Chapter 8
DRALGOR
The storm gathers its strength as night settles, the kind of storm that doesn’t simply pass through but decides to claim the ridge and hold it.
I’ve felt this before in other winters, in places far less forgiving than Silverpine, where men learned to measure their lives in hours of warmth and minutes of wind.
But tonight, the difference is that I am not in a rig or a tower or a hotel suite built to withstand elements that don’t care who owns the deed.
Tonight, I am in a lodge with wood that complains in the beams and windows that shudder in their frames, and a woman who is far too stubborn to admit she’s worried.
The fire I built earlier has burned steady, flames eating through the wood with a rhythm I trust more than most men.
Clara sits across from me with her knees tucked under the blanket she wrapped around herself, hair slipping loose from its tie, eyes watching the snow gather thick against the windowpanes.
She has not spoken for some time, but her silence is not weak.
It is the kind of silence that makes a room heavier because you know it is filled with words she is holding back.
I put another log on the fire, settle against the stone, and let the crackle fill the space until she finally exhales through her nose and says, “That storm’s not letting up until morning. Maybe longer. Looks like you’re stuck.”
“I’ve been in worse places,” I say.
“You’ve probably been in nicer ones, too.”
I let that slide. She’s not wrong. I’ve spent winters in glass towers that swallowed half a city skyline, penthouses with radiant floors and walls that never rattled no matter how much the wind screamed. I’ve chosen those places because they were proof of what I built.
But sitting here, with the draft sneaking in around the windows and the fire daring me to keep it alive, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something closer to memory than victory.
“You can take the couch,” she says after a beat, tipping her chin toward the faded piece of furniture tucked in the corner of the room. “I’ll be fine on the rug.”
“The couch is too far from the fire,” I tell her. “You’ll freeze.”
“I’ve slept there before.”
“And you’ll wake half-frozen.”
She frowns, pulls the blanket tighter around herself, and says, “Then I’ll take the rug. It’s my house, my rules.”
“Then we share the hearth,” I answer.
Her eyes snap to mine. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is,” I say evenly. “Because pride won’t keep you warm.”
For a long moment she doesn’t respond, just stares at me with the kind of glare that has teeth in it. Then she shakes her head and mutters, “You are insufferable.”
I don’t argue. I’ve been called worse.
We settle opposite each other on the floor, fire between us like a boundary neither of us is ready to cross.
I fold my coat under my head, keep my body angled toward the flames, and watch her fuss with the quilt she’s claimed as her armor.
She lies down eventually, turning her back to me, and I almost think she intends to let sleep win.
But then she shifts, faces me again, and speaks into the low orange light.
“That stew,” she says. “It was good. Not what I expected from you.”
“It was my mother’s recipe.”
That catches her. She blinks, tilts her head, and says softly, “You cook.”
“When I have to.”
“Did she teach you?”
“She taught me a great many things,” I say, keeping my tone even. “That recipe is one of the few I didn’t forget.”
The words land heavier than I expect, and before I can try to stop myself, I remember the way her hands looked dusted in flour, strong from work yet patient enough to roll dough thin and even.
She used to hum while she worked, not a song with words, just a tune that kept time with the scrape of the spoon or the rhythm of the knife. When I was young, she taught me how to make cookies on winter nights when the wind sounded too much like voices outside the walls.
I can still feel her guiding my hand on the wooden spoon, telling me not to rush the mixing, that care mattered more than speed, that anything worth sharing was worth doing properly.
I have not baked a cookie in decades, but the smell of butter and sugar sometimes comes back when I least expect it, like a ghost that refuses to stay buried.
Her mouth quirks, but it’s not mockery. “Well, you did her proud tonight. It was exactly what I needed.”
I nod once, not trusting myself to say more. My mother’s shadow is not a thing I offer lightly, and I don’t know why I gave it to Clara of all people. But I don’t regret it. Not yet.
She tucks herself tighter into the quilt, her lashes lowering. “You’re still a tyrant,” she murmurs. “But at least you make good stew.”
The fire cracks, and she drifts closer to sleep, her words trailing off into something that doesn’t quite form.
I stay where I am, steady and still, tending the flames when they need it.
It’s what I know. I have always been good at keeping fires alive, whether they were in engines or hearths or my own chest when everything else wanted to snuff them out.
Midnight comes without a clock. I know the hour by the way the storm finds its rhythm, how the snow slams heavy against the shutters, how the timbers stop creaking and simply endure.
Clara is asleep now, breathing deep and even, the blanket pulled high against her chin.
The sharpness has left her features, leaving behind a softness that unsettles me more than any glare ever could.
She looks younger like this. Not fragile, not weak, just…
untouched by the weight she insists on carrying when she’s awake.
A strand of hair slips across her cheek, catching the glow of the fire.
My hand moves before I can order it not to.
I don’t reach fast, don’t reach with hunger, only with the simple impulse to brush it away.
But my fingers stop just shy of her skin.
I hover there, still as stone, and I remind myself of every lesson carved into me by harder winters than this.
Comfort is not permission. Peace is not permanent.
If I touch her now, I won’t be able to call it nothing later.
She stirs, sighs, and says my name. Not sharp, not laced with fury, just soft. Soft enough to feel like it belongs in another life. My chest tightens, my hand curls into a fist, and I set it back on the stone before the temptation ruins me.
I bank the fire again, the coals glowing red and patient.
I lean back against the hearth, watching her shoulders rise and fall.
And I realize, not for the first time tonight, that I am not afraid of the blizzard outside these walls.
I am afraid of the quiet in this room, and what it does to me.
She makes me feel something that looks too much like peace.
And peace is a danger I was never taught to survive.