The next morning came slow, thick with silence.
The kind that followed not rest, but exhaustion.
The kind that settled over camp like fog clinging to armor.
The previous night had passed like the aftermath of a storm—quiet on the surface, but heavy in the bones. The weight of battle lingered in every movement. Veyra had cleaned and wrapped her own shoulder once the others were sleeping, her fingers stiff from dried blood, her arm aching beneath the leather brace she'd reapplied with too much pressure. The wounds weren't serious. Not like Liora's.
But she hadn't let Malen help.
She hadn't let anyone touch her.
Kellen had said nothing at the time—only watched with that calm, knowing glance that saw further than most dared speak. Now, as he crouched beside the low-burning fire, sharpening the edge of his dagger, his voice cut through the stillness like a whetstone across steel.
"We wait," he said simply. "Until Deyla gets back with the envoys. No point confronting Castle Vale's overseers without confirmation."
His tone was even, unbothered. But Veyra could feel the tension beneath it—the quiet anger. Three dead soldiers. A targeted ambush. A pulled patrol. Too much silence from the wrong direction.
She nodded once. Gave no further comment.
Because her thoughts weren't on the council.
They were on the woman still wrapped in the blanket near the edge of camp. The faint shape of her shoulder beneath the wool. The fall of that copper-gold hair.
"Let's get going..."
—
They were walking just ahead of the others, where the wooded trail narrowed between leaning trees and wild undergrowth. Afternoon light slanted through the canopy in pale gold, cutting across the path in stripes. The air smelled of pine sap and cooling stone. Behind her, Veyra's boots crunched steadily through fallen leaves. Liora walked in front—close, but with her hand occasionally brushing a tree trunk for balance.
She hated the way her side pulled when she moved. The wound wasn't deep anymore, not with Malen's care, but it still bit when she turned too quickly or stepped wrong.
Which she did.
Her heel slipped on a half-buried root, and her body twisted just enough to send her stumbling backward—off-balance, breath catching in her throat.
She collided with Veyra's chest, soft but unyielding. A jolt of heat lit beneath her skin, part pain, part... not.
Veyra caught her without hesitation. One hand wrapped around her upper arm, the other instinctively brushing her side—then pulling back just as fast when she felt the edge of the bandage beneath the fabric.
Liora hissed softly through her teeth, one hand catching at Veyra's belt to steady herself. She didn't move away yet.
"Sorry," she muttered, wincing but trying not to show it. "Didn't see the—"
"Of all places to land," Veyra murmured, voice low and close beside her ear.
Liora tilted her head just enough to glance up—and there it was. The flicker. A tightness in Veyra's jaw, a subtle flare in her silver eyes. And faintly, unmistakably, a blush coloring the edges of her pale cheeks.
Liora craned her head back just slightly to glance up at her—Veyra's face close, unreadable, but not untouched. There was a flicker there—something uncertain, and... was that the faintest flush across her cheeks?
It was.
And Liora's breath caught in her chest—not from nerves, but something brighter. Sharper. That blush was real. She had caused it.
"Fine," she said, catching her breath. Her tone turned light, teasing to hide the pulse hammering in her side. "Not my most graceful moment."
"You've had worse."
She laughed once, quietly. "Comforting. Truly."
And then—without letting herself think too long—she let her fingers shift against the line of Veyra's belt. Her balance was steady now. She could've stepped away.
She didn't. She turned fully, still within reach, her body angled toward Veyra now. Her hand lingered where it didn't strictly need to be.
"Though if I'd known falling into you would get me this close..." Her voice dipped, breath threading around the words. "Maybe I'd have tripped sooner."
Veyra didn't speak right away. Her hand had frozen between withdrawal and wanting. Her lips parted, jaw tight like she was biting back a dozen things.
"I see," she said at last, rough around the edges. "We're pretending that was on purpose now."
Liora's lips curled, slow and deliberate. Her fingers brushed off of Veyra's belt as she finally stepped back.
"Who's pretending?" she said, softer now. "You didn't seem to mind."
Veyra's jaw shifted. Not a full reaction, but enough to confirm everything Liora suspected.
"You're dangerous," Veyra said at last, voice so low it barely reached her.
Liora walked forward—careful now, but no less graceful for it—hips swaying just a little as she walked. She didn't look back, just let the words drop over her shoulder with a smile.
"I didn't hear you complain."
And behind her, Veyra let out a breath that wasn't quite a sigh.
Veyra lingered in the path, watching Liora walk ahead, her stride slower now but no less deliberate. The flush hadn't left her own cheeks, and she hated how aware she was of the curve of Liora's back as it shifted beneath that loose tunic. Her own jaw ached with how tightly she was holding it.
A quiet cough broke her focus.
Kellen rode up beside her, reins loose in one hand, the other resting lazily on his saddle horn.
"She seems to be recovering well," he said mildly, not quite looking at her.
Veyra didn't answer.
His voice came again, a few steps behind, bright with amusement at her silence. "Takes a special kind of stamina to flirt while wounded. I'm impressed."
"She stumbled," Veyra retorted flatly.
"Oh, clearly," Kellen replied. "Right into your belt."
Veyra turned away and began walking again. "We're moving. Stay sharp."
Kellen hummed under his breath, half-laughing to himself. "Oh, we're sharp," he said. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."
Behind him, Malen chuckled.
—
Liora didn't get far.
Her side tugged when she shifted her weight, but it wasn't the wound that made her pause—it was Kellen's voice, just loud enough to carry. Dry. Familiar. Teasing.
"She seems to be recovering well."
There was a beat of silence. She could picture Veyra's expression without turning. Blank. Too blank.
Then Kellen's voice followed again, lighter and more bright.
"Takes a special kind of stamina to flirt while wounded. I'm impressed."
She couldn't help herself.
Liora turned slowly, raising an eyebrow—hand on her hip, lips twitching. "Careful," she called over her shoulder, copper eyes gleaming. "You'll make her retreat before she can deny it again."
Veyra stopped walking.
Kellen grinned outright. "So you were pretending to trip."
"Oh, absolutely not," Liora said, breath catching as she shifted her stance. "That was a genuine moment of poor footing and strategic opportunity."
Kellen chuckled. "Tactical accident. She's learning."
Liora's smile grew—not smug, but sharp-edged with something more dangerous beneath. "If I'd known that kind of stumble would disarm the Lion's Heir," she said, "I'd have tried it days ago."
Veyra turned slightly, silver eyes narrowing. "It didn't disarm me."
Liora tilted her head. "No?" Her gaze flicked down, then back up. "Strange. Your hand hovered like it forgot what it was for."
Malen barked a sudden laugh, and Kellen cracked a full grin at the older man's open amusement.
Veyra looked at neither of them. "We're moving," she said, too even.
"Mm." Liora stepped forward, unhurried. She passed Veyra again with a glance that felt like a test—and a victory. "Let me know if you want me to trip again. Might be good for morale."
Behind her, the forest rustled in the hush that followed. And for once, Liora let herself lead—limping just a little, yes, but shoulders high.
—
Veyra said nothing as the laughter faded behind her. She kept her stride even, posture precise, but her pulse was still a half-step off rhythm.
Liora walked ahead now, not fast, but proud—shoulders high despite the limp, chin lifted like she'd reclaimed something more important than balance.
And maybe she had.
There was something different about her beyond the teasing. It wasn't just the words or the sway in her step—it was the absence of that tight, wary tension she always carried inside the walls of Fort Dalen. The flinches, the silences, the way she curled in on herself when eyes lingered too long.
Out here... she didn't shrink. She rose.
Veyra watched her with the practiced eyes of a soldier, but none of what she noted could be written into a report. The set of Liora's shoulders. The sharpness of her voice when she answered back. The spark of satisfaction in her glance—sharp, confident, and completely aware of the effect she had.
It wasn't just Liora playing bold.
It was Liora being herself.
And gods help her, Veyra felt something in her chest shift at the sight of it. Not desire. That had already bloomed days ago, unwelcome and rooted too deep. No—this was something quieter. Older. The ache of watching someone stand up straighter because you gave them space to breathe, and suddenly realizing how much more dangerous they are when they're not afraid.
She'd thought protecting Liora meant keeping her close. Safe. Watched.
But now, watching her walk ahead—limping, laughing, free—Veyra wasn't so sure.
—
The fire had burned down to coals.
Outside the ring of warmth, the trees pressed close and dark. Somewhere beyond the camp perimeter, a horse stamped a hoof and settled. The others were quiet—Kellen off on a final perimeter check, and Malen asleep with his back to the healer's satchel.
Liora sat near the fire, one knee drawn up, shoulders draped in Veyra's cloak. She looked... content. Flushed faintly from with the flicker of flame and fatigue, but not tense. Not withdrawn. Her heat had abated during the previous night, her body deciding that healing was the more important task at hand—for now.
Veyra knelt beside her without a word.
Liora looked down at her, lips curving faintly. "Thought we agreed I'm dangerous."
"We did." Veyra reached for the edge of the cloak. "But I didn't say I was afraid."
Liora arched a brow. "Is this a checkup or a tactical maneuver?"
"Both." She paused. "Let me see your side."
Liora shifted, wincing only slightly as she undid the belt at her waist. The tunic lifted slowly, inch by inch, exposing bandages wrapped tight around her ribs. Faint traces of dried salve clung to the edges. Beneath them, pale skin gleamed faintly in the firelight—sweat-damp, warm, alive.
She held it there herself, fingers curled in the fabric, knuckles pale against the worn linen.
Veyra's gaze flicked, just once, to where the tunic strained slightly against Liora's chest—caught in her grip, lifted just far enough to show the faint line where bandage met skin.
And then she looked away. Down.
'Stay focused. Professional.'
Her hands moved with care as she peeled the linen back. The wound had closed well—clean along the edge, no sign of infection. Just heat. Pulse. The living body beneath her fingertips.
Veyra pressed lightly near the edge of the injury.
Liora inhaled, sharp but quiet, and the fabric in her fist pulled just a little tighter.
"You still favor your left," Veyra murmured, tone low but even.
"I'm compensating," Liora said, breath catching. "Better than collapsing."
"You're healing. Not invincible."
"And you're worried."
Veyra didn't speak.
Not with words.
Instead, she reached forward again and began rewrapping the bandage, slow and sure—gentle, deliberate. Her hands lingered, brushing skin. Not a single touch wasted. Not a single one innocent.
That earned her a look. Not mocking—knowing. Liora didn't lower the tunic yet. Her arm stayed steady, holding it aloft with the kind of composure that made Veyra's hands feel less certain than they had in years.
She finished the final loop of the bandage. Knot secure. Task complete.
But her hand didn't fall away immediately.
Instead, it drifted just slightly—bare fingers brushing beneath the hem of the tunic as if to smooth the edge of the cloth. A touch too low. Too personal. Her knuckles grazed the curve of Liora's waist before she caught herself and pulled back.
Too late.
Liora's breath caught. Not sharply. Not in pain.
In something else.
She looked down at Veyra's hand, then up again—expression unreadable for a moment. Then she released the tunic slowly, letting it fall into place across her hips, the motion unhurried and quiet, deliberate without being brazen.
Liora watched her through half-lowered lashes, that same faint smile returning—slow, satisfied, and earned.
When Veyra finally looked up, her hands paused at the clasp.
"I'm finished," Her voice was lower than usual.
Liora didn't move. "Mm. For now."
And that was all it took to unsteady Veyra's breath again.
Still holding the tunic, Liora leaned slightly closer. Her voice dropped.
"You've been looking at me different today."
Veyra didn't deny it.
She just breathed in once, shallow and careful, and stayed still.
She didn't move either.
Liora was too close now—her shoulder brushing Veyra's, her scent curling soft and unmistakable in the warm air between them. She still held the tunic up with one hand, bare skin exposed from hip to ribs, the new bandage clean and tight. But the moment lingered. Too long for just a checkup. Too silent.
Veyra's eyes dropped once, unbidden—tracing the faint line where Liora's fingers had curled into the hem of the cloth. Where the fabric trembled just slightly. Where her skin had glowed in firelight.
It wasn't a gaze of hunger.
It was reverence.
As if she didn't know what would happen if she let herself want.
She didn't look away fast enough.
Her voice, when it came, was quieter. Roughened at the edges.
"Hard not to."
Liora turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at her from beneath the fall of her hair.
Her voice came low, guarded.
"You made sure I did."
Liora smiled.
Not coy. Not sharp.
Like she knew exactly how steady Veyra's hands weren't.
"Careful," she said softly, with wicked smoothness. "You're starting to sound like someone who didn't mind."
Veyra froze.
Only for a breath.
But it was enough. Enough for Liora to see the shift in her eyes—and enough for Veyra to feel the shift in the air between them.
Liora's scent, usually soft and floral-sweet, had deepened without warning. Still lavender, still honey—but warmer now, fuller. No fear threaded through it. No confusion. Just a slow, deliberate thrum of confidence and heat, the way a flame burns low before it spreads.
It wasn't instinct.
It was by choice.
Veyra's breath caught, almost inaudibly.
The warmth of her scent lingered between them like silk dragged across skin.
Veyra said nothing.
Liora leaned in slightly, voice hushed with firelight mischief. "If I trip again tomorrow," she murmured, "will you catch me... or let me fall this time?"
Veyra's jaw clenched. She didn't move. Didn't answer.
And Liora grinned.
Small. Triumphant. Beautifully smug.
—
Liora didn't move as Veyra stood and walked away.
She just watched her go—shoulders squared, gait controlled, every step a quiet retreat disguised as discipline. Veyra moved like a blade returning to its sheath: sharp, composed, unreachable. And yet... not untouched.
Not anymore.
Her scent still hung in the air after she passed. That familiar mix of cold steel and pine, clean and commanding—but now there was something beneath it. Something frayed.
Now it held something warmer. Unsettled. As if restraint had thinned at the edges and couldn't quite hold.
It curled around Liora even after Veyra was gone.
And it stirred something in her chest she couldn't quite settle.
That moment.
She hadn't let herself think too hard about it yesterday—hadn't had the time, or the space. But it hadn't left her.
The way Veyra had turned toward her after the stab.
Not just turned—changed.
That first look, when her eyes found Liora on the ground, had been something primal. Silver gone sharp and wild, her entire body pulled forward like the battlefield meant nothing unless she was reaching her. There'd been blood on her cheek, dirt across her armor, a cut along her arm she hadn't even felt yet—but she'd moved through the fight like it owed her a path.
Like the entire world had narrowed to her.
Liora had seen desperation before—in power-hungry Alphas, in frightened strangers, in the eyes of those who wanted to own her.
But not like that.
Veyra hadn't looked at her like something fragile.
She'd looked at her like something irreplaceable.
And gods help her, Liora hadn't known what to do with that.
Even now, in the quiet aftermath, with her tunic settled again and her bandage clean, that image stayed in her chest like a weight wrapped in warmth.
She could still feel it—Veyra's grip on her arm, the snarl in her voice when someone reached too close, the tremble in her jaw that hadn't come from pain.
Liora might tease and grin and push—but underneath it all, that moment sat heavy.
Because for the first time since leaving everything behind, someone had looked at her like losing her would cost them something real. As if losing her had never been an option.
And that truth, still unspoken between them, hummed low beneath her skin—hotter than any flirtation, sharper than any smile.
And something in Liora's chest tightened—quiet and certain.
Because whatever passed between them tonight hadn't come from impulse.
It had come from care.
Her fingers drifted to the edge of the bandage, still warm beneath the linen where Veyra had touched her. Her pulse hadn't settled. Not really. Not even now.
The fire cracked beside her, the coals low and red, but her thoughts ran hotter.
Her voice, barely audible, slipped past her lips like a confession meant only for the dark:
"So that was the Lion's Heir."
Not as title.
Not as legend.
But as a woman—stubborn, silver-eyed, and hers for one unguarded moment.
—
A few paces away, Veyra sat with her back to a tree, arms resting across her knees. She stared into the dark, unmoving.
But her chest still ached like it had forgotten how to breathe.
She could still feel Liora's skin beneath her fingers. The heat of her breath. The weight of her scent curling around her like a question Veyra had no right to answer.
She closed her eyes. Her jaw clenched.
She'd nearly lost her on that road. One more second, one deeper wound—and she would've held Liora's body, not her gaze.
And then tonight—Liora had smiled at her like she saw through every wall she'd built.
Like she knew exactly how close Veyra was to unraveling...
The fire behind her had burned down to low, glowing embers. No crackle left—just the soft hiss of settling coals. She sat with her back braced against the trunk of a tree, legs drawn up, cloak draped over one shoulder like armor she hadn't taken off properly.
She didn't look at Liora.
Hadn't since she stood.
But she felt her.
Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every inch of distance between them that still didn't feel like enough.
The air still held Liora's scent—lavender and honey, faint but insistent, like it had imprinted itself into the folds of Veyra's clothes, into the backs of her hands. It wasn't sweetness. It was presence. Alive. Claiming space.
The scent had changed today.
More open. Less guarded. Like Liora had finally stopped hiding who she was.
And Veyra didn't know what to do with that.
She swallowed, slow and silent, and stared into the trees beyond the camp.
Her eyes saw nothing. Her thoughts saw too much.
The battlefield came back first—the flash of blood, Liora crumpled to the ground, her eyes wide with pain. That instant where her instincts had surged and reason had shattered. She remembered how her feet had moved before her orders did. How her blade had found its way to anything between them without hesitation.
It hadn't been strategy.
It had been desperation.
And then tonight.
The firelight. The closeness. The hand on her belt. The way Liora had spoken to her like she wasn't a command structure or a crest—but a woman. A body. A breath. A thing worth making flustered.
Veyra looked down at her hands—gloved now, but she could still feel the shape of Liora's side under her palm. The way the bandage had wrapped around warm skin. The moment her fingers had brushed too low and Liora hadn't stopped her.
That had almost undone her.
Almost.
She flexed her hand, slow. Her jaw clenched.
She'd stayed longer than she should have. Said less than she meant. Looked more than she had the right to.
And Liora had seen all of it.
She could still feel the weight of her gaze. That smile—small and sure, unafraid. The kind of look that said I see what you're trying not to feel.
Gods, she had.
Veyra tipped her head back against the rough bark and stared up through the trees.
Cold night wind moved through the canopy above, rustling branches like something restless. Her cloak shifted against her neck. Her chest rose, held. She didn't let the breath go.
Didn't dare.
Because if she let anything slip now—breath, thought, guard—she wasn't sure what she'd be holding onto after.
And still, the words came anyway.
Not out loud.
Not even in her mouth.
Just the thought.
Sharp. Certain.
Gods help me, I would.
I would catch her.
Every time.