Chapter 12
Cora POV
I wake to find myself still cradled in Garrion’s arms.
His hold is firm yet gentle, as though even in sleep he refuses to let me go.
His breathing is deep, steady, lips parted slightly beneath the shadow of his mask.
It hides him, conceals the man beneath, and I feel the familiar ache of temptation, to reach up, to pull it away, to finally see the face he guards so fiercely.
But I resist. Not yet.
Something has shifted between us since the inn.
The memory of his kiss lingers on my lips, the warmth of his touch still alive on my skin.
I crave it now, more than I dare admit. Not just the passion, but the way it makes me feel, safe, sheltered, as though the world cannot reach me when I am here, pressed against him.
I slip quietly from the tent, careful not to disturb him. Garrion sleeps deeply, his breath steady. For once, he looks almost peaceful, and I cannot bring myself to break that fragile moment.
The early morning air is cool against my skin, the camp hushed except for the soft murmur of horses shifting in the meadow.
Mika’s words echo in my mind—he told me confidence that Garrion has been carrying out the king’s bidding for the past eight years.
Eight years of blood, steel, and duty. Eight years of war shaping him into the man he is now.
In three months, he will turn twenty-seven. The thought lingers, heavy and strange. A birthday should be a celebration, a mark of life, yet I wonder if he has ever truly celebrated anything at all. What gift could I possibly give to a man who has only ever known war?
My fingers brush the wildflowers at the edge of the meadow, their petals soft, fragile, fleeting. Perhaps he needs something that reminds him of gentleness, of beauty untouched by battle. Or perhaps he would scorn such a thing, too hardened to see its worth.
I sigh, torn between hope and doubt. Still, the thought of giving him something, anything, feels important. Not because duty demands it, but because I want to.
One of Garrion’s men startles me, pulling me from my thoughts. “Are you all right, my lady?” he asks, his tone polite but concerned.
I nod quickly, then tilt my head, studying him. “What is your name?”
“It’s Bjorn, my lady,” he replies with a small bow.
“How old are you?” I press, curious to see how long he will indulge my questions.
“Twenty-three,” he answers without hesitation.
So young, I think, and yet already hardened by war.
“Can you tell me more about Nordvaar?” I ask, my voice softening.
Bjorn’s face brightens, a smile tugging at his lips.
Clearly, he misses his home. “It’s beautiful, especially in winter. The forests are heavy with snow, and the air is so clean it feels like you’re breathing ice. The people are the kindest you will ever meet. My parents’ home is not far from Lord Darkmoor’s fortress.”
The question slips out before I can stop myself. “So you are not married?”
Bjorn chuckles, shaking his head. “I haven’t had the time to look. But with the king’s promise of not calling on us for three winters, I just might.”
I frown, confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he explains, “as a wedding gift, the king promised Lord Darkmoor that he would not summon him into service for three winters.”
The words strike me like a blade. My chest tightens. Is this why Garrion married me? To gain time away from war? Is that all I am to him, a bargain, a reprieve, a transaction dressed as vows?
The doubt creeps in, cold and relentless, and I cannot shake it.
I spot Mika across the camp and stride toward him, my heart heavy with questions I can no longer silence. “Is it true,” I ask, voice tight, “that the king released Garrion from service for three winters?”
Mika studies me for a moment, then nods.
The words taste bitter as they leave my mouth. “Is that why he married me? To gain reprieve from war?”
Mika exhales, his expression hardening. “No. Garrion had no choice in the marriage. The king gave him none. I suppose the promise of three winters free from service was meant to sweeten the deal, so that he would not revolt against the crown.”
His honesty cuts deeper than any blade. My chest tightens, doubt creeping in like a shadow. Am I nothing more than a bargain struck between men? A shield against rebellion?
And yet, I cannot forget the way Garrion’s arms held me, the way his kiss burned with something more than duty. Was that real, or only the illusion I crave?
“He feels something for you, my lady,” Mika says, his voice steady but kind. “He was expecting a spoiled brat, but you’ve surprised him. Give him the chance to see the man he truly is.”
His words linger, stirring something fragile inside me. I nod, though doubt still coils in my chest.
Mika’s grin breaks the heaviness. “Now,” he adds with a spark of amusement, “while our broody Lord sleeps, how about some sword practice?”
The challenge in his tone is playful, but his eyes gleam with curiosity, as though he wants to see what I’m truly capable of.
Garrion POV
I wake alone. Cora is not beside me, and I miss the warmth of her body against mine. The emptiness feels sharper than I expect. I rise, finding my men already awake and moving about camp. For the first time in my life, I have slept in.
Their voices are hushed, their movements purposeful, all heading toward the meadow as though something stirs there. Curiosity drives me to follow.
I arrive just in time to see Mika—ever the provocateur—unsheathe his sword and offer it to Cora. The blade is heavy, and when she grips it, the weight nearly drags her arm down. Yet she steadies herself, her glare sharp enough to cut steel.
“It will never work, Mika,” she snaps, irritation flashing in her voice. With a swift motion, she pulls free the daggers hidden beneath her riding cloak, their gleam catching the morning light.
Mika’s jaw tightens. “Those will not stop the sword,” he bites back, dismissive, mocking.
The words hang in the air, sharp as the blades she holds. My men glance between them, some smirking, others wary. I remain silent, watching her with a growing sense of respect. She does not shrink from Mika’s challenge, nor from the weight of his weapon.
The clearing becomes their arena. Mika stands tall, sword in hand, his grin sharp with challenge. Cora faces him with her daggers drawn, cloak discarded, stance low and ready.
“You’ll never match steel with those toys,” Mika taunts, circling her. His blade gleams in the light, heavy and deliberate.
Cora’s lips curve into a defiant smile. “They’re not meant to match steel. They’re meant to stop you.”
She moves first, quick, darting to his side, her dagger flashing toward his ribs. Mika parries easily, steel ringing out, but her speed forces him back a step. She presses, striking low, then high, her movements fluid, unpredictable.
Mika swings wide, his sword cutting the air with force. Cora ducks beneath it, rolling to his flank, her dagger grazing the leather at his hip. He hisses, more in surprise than pain.
“You’re fast,” he admits, his grin widening. “But speed won’t save you forever.”
Cora’s eyes blaze. “It doesn’t need to. Just long enough to kill you.”
She feints left, then spins right, her second dagger slashing upward. Mika barely catches the strike, his sword locking against her blade. For a heartbeat they are face to face, strength against cunning, his grin against her glare.
Then she twists, slipping free, her dagger pressing lightly against his throat before she pulls back. “Yield,” she whispers, breathless but steady.
“Yes, my lady,” Mika teases, dropping his sword in mock surrender. The men chuckle under their breath, but I cut the moment short.
“Enough,” I command, my voice carrying across the clearing. “Get ready to move out.”
The laughter dies instantly. My men obey without question. Yet as I turn away, my thoughts remain fixed on her. Cora is no fragile girl. She is steel wrapped in silk, and every day she surprises me more.
Cora walks up to me, her steps measured, her voice calm. “Good morning, my lord,” she says.
Something is off. She has been using my name for days now, speaking it with a softness that made me believe the distance between us was closing. But now it is back to my lord—formal, cold, a wall rebuilt between us.
I turn sharply, striding toward Mika. “Something is off with Cora,” I snap, my tone harsher than intended.
Mika doesn’t flinch. “She found out about the king’s gift, the three winters without summons,” he tells me quietly.
My jaw tightens. “How?”
“One of the men mentioned it,” he admits, his voice low, almost apologetic.
Rage floods me, hot and unrelenting. My fists clench at my sides. That secret was never meant for her ears, not yet, not like this.
Mika steps closer, his tone steady, almost reassuring. “Don’t worry, Garrion. She will come around. She feels something for you. More than you realize.”
His words are meant to soothe, but they do little to ease the storm inside me. I want to believe him, want to trust that what I feel when she looks at me is real. Yet doubt gnaws at me, does she see me, or only the mask, the soldier, the bargain struck by a king?
I find her standing beside her horse, her hand resting lightly on the reins. “Cora,” I say, my voice low but firm.
She turns to me, and the sight stops me cold, tears glimmer in her eyes, fragile yet defiant, as though she is fighting to keep them from falling.
Without thinking, I close the distance between us. My hand catches her arm, pulling her toward me, away from the world and its doubts. I lower my head and claim her lips in a hard, unyielding kiss, pouring everything into it, my frustration, my longing, my need.
She stiffens for a heartbeat, then melts against me, her tears forgotten, her breath mingling with mine. The kiss is not gentle; it is raw, desperate, a vow unspoken. In that moment, nothing else exists, no king, no war, no mask. Only her, and the fire she ignites in me.
My hands roam across her back, pulling her closer until I lift her effortlessly. Her legs wrap around me, and I press her against the rough bark of the tree. A soft sound escapes her lips, half?moan, half?breath, and it drives me to lower my mouth to her neck, tasting the warmth of her skin.
Her body responds instinctively, her hips shifting against mine, and I feel the fire in me surge. I match her rhythm, showing her without words how fiercely my body answers hers.
“Garrion… not here, please,” she whispers, her voice trembling between plea and desire.
But even as she begs, her body betrays her, clinging to me, urging me closer. I press my forehead against hers, torn between the hunger that consumes me and the promise I made to wait.
“Three winters with you will be a blessing,” I admit, the words slipping past my guard before I can stop them.
Her breath catches, sharp and fragile, as though the truth has struck her deeper than any blade. For a heartbeat, the world stills—the forest, the fire, even the restless stir of my men fades away. It is only her and me, bound by a promise I never intended to speak aloud, yet cannot take back.
Her eyes widen, luminous in the light, and I see the flicker of hope there, mingled with doubt. I wonder if she realizes how much I mean it, how those winters are not reprieve from war but salvation found in her presence.