Chapter 36 Fury & Flame
Fury it exhales it.
Bare branches claw at a pewter sky, the last leaves clinging like embers waiting for frost to finish the work.
The air smells of rain and woodsmoke, damp earth and the faint sweetness of fruit left to rot beneath the trees.
Somewhere beyond the rows, a brook murmurs under a thin skin of ice.
It’s hard to believe that nearly five months have passed since the Bloodmoon—since I was chosen.
Harder still to accept that it’s been only one since Cassy’s death.
A whole month I haven’t spoken to Keiren, refusing his every attempt to reach for me.
I expected the grief to dull with time, but it’s only sharpened, cutting deeper the longer I carry it, eating me alive.
The need to rid myself of it drives me back into the garden. Back to him.
He stands beneath the skeletal arch of an apple tree, his pruning shears glinting in one hand, his cloak dark against the gray morning. He moves with quiet purpose—cutting, trimming, discarding what’s withered so that something new might one day grow.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. Or maybe he has but is giving me time to decide whether I’m ready to break the unbearable silence stretching between us.
I want to flee back into the keep. I want to turn away, every fear and insecurity screaming at me to run—but I’m tired of running. Tired of feeling like this.
I take a step forward, intentionally snapping a twig beneath my boot.
The sound is sharp in the quiet.
When he finally looks up, sunlight fractures through the branches, striking beams of gold through his dark hair.
He stills.
“Hi,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Hello, Fire,” he breathes, his breath coiling in the air like fog.
The word sounds strange on his tongue now.
He takes a few steps toward me, stopping just as I instinctively shift back. His eyes search my face, as if he’s afraid of what he might find there.
“Are you well?” he asks quietly.
It’s a simple question. It shouldn’t hurt.
But the way he looks at me—as if it’s taking everything in him not to cross the distance and pull me into his arms—makes my chest ache.
His hair has grown longer, untrimmed. A faint shadow darkens his jaw. He looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. Human. Vulnerable.
I nod.
We stand there like that, two storms stalled by winter air. The wind shifts, carrying the promise of frost, and I shiver.
“You’re cold,” he says immediately.
Before I can protest, he slips his cloak from his shoulders and drapes it around me—careful, deliberate, making sure he doesn’t touch my skin.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he adds after a moment. “Where’s Arther?”
“I gave him the day off,” I reply. “He’s with Mae.”
His jaw tightens, then eases.
“He can’t guard me forever,” I add quietly. “And… they deserve something good. Before the end.”
Keiren studies me, as though weighing his words.
“I’m sorry about Cassy,” he says at last, reaching for my hand to offer warmth, comfort. Still, I flinch away.
He stops immediately.
“I know,” I continue, my voice tight. “I know it’s not your fault. But I can’t—” My throat closes, pressure tightening behind my eyes. I take a sharp breath and force the words out. “I can’t let myself be comforted by you. Not yet.”
Pain flickers across his face, but he doesn’t argue. He inclines his head slightly. “I understand grief,” he says softly. “The instinct to isolate. To push everyone away.” He gestures toward the orchard. “But you don’t have to carry this alone.”
My chest tightens.
“Do you know why we prune trees before winter?” he asks.
I nod. “To remove what would break beneath snow. To strengthen the whole.”
“Yes,” he says. “Not to punish the tree. To protect it.”
He hesitates, then adds gently, “You need to forgive yourself.”
“I don’t know how,” I admit. “Not without feeling like I’m betraying her. Or the memory of those I love.”
His voice softens. “Forgiveness doesn’t erase love. It honors it.”
The morning light creeps higher, illuminating bare branches and quiet truths.
“I don’t need you to forgive me today,” he continues. “I only ask that you don’t disappear entirely.”
The wind stirs the branches overhead.
I step closer, not into his arms—not yet—but close enough to share the same breath.
When I finally reach for him, it isn’t hunger that drives me.
It’s trust.
I rest my forehead against his chest.
For a moment, he doesn’t move—then he exhales, shaky and relieved, and wraps his arms around me. Not tight. Not possessive. Just enough to hold me upright.
That’s when it breaks.
The grief I’ve been damming spills free—hot, silent tears soaking into his tunic as my shoulders shake. I clutch him like I might fall apart without the anchor of his heartbeat.
“I’m here,” he murmurs at last, his voice rough with emotion. “As long as you’ll have me.”
He doesn’t speak again.
He only holds me—steady and unmoving, his chin resting lightly against my hair.
The orchard stands witness—bare branches, quiet earth, the slow ache of winter settling in.
My tears soak into his tunic, grief spilling out in silent waves until my body finally surrenders to exhaustion.
When my breathing evens and the shaking stops, he’s still there. Holding me.