Chapter Eleven
Eryon - Earlier
She is back. The refrain echoes in every beat of my heart as I watch from my vantage point across the river. Her presence ripples through the trees, the river, the very bones of the mountain.
And now she appears as a vision before my eyes, wrapped in the golden light of the setting sun.
For one glorious second, time holds her still—immortal, untouchable, a golden statue impervious to the ravages of life and death.
But her eyes—shining with that impossible blue-violet iridescence—declare my Winter Star alive.
She is no mere statue. No fleeting vision.
And oh, how I want to feel the heat of her in my arms.
For she is the promise of warmth, of fire glowing deep within my cave in the heart of winter. Of comfort against the cold loneliness of my existence.
The moment passes, and she moves through the cold, unguarded, her body soft from a world gentler than mine. She pulls her jacket tighter as she hurries toward the fire, her breath curling in the air.
I should leave.
The sight of her sends an ache through my chest, deeper than hunger, sharper than the wind that howls through these peaks, because I am no gentle creature. I swore to myself that I would not seek her out again. That her presence would not stir the things inside me that should remain quiet.
And yet, here I am.
Watching. Waiting. I tell myself it is only to ensure her safety.
That I let her go once because she was leaving my mountains, leaving the place where my claim on her held weight.
But she has returned, whether by fate or chance, and now that she is here, I will not let her walk this path alone. It is a duty. It is instinct.
It is a lie.
I cannot ensure her safety because I am not safe. She has barely been back a day, and already, I feel the old war between logic and something darker stirring in my blood. I cannot let her pull me from the shadows.
She is not mine, my head warns.
Not yet, my heart snaps back.
A restless growl hums in my chest as I press forward, eyes locked on the distant glow of the guesthouse below. Smoke curls from its chimneys, firelight flickers in the windows, and human voices carry on the wind. Their language is rough, foreign.
But hers—I would know hers anywhere.
Her voice falls gently upon my ears, like the hush of falling snow. And oh, how I long to hear my name fall from her lips in worship. Let it drift over my skin, praising me as I pleasure her. Listen for her to call out for me across our home.
It has been so very long since I have heard the sounds that make up my name from another. The thought spears through me, sharp and unwanted. My gaze lingers on her face, searching for something even I cannot name.
She sits near the fire, her face glowing in the flickering light. There is a shadow to her aura, a weariness that was not there before, but her spirit has not dimmed.
Her friend, the small one she calls Sita, leans in, listening. They share words weighted with meaning, gestures that speak of old pain and new determination.
And then, she smiles. Not at me, but at Sita. A smile that is easy, familiar, given freely.
Seeing her with a measure of happiness should bring me peace. Instead, it twists something in my gut because that warmth is not for me. And I want her smile as much as I want to hear my name fall from her lips.
My greedy eyes take in her every move, and when I see her gesture toward the river, her arm sweeping toward the darkened stretch of forest beyond, my heart stutters.
She points to my forest. To the place where the mountain calls to her. To me.
A low, warning rumble builds in my chest. If she crosses into my territory, I do not know if I will be able to stop myself from not just showing myself to her—but claiming her.
Does she know what she is asking? Does she feel it, the way the air changes when she speaks of stepping beyond the boundary?
My heart stutters at the thought of her crossing that line. Into my woods. Into my reach. I imagine it too easily—finding her lost beneath the dark canopy, eyes wide, heart racing, as her breath exits her perfect lips in sharp pants that feather into clouds.
How would she look if I stepped from the shadows? Would she run? Would she scream? Or would those iridescent eyes meet mine with something else?
Curiosity? Recognition? Desire?
I press a clawed hand into the frost-covered earth, grounding myself. She is not mine.
Not yet, my heart whispers again.
The one called Sita leaves, moving toward the guesthouse. She does not see the moment that follows when a stranger, a man, settles beside Dahlia. Not a beast like me. Another human, one she could turn her smile on, too.
I do not know him, but I know he does not belong here with his sharp voice. He is too easy around her. A true male would be on guard, protecting her from the monsters in this wood. Protecting her from me. He does not deserve her smile.
I shift forward, my massive form hidden among the trees. His posture is relaxed, his grin easy, but his movements are measured. Calculated. His hand lands on her knee, his fingers flexing just slightly.
I see the way he leans in, the way he touches her. A small thing. Maybe an innocent thing. And yet, the sight of it sets my blood to a slow, burning simmer. For what man is truly innocent?
I see her stiffen at his touch. She does not want it. Something hot and ugly unfurls inside me. I do not understand it.
No. That is another lie. I understand it too well.
A warning growl rumbles in my throat, a sound that does not belong to these peaceful foothills. But, before I can stop myself, I reach for a thick branch above me—snap.
The crack echoes through the still night like a thunderclap. Exploding like the pain resounding in my heart. A warning, unintentional, yet wholly deliberate.
Even the fire jumps, my anger pulsing through the night like a concussive force. The forest stills, small creatures ducking into their burrows, attuned to the presence of clear and present danger—to me.
She hears me. I know, before she even turns towards the sound, she senses me. Feels my soul calling to hers. I see it in the way she stills, the way she glances over her shoulder toward the tree line, toward the darkness where I stand. Searching.
Her companion startles, laughing uneasily, brushing off the sound as nothing more than a forest creature, or a trick of the wind. A harmless thing.
What a fool he is. I am not harmless. I am the dark of the mountain.
He hesitates. Just for a breath. He glances toward her, toward the empty space beyond the fire. And then he waits. That is the only thing that spares him. Had he left her alone, had he abandoned her to face whatever lurked beyond the firelight, I would not have restrained myself.
I rarely take life, but I am not above enforcing the balance. And a male who would leave a female unprotected in my mountains has no place in them.
He waits for her companion to return, only leaving when Sita arrives. That is why I let him go. For now.
Sita, however, does not hesitate. She knows. She sees Dahlia’s reluctance, the way she lingers, searching the darkness. But Sita does not let her stay. She does not waste time scanning the tree line and knows better than to dismiss the sound.
She pulls Dahlia away with quiet urgency, murmuring words I cannot hear. Perhaps a warning or a plea. Wisely, Dahlia listens and follows her to safety. The door closes behind them, sealing them in away from the night. Away from me.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders against the tight coil of my muscles. My claws flex at my sides, resisting the urge to tear something apart in place of the man.
I should leave. And yet, I do not. Not yet. I linger, moving higher into the trees, watching over the place where she sleeps.
The fire burns low, fading away with the voices inside the buildings. The stars whirl overhead in their eternal dance while I count the beats of my heart until the world stills under the hush of night. Only then do I turn away, retreating into the shadows.
She is here, back within reach. But still too far.
Tonight, I let her rest. Tomorrow, I will follow her on her quest. The first steps to forever.
I feel my feet tread over the frozen earth, feel the mountain breathe beneath me, letting it bear witness. A vow spoken in the heart is a vow carved in stone. But what I’m about to do? This is no mere vow. This is the weight of fate itself.
I drag a claw across my palm, a slow, deliberate cut, dark blood welling against the pale frost of my skin. The cold bites deep, and though the sting is sharp, I do not flinch. I let the blood fall, let the land drink it, an offering to something far older than even me and my kind.
I have made a vow like this before. And still, the world took what was mine.
The earth does not bargain. The wind does not return what has been stolen. No matter how tightly I held on, no matter how fiercely I swore to protect—I was not enough. But I will not fail again.
I breathe the words into the night, letting them settle into the bones of the mountain, into the roots of the trees, into the frost that is sneaking over my skin in the darkest hour before the dawn. The words do not belong to the language of men. They are older. They are mine.
“Let the land bear witness. Let the cold remember. She is not mine until she chooses. But I am hers. And I will not let her walk this path alone.”