Chapter Twenty-Four #2
At first, it was just a shiver underfoot, a faint crack like glass under pressure, then the stone gave way with a hollow snap. My boot plunged through loose shale, the edge crumbling outward in a sudden spray of dust and rock.
One leg dangled in the open air. My weight pitched forward, with nothing solid beneath me. The void yawned below, black and endless.
I clawed at the edge, but my fingers only scraped shards of crystal. My balance tipped. My stomach dropped.
I screamed.
And then—he was there.
A flash of movement, and his hand slammed around my wrist with bruising force. My shoulder wrenched under the sudden stop, the rest of me still sliding toward the drop. Pebbles rattled away into the mist.
“I’ve got you,” he gritted, his arm trembling with the effort as he heaved me upward. My chest scraped hard against the ridge, knees buckling under until we both lost our footing and tumbled backward.
I landed half on him, half sprawled on the cold stone, my heart hammering so violently I could taste metal. Air burned in my lungs, coming in ragged gasps.
He crushed me against his chest, his arms locking around me like iron bands. His hands were still shaking, fingers flexing against my back like he couldn’t quite let go. His breath was harsh against my ear; his body still braced like we were hanging over the edge instead of lying on solid ground.
For a moment, neither of us moved, too stunned to trust the stone beneath us.
“You’re not allowed to die,” he rasped.
I couldn’t breathe. “You caught me.”
“Of course I did.” He pulled back enough to look at me, his face pale, eyes wide, voice trembling. “Do you think I’d ever let you fall?”
Tears blurred my vision. “You let me go every day.”
He shut his eyes for a brief moment.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered. “To care for someone without ruining it. I wasn’t taught how to hold things that matter. Only how to survive.”
I curled my hands into his tunic. “Then you learn.”
We sat there trembling, tangled, and stupid, with my head against his shoulder and the entire world steaming around us.
Finally, he muttered, voice cracking: “You smell like crushed herbs and panic, Princess.”
I laughed through the tears.
For a long time, neither of us moved.
His arms were still around me, not in panic now, but something quieter.
My face was against his chest, and for the first time, I realized how fast his heart raced. Not the rhythm of battle or rage but something vulnerable. Something like fear.
I leaned back far enough to look at him.
His brow furrowed; his mouth parted slightly like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The bruises under his eyes were worse up close, exhaustion blooming like shadow petals under his lashes. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days.
No…someone who hadn’t rested in years.
“You meant it,” I said softly.
His eyes flicked to mine. “Meant what?”
“What you said. About not knowing how to hold things that matter.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “Yes.”
I shook my head. “So…I matter? To you?”
A muscle in his cheek twitched. He was still trying to stay armored, even here, even now, but he wasn’t built for armor. He was built for silence. For stillness. For the edge of a blade.
And yet at this moment, he wasn’t holding a weapon. He was holding me.
“Yes,” he breathed.
I reached up, brushing the edge of a scrape on his temple. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
“I’ve always done it alone.”
“You don’t have to keep choosing that.”
His gaze finally returned to mine, and it hurt; how raw it was. Like he’d let no one look that deep before.
“Why do you keep trying?” he asked. “Why me?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Maybe because I see something in you that’s good. Even when you don’t.”
He swallowed hard, throat working. “You’re too soft.”
“You’re too stubborn.”
“You’re reckless.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“You’re…beautiful,” I breathed, before I could stop myself.
He went still.
I clapped a hand to my mouth. “I meant—I mean, not—I meant your soul—like, the metaphor, not your—not that you’re not also—”
He blinked slowly. “You’re stuttering.”
“I am not.”
“You’re doing that thing where your ears go pink.”
“They do not.”
“They do,” he murmured, and something in his expression shifted; gentler, unguarded. Like something had cracked open, and he wasn’t rushing to shut it.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever called my soul beautiful before,” he added shyly.
“Then they were fools,” I whispered.
Silence claimed him once more, not the rigid stillness of calculation, but the sudden, breathtaking blankness of shock. His stare held the speaker, raw and exposed, as if I had reached through his chest and found a pulse he’d long forgotten.
And then, our hands touched.
Bare skin, palm to palm.
It was innocent. Accidental, even. But something happened.
Warmth stirred beneath my skin, starting low and soft like the curl of a candlewick before it bloomed into flame. A golden flicker danced between our joined hands—delicate, weightless, like a fire without heat.
I gasped.
He didn’t let go.
The unburning fire shimmered. Not bright. Not wild. But alive. It rose like breath, twining between our fingers, and for a moment, it felt like I was touching not just him, but something eternal.
“What is that?” he whispered.
I could barely speak. “I think it’s me.”
The fire pulsed once, gently, then faded, leaving only the memory of its warmth on my skin.
We stared at our hands. Then at each other.
“I didn’t mean to—” I began.
“I know,” he said.
Neither of us moved.
But he didn’t pull away.
And I didn’t want him to.
…
Eventually, we walked back slowly.
The path looked different now. The air was still thick with steam and sulfur, but the sharpness had dulled, or maybe it was me. Something had shifted in the way I held my weight.
Erindor walked beside me in silence, his hand brushing mine once before slipping away again. He didn’t offer any words or explain what had happened.
He didn’t need to.
Something had bloomed between us. Not a confession, not a promise, but the space where both of us could one day live.
The camp came into view beyond the slope, a dim cluster of figures outlined by firelight.
Gideon was poking the cookpot, muttering about cinder-tinted soup.
Jasira sat wrapped in her cloak with Bran curled at her feet.
Alaric lay sprawled on his back with his lute cradled against his chest, fast asleep, a smear of drool across one cheek.
No one noticed our return, not really, though Jasira glanced up once, eyes flicking between us and then narrowing with a knowing look. She said nothing as she smiled faintly and returned to her tea.
I settled near the fire, drawing my cloak tight around my shoulders. My palm still tingled faintly where the fire had kissed my skin. I opened my hand beneath the shadow of my cloak, half-expecting to see it again.
But nothing. Only skin and the glowing memory of what was just there.
Across the fire, Erindor sat a little apart. Not distant. Not watching the trees for danger.
Watching me.
Like I was something he didn’t yet understand but wanted to.
He didn’t look away.
And neither did I.
Something shifted in his expression, and then his gaze dropped for a breath. His hand drifted to his pocket, fingers brushing against it like a reflex. A slow, unconscious movement.
He let his palm linger there for a moment, then curled it back into his lap as if it had meant nothing.
But it had.
Whatever he cupped to his chest remained hidden, yet his touch, delivered with an unsettling gaze fixed on mine.
And for reasons I couldn’t explain, it left me momentarily breathless.