My boots crunch against the snow as I stride across the camp. Warriors nod respectfully as I pass, but I barely register their presence. My vision narrows, focused solely on the path ahead.
The sun dips low on the horizon, etching the sky in brilliant shades of pink, orange, and purple. Any other evening, I might pause to appreciate the beauty. Not tonight. Tonight, the colors only serve to mock me.
I reach my tent and yank the flap open, ducking inside. The familiar scent of leather and oil surrounds me as I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands clenching and unclenching.
Sixteen summers. Sixteen long, painful summers and now she waltzes back into our lives, expecting forgiveness? Expecting us to welcome her with open arms? And Praxis...how can he stand there and act as if the past never happened?
I want to scream, to rage, to tear this tent apart with my bare hands.
But I don’t.
Not when I can’t afford to lose control, not now. Not when my men need me to be strong, to lead them through this brewing rebellion.
I stiffen as the tent flap shifts, expecting Praxis to come barging in with more talk of family and forgiveness.
But it’s not Praxis.
Everly steps inside, her face pale. Yet, as her eyes findmine, concern burns behind them—concern for me.
How can she look at me like that when her heart is heavy with grief?
“Cenric?” she says softly. “I saw you earlier… Are you all right?”
I want to tell her I’m fine, to send her away, but the words won’t come. Instead, I allow my focus to linger on her.
She’s wearing the surcoat I gave her. The deep blue fabric drapes elegantly over her curves, and her curly light brown hair hangs down her back, a few stray tendrils framing her face.
My eyes trace her features. The curve of her cheeks, the light dusting of freckles across her nose, the fullness of her lips.
She’s beautiful.
“Cenric,” she begins again as she takes a step toward me. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll leave.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“Has something happened? I saw you earlier…”
“It’s nothing,” I say, not willing to talk about my mother’s betrayal.
Torchlight skims Everly’s features as she tilts her head, studying me. “It didn’t look like nothing.”
How can I explain the storm of emotions raging within me? The grief that threatens to consume me, the anger that simmers in my veins, the longing for something I have no right to desire.
“What do you need?” her question burns through me.
I need to understand how a mother could abandon her children. Mostly, I need to not be alone right now.
“I need you to stay.”
I brace for pity or platitudes, but Everly offers neither. Instead, she closes the space between us and sits next to me on the bed.
“You don’t have to talk,” she says as her eyes meet mine. “We can just sit here.”
We sit in silence for a long moment, the only sound our quiet breathing and the distant murmur of the camp outside. I close my eyes, letting the tension slowly ebb from my shoulders.
When I open them again, I find Everly watching me, her gaze filled with a warmth that makes my chest clench. There’s no pity in her eyes, no judgment—just a quiet acceptance.
Without thinking, I reach out and take her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers delicate compared to mine.
