meant to last generations.
Eyes tracked our passage. Welati paused mid-task—a woman with her hands deep in bread dough, a man mending a fishing net, an elder whittling by his doorstep—all watching with expressions that ranged from naked curiosity to barely concealed suspicion.
I lifted my chin and let my hand find the small of Chloe's back.
The touch was protective, possessive, and the rightness of it sang through my bones.
The longhouse at the village's far edge dominated everything around it. Weathered timber walls spoke of decades weathering storms, and smoke drifted from multiple roof vents like the building itself was breathing. But it was the doorframe that stopped me cold.
Intricate carvings covered every inch—animals mid-leap, constellations mapped with stunning accuracy, geometric patterns that seemed to shift and flow in the flickering light.
The artistry was breathtaking, each line deliberate, each symbol placed with purpose.
This was the work of generations, of a people who valued beauty and meaning, who had stories worth preserving in wood and time. How had we ever called them savages?
Our guide pushed open the heavy door, and we stepped inside.
Lamplight and firelight competed for dominance in the dim interior, casting dancing shadows that made the carved walls seem alive.
A fire pit ran the length of the space, its flames crackling and sending smoke spiraling toward vents in the high ceiling.
The air was thick with burning pine and something sweeter—flowers, perhaps, or ceremonial herbs.
Benches worn smooth by countless bodies lined the walls, and overhead, massive beams bore more of those mysterious symbols.
But my attention was drawn immediately to the far end of the building.