The corridor outside Amor’s chambers had fallen into near silence by the time Valdor returned from the estate grounds, carrying a covered clay cup between both hands as though the dark herbal mixture inside were something far more precious than medicine. Steam curled through the narrow gap beneath the lid, carrying traces of silverleaf, stone mint, and the crushed roots he had gathered beneath the moonlight, while a sweeter fragrance lingered beneath the sharper medicinal scents. He had walked quickly enough that several servants struggled to keep pace, unwilling to risk the remedy cooling before it reached Amor.
Valdor had just approached the bedroom doors when they opened from within.
Doctor Haverin stepped into the corridor, fastening the clasp of his physician’s case with the weary irritation of a man who had been summoned late at night to diagnose an ailment he did not believe existed. His silver spectacles had slipped toward the end of his nose, and several strands of gray hair stood out from his otherwise orderly appearance, suggesting Lanslet’s panicked questions had exhausted him more thoroughly than the examination itself. The physician stopped when he saw Valdor, his gaze descending first to the steaming cup and then to the warrior’s severe face.
"You must be the one responsible for tonight’s medical emergency."
Doctor Haverin said.
Valdor’s brows drew together.
"Is Amor ill?"
"No..."
The blunt answer struck him into stillness. Doctor Haverin adjusted his spectacles and regarded the enormous warrior with the faintly disapproving patience usually reserved for anxious parents and patients convinced that ordinary fatigue was fatal.
"Young Lord Amor’s lungs are clear, his pulse is steady, and his temperature is entirely normal albeit on the cooler side. He sneezed because he spent too long outside among flowering plants while wearing clothing that would struggle to warm a decorative statue."
Valdor glanced toward the closed bedroom door.
"Are you sure? His face was hot."
"Yes..."
The physician replied.
"From embarrassment!"
Valdor stared at him. Doctor Haverin’s mouth twitched, though professional restraint prevented the expression from becoming a smile.
"Apparently, your concern over two sneezes caused the young master considerable mortification, which only made his cheeks warmer, which then convinced you that his imaginary fever was worsening. It was an impressively efficient cycle of misunderstanding."
A faint warmth began creeping across Valdor’s ears. The warrior looked down at the medicine he had prepared, remembering the urgency with which he had crossed the gardens, collected herbs, and instructed servants to summon a healer. He had imagined Amor shivering beneath blankets while illness spread through his delicate body, when in truth the only danger had been pollen and his own refusal to understand embarrassment. For a man who prided himself upon reading tracks, wounds, and hidden intentions, the mistake was humiliating.
Doctor Haverin noticed the darkening color along Valdor’s cheekbones and appeared almost satisfied by it.
"He is resting now, and he requires nothing beyond warmth, sleep, and perhaps fewer people discussing his sneeze as though it were an omen of death."
Valdor’s fingers tightened carefully around the clay cup.
"The medicine will not harm him."
"What is in it?"
Valdor listed the herbs, explaining their purpose and approximate proportions with enough precision that the physician’s irritation gradually gave way to professional interest. Doctor Haverin asked two additional questions regarding the stoneleaf and bitterroot, then nodded after determining that the mixture was mild enough for Amor’s constitution.
"He does not need it, but it should cause no difficulty if he chooses to drink it."
Valdor inclined his head. The physician stepped past him before pausing to look back.
"For future reference, Lord Valdor, sneezing is not usually fatal."
"I know."
"Your behavior suggested otherwise."
Valdor’s ears became warmer again. Doctor Haverin departed down the corridor with the dignified stride of a man who intended to return to bed before another affectionate fool invented a medical crisis. The servants stationed nearby maintained expressions of heroic neutrality, though one lowered his gaze so quickly that Valdor suspected laughter had nearly escaped. He ignored them and turned toward Amor’s door.
His embarrassment did not lessen his desire to leave the medicine behind. Even if Amor possessed no fever, he had still been cold enough to shiver, and the herbs would warm his blood while easing any irritation left by the pollen. Valdor had prepared the mixture for him, sweetened it carefully, and carried it across the estate before the heat could fade. Allowing it to go unused felt wasteful, though that was not the only reason he remained.
He wanted to see that Amor was safe. Valdor opened the door with painstaking care.
The bedchamber beyond lay mostly dark, illuminated only by the low fire in the hearth and a single lamp turned down near the sitting area. Heavy curtains covered the windows, preventing moonlight from disturbing the room, while the air carried the soft fragrances of lavender oil, warm linen, and the faintly bitter ointment wrapped beneath Amor’s sleeve. Several maids had apparently withdrawn after confirming their young master was changed and settled, leaving the chamber peaceful and still.
Amor lay curled beneath layers of blankets in the center of the enormous bed. Only his head and one pale hand remained visible, surrounded by a loose spill of lavender hair that shone faintly beneath the dim firelight. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even, while the flush that had so alarmed Valdor earlier had faded from his cheeks. Without his sharp expressions and graceful movements, Amor appeared younger, softer, and even more delicate than he did while awake.
Valdor stood near the doorway for several breaths. He knew now that Amor was not ill, yet the sight of him resting loosened something in Valdor’s chest that the physician’s explanation had not. No fever had taken hold, no hidden injury from the ram had emerged, and the night air had caused nothing worse than two tiny sneezes. Amor was safe.
Valdor crossed the room silently. The thick rugs muffled his steps as he approached the bed, carrying the medicine with the steadiness of someone navigating near a sleeping predator rather than a nobleman buried beneath soft blankets. He placed the clay cup upon the bedside table, positioning it far enough from the edge that Amor could not knock it over if he reached blindly after waking. Then he adjusted the lid and wrapped the remaining strip of insulating cloth around the cup so the warmth would remain trapped inside for as long as possible.
A small folded note rested beneath the cup. Valdor had asked a servant to write the instructions in the kingdom’s script, explaining that Amor could drink the mixture if his throat felt irritated or if he woke cold during the night. He had also insisted the servant include that the medicine was safe, because Amor had regarded the earlier ointment as though it might dissolve his wrist. The final line simply stated that honey had been added.
Valdor looked toward the sleeping figure again.
Amor had shifted slightly, turning his face more fully toward the bedside table while one hand rested near his cheek. His lashes cast delicate shadows against his pale skin, and the plump curve of his lips remained softened by sleep. Valdor’s gaze lingered longer than necessary.
His hand lifted without conscious decision. The broad palm moved slowly toward Amor’s head, drawn by an urge to smooth the loose hair away from his face or rest briefly against the soft crown. Valdor had touched younger siblings that way after nightmares, offering comfort without waking them, and the gesture arose with the same instinctive tenderness. Yet Amor had not invited that touch.
Valdor stopped inches above him. His fingers curled gradually into his palm.
Concern did not grant him permission, and sleeping trust should not be taken merely because it could not be refused. Valdor lowered his hand, though the effort required to do so surprised him. He remained beside the bed for one final moment, watching Amor breathe, before turning toward the door.
"Rest warmly, Amor."
He murmured. The words were barely louder than the fire.
Valdor left the chamber and closed the door with such care that the latch made only the faintest click. His footsteps receded down the corridor, followed by the quiet voice of a servant offering to escort him toward the guest wing. Silence returned to Amor’s room.
Amor’s eyes snapped open.
He remained motionless for another heartbeat, listening carefully until Valdor’s steps had faded beyond hearing. Then he pushed himself upright so quickly that the blankets slid into his lap and lavender hair spilled across his shoulders in disordered waves. His face, which Doctor Haverin had finally convinced everyone was free of fever, immediately burned crimson.
He had been awake from the moment the door opened. Amor had intended to remain hidden beneath the blankets until Valdor left, partly because facing him after the ridiculous misunderstanding seemed impossible and partly because he wanted to see what the warrior would do when he believed no one was watching. He had expected Valdor to leave the medicine with a servant or perhaps wake him with another grave announcement about impending illness. He had not expected such quiet care.
His gaze fell upon the bedside table. The clay cup sat bundled within dark cloth, the lid secured carefully to preserve its warmth, while the small note beneath it bore the neat handwriting of one of the household servants. Amor reached for the paper and read the brief instructions twice, pausing when he reached the final line about honey. The warmth in his face spread downward into his chest.
Valdor had returned to the garden at night, gathered medicinal plants, prepared them himself, and sweetened the mixture because Amor preferred pleasant flavors.
He had carried it upstairs after learning there was no illness to treat, then entered quietly enough to avoid disturbing Amor’s supposed sleep. He had even stopped himself from touching Amor’s hair when he believed permission could not be granted. Every part of the act reflected the same careful consideration Valdor had shown throughout the day, offered without performance and without any expectation that Amor would know enough to praise it.
Amor looked toward the closed door. The memory of Valdor’s suspended hand made his heart beat strangely. Had the warrior touched him, Amor doubted he would have objected, though that was hardly the point. Valdor had wanted to offer tenderness and restrained himself because Amor had not consciously accepted it. That choice made the almost-touch feel more intimate than an actual caress might have.
"How unfair."
Amor whispered. Valdor continued disarming him without seeming to understand that he was doing it.
Amor removed the cloth from around the cup and lifted the lid. The herbal scent emerged at once, though steam no longer rose as strongly as before. Beneath the sharpness of the roots and leaves, a distinct sweetness carried the familiar fragrance of honey. He knew he did not need the medicine.
Doctor Haverin had declared him healthy with enough exasperation to make the diagnosis memorable, and drinking an unnecessary remedy simply because someone prepared it might have been foolish. Yet leaving it untouched felt worse. Valdor had made it for Amor’s comfort rather than the benefit of the treatment alone.
Amor lifted the cup. He took a cautious sip, prepared for the bitterness that usually accompanied herbal medicines, only to find the flavor surprisingly gentle. Honey softened the sharper plants, while something resembling mint cooled his throat without overpowering the warm spices beneath it. The drink tasted less like medicine and more like a dark, fragrant tea designed specifically for someone who disliked unpleasant things.
His eyes widened slightly. Valdor had not merely added enough sweetness to make the mixture tolerable. He had balanced the honey carefully so Amor would enjoy it.
Amor took another sip.
Warmth spread through his stomach and along his limbs, whether from the herbs, the lingering heat, or the knowledge of how much thought had gone into the cup. By the time he finished half of it, the earlier embarrassment surrounding his sneezes seemed distant and almost silly. Valdor had not judged the moment because there had been nothing to judge.
He had only worried.
The realization filled Amor with a sensation both unfamiliar and dangerously comforting. He had been admired for beauty, desired for status, and pursued for the thrill of possessing someone difficult, yet feeling cherished was entirely different. Cherishing lived in small decisions made when no audience watched—softening bitter medicine, protecting another person’s sleep, and stopping a hand before affection became an intrusion.
Amor finished the drink. He replaced the lid and returned the cup to the bedside table, then settled beneath the blankets once more. The mattress embraced him in familiar softness, while the herbal warmth spreading through his body made the room feel even more comfortable. He touched the bandaged wrist resting near his chest and thought of the same hands that had mixed both the ointment and the medicine.
A smile formed before he could prevent it. Amor turned onto his side, facing the clay cup as though the simple object could preserve Valdor’s presence after he had gone. The concerns that usually followed him into sleep—the unstable plot, Alphonsins’s refusal to accept the breakup, and the possibility of some unseen death flag waiting beyond his memories—seemed quieter beneath the warmth Valdor had left behind. For one night, he did not feel compelled to solve any of them.
His eyes gradually closed. This time, when sleep reached him, Amor surrendered without resistance.
Valdor, meanwhile, followed a servant through the lower corridors of House Moons.
The guest quarters occupied the ground floor of the eastern wing, separated from the family rooms by the grand staircase, several galleries, and enough distance that the arrangement immediately displeased him. Blackstone households placed guests near the central fire and family members near one another, particularly when danger had recently occurred. The idea of sleeping an entire floor below Amor felt unnecessarily distant.
Valdor made no complaint. He understood that noble estates followed their own customs, and House Moons had already made considerable adjustments to receive him and Vervath comfortably. Demanding a room nearer Amor after a single day would invite questions he was not yet prepared to answer. Still, he counted every turn between the guest wing and the staircase, memorizing the fastest path upstairs. The servant opened a broad wooden door.
"Your quarters, honored guest..."
He said.
"Lord Moons instructed us to remove the more fragile furnishings and arrange the space according to the preferences your father provided."
Valdor stepped inside.
The room was exceptionally large by Blackstone standards, nearly the size of a communal winter lodge, though much of the unnecessary furniture had been removed. Dark wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and plain timber panels softened the pale stone walls, giving the chamber more warmth than the silver-trimmed galleries beyond. Two thick cushioned sleeping mats had been placed on opposite sides of the room, each layered with clean blankets and heavy furs.
A broad fireplace burned along the far wall. Beside it stood a simple table, two sturdy chairs, and a rack where weapons, belts, and clothing could be placed without damaging delicate surfaces. A deep washing basin occupied a screened corner, accompanied by buckets of heated water and coarse cloths suitable for bathing. There were no embroidered canopies, crystal ornaments, porcelain statues, or narrow chairs designed for lighter bodies.
Most nobles would have considered the accommodations humiliatingly plain.
They might have interpreted the floor mats as a refusal to provide proper beds, the lack of decorations as an insult to their rank, and the wooden furniture as evidence that House Moons viewed them as uncivilized. To Valdor, the room appeared almost extravagantly comfortable. The mats were softer than the layered hides used during travel, the fireplace provided constant warmth without requiring anyone to gather wood, and the heated water waiting beside the basin was a luxury few hunting camps could offer.
Vervath stood near his sleeping mat, removing the heavy wolf pelt from his shoulders. Without the animal’s head resting over his own, the chieftain appeared marginally less imposing, though his scarred body and immense frame still dominated the room. His beard had been combed after dinner, and the black tribal markings across his chest gleamed faintly from a fresh layer of protective oil. He glanced toward Valdor with a knowing look the moment his son entered.
The servant bowed and withdrew, closing the door behind him. Vervath lifted one brow.
"[What took you so long?]"
Valdor crossed toward the washing basin.
"[Amor sneezed.]"
He answered. He spoke with such calm honesty that Vervath’s hands paused upon the clasp of his leather belt. The chieftain watched as Valdor began unfastening the pouches secured around his waist, placing them carefully beside the basin before stripping away the leather wrap crossing his chest. Nothing in Valdor’s expression suggested he understood why the answer might require further explanation. Vervath’s knowing look deepened.
Valdor removed the remaining straps from his arms and began preparing the water for washing, entirely unaware—or perhaps deliberately unconcerned—that his father had already understood far more than those three words should have revealed.
Valdor continued preparing himself for the night as though his father’s knowing stare were no more troublesome than the heat gathering from the fireplace. He poured another bucket of steaming water into the broad washing basin, testing the temperature with one scarred hand before beginning to remove the last pieces of leather and fur still covering his body. The fire behind him cast shifting amber light across his dark caramel skin, illuminating the black tribal markings that stretched over nearly every powerful plane of his physique.
Without the furs, weapons, leather straps, and travel pouches surrounding him, the sheer physical enormity of Valdor became even more striking.
His shoulders were extraordinarily broad, built not merely for appearance but through years of drawing heavy bows, swinging axes, hauling carcasses, and wrestling creatures that would have torn ordinary soldiers apart. Thick muscle rolled seamlessly from his neck into the rounded strength of his shoulders, while his chest was deep and solid enough to resemble a wall shaped from living flesh. The dark markings spread across it like the wings of a predatory bird, following every defined contour and narrowing toward the hard ridges of his abdomen.
There was no softness anywhere upon him that had not been earned through relaxation.
His arms were corded with dense muscle from shoulder to wrist, the thick veins beneath his skin becoming more visible whenever he flexed his hands or lifted another bucket of water. His forearms alone looked powerful enough to crush timber, yet those same arms had carried Amor from the tree with painstaking care and held a tiny clay cup as though one careless movement might destroy it. Scars crossed the hardened flesh in pale, uneven lines, each one recording an encounter with claw, blade, horn, or stone.
His torso narrowed from his immense chest into a powerful waist, though even its leanest point remained broader than most men’s shoulders. The muscles along his abdomen were sharply divided, not sculpted by ornamental exercise but hardened through constant movement, hunger, cold, and combat. Black symbols disappeared over his ribs and continued down the deep grooves beside his hips, drawing the eye toward the unmistakably masculine strength of the rest of his body.
His legs were equally formidable.
Valdor’s thighs carried the brutal power that had allowed him to leap into the oak while holding Amor against his chest, each one thick with muscle and marked by old scars earned while crossing mountains or bringing down beasts. His calves remained heavily defined even when relaxed, shaped by endless climbing over stone and snow rather than walking the polished floors of noble estates. Nothing about his body appeared decorative, yet its overwhelming solidity possessed a rugged perfection no sculptor could have convincingly reproduced.
Even the portions of him that remained briefly hidden by the last fold of fur suggested that Blackstone blood had been exceptionally generous with him in the groin area.
The covering rested low upon his hips, strained by the breadth and masculine weight of twelve heavy inches concealed beneath it before Valdor untied the final cord without ceremony. Vervath paid no attention, accustomed to communal bathing and a culture where bodies inspired neither embarrassment nor unnecessary performance, but any noble unfamiliar with Blackstone customs would likely have found the warrior’s length difficult to ignore. Valdor possessed the sort of physical endowment that required no deliberate display to announce itself, its thick girth outline would be evident even beneath the loose sleeping cloth waiting beside his mat.
Valdor stepped into the basin.
The water rose around his calves and powerful thighs before he lowered himself gradually, forcing the level nearly to the rim as his immense body displaced it. His broad shoulders remained above the surface, glistening beneath the firelight as steam curled around the dark markings across his chest. He leaned back against the wooden edge and released a slow breath, allowing the heat to loosen muscles strained by the ram, the cooking, and his nighttime search through the gardens.
For the first time since entering the guest room, he appeared fully relaxed.
His head tilted back slightly, damp black hair settling against his shoulders while the water lapped gently against the hard lines of his abdomen. Valdor had bathed in frozen streams, shallow rivers, hollowed stone basins, and communal pools warmed by volcanic springs, so the luxury of endless heated water felt almost excessive. Still, he accepted the comfort without complaint, closing his eyes as the remaining tension drained from his body.
Across the room, Vervath continued tending to his wolf pelt.
The chieftain had spread the enormous hide across his lap, using a thick bone comb to work through the dense fur and remove the dust gathered during their journey. He brushed methodically from the animal’s preserved head toward its shoulders, occasionally pausing to loosen a knot or inspect the leather beneath. The task appeared to hold his attention, but Valdor knew his father well enough to recognize the silence as deliberate. Vervath inhaled.
"[You smell of herbs.]"
He remarked.
Valdor kept his eyes closed.
"[I picked herbs.]"
The answer was sufficiently characteristic that Vervath did not bother correcting its peculiar wording.
His son had spoken late, preferred action over explanation, and could reduce an entire hunt to three sentences if no one forced him to elaborate. As a child, Valdor had once returned covered in blood and answered an hour of frantic questions with the words.
"[Beast came. Beast died.]"
Vervath had eventually learned that extracting detail required patience, precision, and sometimes shameless provocation.
"[You smell like the mixtures used when winter cold settles in the lungs...]"
Vervath continued, drawing the comb through another section of gray fur.
"[Stoneleaf, silver mint, warming root, and something sweet beneath all of it. Did you add honey?]"
"[...Yes.]"
Valdor opened his eyes only long enough to reach for a coarse cloth resting near the basin. He began washing his arms, scrubbing away the final traces of soil and crushed greenery left from gathering plants in the dark. The herbal scent clung particularly strongly around his fingers, where the roots had stained the creases of his skin, and a faint sweetness lingered beneath his nails. He appeared entirely unconcerned by how much evidence his body carried. Vervath’s mouth shifted beneath his beard.
"[Lord Lanslet’s voice travels remarkably far when he believes his son has been harmed...]"
The chieftain observed.
"[I heard him ordering the household shaman dragged from his bed, along with several servants claiming Amor had caught a fever after walking outside. Would that have anything to do with why you disappeared into the gardens and returned smelling like a healer’s tent?]"
Valdor dipped the cloth beneath the water. He said nothing. Vervath continued brushing the pelt, neither surprised nor discouraged by the silence.
"[You prepared cold medicine...]"
The fire cracked softly.
"[For Amor.]"
Vervath added. Valdor drew the cloth across his chest, carefully cleaning the dark markings without acknowledging the conclusion. The heat of the bath had already warmed his face, providing a convenient explanation for the color beginning to gather faintly beneath his cheekbones. His father required no verbal confirmation, however; Valdor’s failure to deny the accusation served perfectly well.
"[Was he ill?]"
Vervath asked.
"[No.]"
"[Then why did you make medicine?]"
"[I thought he was.]"
Vervath’s comb stopped. He looked toward his son, whose expression remained stern despite the increasingly visible embarrassment warming the upper edges of his ears.
"[What signs did you see?]"
"[He sneezed.]"
"[How many times?]"
Valdor hesitated.
"[Twice.]"
Vervath stared at him. The silence became dangerous.
Valdor continued washing as if nothing unusual had occurred, but he could feel his father’s amusement gathering across the room like a storm building over the mountains. He prepared himself for laughter, mockery, or a story that would undoubtedly reach every one of his siblings upon their return home. None came immediately.
"[Twice, huh?]"
Vervath repeated.
"[His skin was warm.]"
"[Perhaps because he was embarrassed.]"
Valdor’s jaw tightened.
"[The household’s shaman said that too.]"
Vervath’s beard began trembling. Valdor turned a warning glare upon him.
"[Do. Not.]"
The chieftain looked back toward the wolf pelt with immense concentration, though his shoulders shook once as he dragged the bone comb through the fur. He managed to restrain the full force of his laughter, perhaps out of paternal mercy, although the broad smile beneath his beard remained painfully obvious.
"[I said nothing. Kekeke.]"
"[You wished to.]"
"[I still wish to. Pfft-kekeke.]"
Valdor submerged the cloth and washed the last of the herbs from his hands. He had already endured the physician’s dry explanation and the silent amusement of the servants outside Amor’s chambers; he had no desire to repeat the humiliation before his father. Yet even embarrassment could not make him regret preparing the remedy. Amor might not have needed it, but Valdor had left something warm and sweet beside his bed, and that knowledge brought a quiet satisfaction stronger than shame.
"[Did he still drink it?]"
Vervath asked.
"[I don’t know.]"
"[You left it with a servant then?]"
"[By his bed.]"
Vervath glanced up again.
"[You entered his sleeping chamber!?]"
"[He was asleep.]"
The chieftain’s knowing expression deepened so considerably that Valdor immediately recognized his mistake.
"[I placed the medicine down and left.]"
He clarified.
"[Without touching him?]"
Valdor went still. Vervath noticed. The chieftain set the bone comb against his knee and studied his son with open amusement.
"[I see... You considered touching him.]"
"[... I did not.]"
"[You paused before answering.]"
"[I considered moving his hair. It was covering his face.]"
"[A tender distinction.]"
"[He was asleep...]"
Valdor said, the words emerging more defensively than intended.
"[He could not give permission.]"
Vervath’s amusement softened. Beneath the teasing lay unmistakable approval, because Blackstone custom held trust as something sacred precisely because strength could so easily violate it. A warrior who guarded another’s consent even when no witness watched demonstrated greater discipline than one who restrained himself only beneath public judgment. Whatever feelings had begun drawing Valdor toward Amor, they had not weakened that principle.
"[You did well, son.]"
Vervath said. Valdor gave a low grunt and turned his attention back to the bath.
He washed his hair quickly, drawing wet fingers through the thick black strands before rinsing away the remaining dust and smoke. Water streamed over his shoulders and down the central groove of his back, following the black markings toward the surface. When he finally rose, droplets traced every hard plane of his body before falling back into the basin.
Valdor stepped onto the wooden floor. He took a thick cloth from the rack and dried himself without modesty or unnecessary haste, dragging it across his chest, arms, and abdomen before bending to remove the water from his legs. His enormous body moved with the natural confidence of a man who had never been taught to regard nakedness as either invitation or shame. The firelight caught the wet sheen lingering upon his skin and made the black markings appear even darker.
Once dry, he reached for the clothing provided for sleep.
The garment consisted of little more than a broad strip of soft woven cloth, wrapped low around the waist and secured between the legs with a narrow cord. It covered less than the fur he had worn through the day, offering only enough restraint for comfort while leaving the entirety of his chest, back, hips, and muscular legs exposed. The fabric followed the masculine weight beneath it closely enough that its purpose seemed almost symbolic, concealing detail without disguising the formidable proportions of the body underneath.
Valdor adjusted the cord and crossed toward his sleeping mat. Vervath had resumed brushing his wolf pelt, laying the fur across the floor so he could reach the longer sections near its back.
"[You should wear a longer sleeping cloth while we remain among kingdom servants.]"
"[They should knock first.]"
"[They do.]"
"[Then there is no problem.]"
Vervath laughed quietly.
"[Lady Merrow’s attendants nearly fainted during your second envoy visit.]"
"[They entered without permission.]"
"[They wished to leave fresh towels.]"
"[They learned their lesson then.]"
Valdor lowered himself onto the thick mat, testing the unfamiliar softness with one hand before arranging a heavy fur beneath his head. The sleeping place was far more comfortable than he required, and the warmth of the fireplace already filled the broad room. He stretched his long body across the cushions, one arm folding beneath his head while the other rested over his abdomen. His eyes had barely begun to close when Vervath spoke again.
"[What do you think of your third visit to the empire?]"
Valdor’s eyes opened. He remained still for a moment, wondering whether fatigue had caused him to misunderstand.
"[Second...]"
The bone comb slowed.
"[This is my second visit.]"
Valdor repeated. Vervath looked over his shoulder.
The chieftain’s expression shifted from mild curiosity to gradual realization as he studied his son’s genuine confusion. Valdor remembered staying with House Merrow seven years ago, remembered their suspicion, overcooked meat, locked weapon rooms, and insulting questions. He possessed no recollection of another visit before that.
"[You don’t remember? Huh.]"
Vervath said. Valdor pushed himself upright on one elbow.
"[Remember what?]"
Vervath placed the comb aside. For several moments, the only sound in the room came from the snapping fire and water dripping from the edge of the washing basin. The chieftain gathered the wolf pelt across his knees, his weathered features softening beneath an old memory.
"[Your first journey to the empire was twenty years ago.]"
Valdor frowned.
"[I was five.]"
"[Yes.]"
The number aligned with the treaty’s history. Twenty years earlier, the kingdom and the Blackstone Tribe had formally ended generations of border conflict, established protected lands, and created the envoy tradition now bringing them beneath House Moons’s roof. Valdor knew Vervath had participated in the first journey to the capital, but he had always assumed his father traveled with elders, interpreters, and warriors rather than a young child.
"[You brought me with you?]"
"[You refused to remain behind.]"
Valdor’s brows drew together more deeply. Vervath’s mouth curved as the memory sharpened.
"[You were convinced that if I entered the kingdom without you, soft-handed nobles would poison me, steal my axe, and sell my wolf cloak.]"
"[You did not have that wolf cloak then.]"
"[It was another wolf.]"
"[That does not improve the story’s accuracy.]"
"[What do you know! You were five...]"
Vervath reminded him.
"[Accuracy was not your greatest strength.]"
Valdor sat fully upright. Sleep had already begun retreating, replaced by an uneasy curiosity whose source he could not explain. The forgotten visit should have mattered only as a childhood journey too distant for memory, yet something in his father’s expression suggested more waited beneath it.
"[Where did we stay?]"
"[With House Moons...]"
The answer struck through him. Valdor’s posture became still. Vervath saw the connection land and nodded slowly.
"[This was the first household chosen to receive Blackstone envoys. Lord Lanslet was younger then, newly inherited into his title, and Lady Avamor Moons was still alive.]"
Valdor’s gaze sharpened.
"[Amor’s mother?]"
"[Yes...]"
Vervath looked toward the fire, its warm light reflecting within his obsidian eyes.
"[She had given birth only weeks before our arrival. Amor was so small that Lanslet carried him from room to room wrapped in silver blankets, terrified that putting him down would cause something terrible to happen.]"
An image flickered within Valdor’s mind. It was too vague to be called memory—only pale fabric, a warm bundle, and the scent of lavender beneath sunlight. He could not identify a room, face, or voice, yet the sensation of familiarity that had struck him when Amor appeared atop the staircase returned with sudden force. Something buried beneath twenty years seemed to stir.
"[I met him then?]"
Valdor asked. Vervath barked a laugh.
"[Met him?]"
The chieftain leaned back on one hand, his entire face warming with paternal amusement.
"[You attached yourself to Amor so completely that Lady Moons began calling you his second blanket! Whenever anyone carried him out the room, you followed. Whenever he cried, you shouted at the nearest adult until someone brought him whatever the young boy needed...]"
Valdor stared.
"[You even called him your Little Wife!]"
Vervath continued. The warrior’s expression emptied. Vervath’s smile broadened.
"[Constantly! Like it was his new title!]"
"[I did not.]"
"[You did to!]"
"[I was five.]"
"[Yes, and very certain!]"
Valdor sat motionless upon the mat, unable to reconcile the child described by his father with his own disciplined sense of self. He had always been quiet, serious, and slow to offer affection even among his siblings. The idea that he had entered a foreign noble house, discovered a newborn, and immediately announced a future marriage seemed completely absurd. Vervath was enjoying every moment.
"[You told Lord Lanslet that Amor would live in your lodge when he grew large enough to walk...]"
He recalled.
"[You promised to hunt for him, build him a warm bed, and bite anyone who made him cry! Hohohah!]"
Valdor’s face began to burn. The heat spread beneath his cheekbones and along his ears with far greater intensity than the embarrassment caused by the physician.
"[You permitted me to say this!?]"
"[We attempted to stop you.]"
"[You failed!]"
"[You were determined!]"
Vervath lifted the wolf pelt and resumed brushing a tangled section near one shoulder, though his smile remained.
"[Lady Moons found it charming. Lanslet looked as though he wanted to have every road north destroyed before you could carry out your intentions.]"
The image of Lanslet’s current delight during dinner contradicted that old reaction, but Valdor had no attention to spare for the change. His thoughts remained fixed upon the fragile sense of recognition that had gripped him when Amor descended the staircase earlier that day. He had believed the feeling instinctive, perhaps born from attraction so immediate that his body understood before his mind.
Perhaps it had been memory without shape.
"[You said I followed him?]"
Valdor murmured.
"[Everywhere!]"
"[He was an infant though.]"
"[That did not discourage you...]"
Vervath paused, and the amusement in his expression became dangerously bright.
"[Oh! There was also the kidnapping!]"
Valdor slowly looked at him.
"[The what?]"
"[You stole Amor.]"
The room became silent.
Vervath spoke with the calm enjoyment of a storyteller reaching his favorite moment.
"[Lady Moons had placed him in the nursery for his afternoon sleep, and you were supposed to remain with me while the treaty elders met. When one of the maids checked the crib, Amor was gone.]"
Valdor’s mouth parted slightly.
"[The entire household erupted!]"
Vervath continued.
"[Servants searched every room, guards sealed the gates, and Lanslet nearly ordered the nearby river drained because he believed someone had stolen his son. I discovered you missing shortly afterward and knew immediately that the two problems were connected.]"
"[I was five....]"
Valdor repeated, as if the fact might lessen the horror.
"[You were old enough to plan an escape.]"
"[How did I take him?]"
"[You climbed into the nursery through a servant passage, dragged a blanket basket beside the crib to step on, and carried him out wrapped against your chest.]"
Valdor looked down at his immense hands. The idea that those hands, once tiny and undoubtedly clumsy, had carried a newborn through an unfamiliar manor chilled him more than any monster encounter. One misstep could have injured Amor, yet his younger self had apparently possessed none of the restraint Valdor now considered inseparable from protection.
"[Where did I go?]"
"[To the garden!]"
Vervath’s laughter deepened.
"[Hohohahaha! There was a small fake cave near the northern hedge, built as part of a decorative waterfall. You hid inside with Amor and attempted to build a nest from blankets, leaves, and flower petals...]"
Valdor closed his eyes. Vervath continued mercilessly.
"[When we found you, Amor was asleep against your stomach. You held one finger over your lips and warned us not to frighten your Little Wife.]"
"[Enough.]"
"[You growled when Lanslet approached.]"
"[Dad!]"
"[You threatened to bite the marquess of House Moons!]"
Valdor covered his face with one broad hand. The memory still refused to return, leaving him entirely dependent upon Vervath’s account and therefore incapable of defending himself. He could picture the disaster far too clearly:
Servants in panic, Lanslet near madness, and a five-year-old Blackstone child crouched in a garden cave with the kingdom’s most precious noble infant tucked against him. No wonder the treaty had nearly collapsed before its first year ended.
"[What happened after they found us?]"
Valdor asked reluctantly.
"[Well I gave you the beating of your young life! Obviously.]"
Valdor lowered his hand and looked at him. Vervath nodded without regret.
"[You had stolen a newborn and hidden him in a cave.]"
"[That’s... deserved.]"
"[Ha! It certainly was!]"
The chieftain’s expression softened slightly.
"[I apologized to Lanslet and Avamor until my throat hurt. I offered gold, furs, hunting rights, and three years of personal service if they wished to consider your actions an insult requiring compensation! For several hours, I believed the treaty would be destroyed before the ink had dried!]"
"[But it was not?]"
"[Lady Avamor intervened.]"
Vervath looked into the fire, remembering a woman whose kindness had outlived her.
"[She said Amor had slept more peacefully in your arms than he had since his birth. She accepted the apology on the condition that you never remove him from the nursery again without permission.]"
Valdor absorbed that in silence.
"[Did I obey?]"
"[Ha! No!]"
His eyes narrowed.
"[You stopped kidnapping him...]"
Vervath clarified, amusement returning.
"[But you slept beside his crib whenever the household looked away for a second, and if a servant attempted to move you, you woke immediately and began biting. Lady Avamor eventually placed a small mat in the nursery because no other arrangement kept you from returning.]"
Valdor could no longer determine whether he felt humiliated, astonished, or deeply unsettled.
Fragments continued moving at the edge of his awareness: the warmth of lavender blankets, soft cries quieting beneath his voice, the shape of a tiny hand closing around one finger. None were clear enough to trust, and each might have been created by Vervath’s account rather than recovered from within. Yet his body responded as though hearing a story it had always known.
"[What was Amor like?]"
He asked. Vervath’s face became fond.
"[A baby, obviously...]"
He said.
"[He slept, cried, ate, and stared at anything bright.]"
Valdor waited.
"[He liked your voice especially...]"
Vervath added.
"[Whenever you spoke near him, he turned his head toward you. If you left the nursery after spending too long there, he often began crying.]"
The warrior looked toward the fire. The heat beneath his skin no longer came entirely from embarrassment. Vervath continued brushing the wolf pelt, his tone quieter now that the story had moved beyond teasing.
"[When the month ended, you refused to pack. You hid your boots, threw your travel cloak into the fountain, and informed me that the Blackstone Tribe could choose another chieftain because you intended to remain with Amor...]"
Valdor’s eyes closed briefly and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation towards his past self.
"[I carried you to the carriage myself!]"
Vervath said.
"[You cried until your voice failed, hahaho! It was quite the sight!]"
"[I rarely cry....]"
"[You did that day!]"
The admission landed with unexpected heaviness. Valdor had endured broken bones without tears even as a child, having been raised among people who accepted pain as part of survival. Grief could make him silent or furious, but crying had never come easily. The idea that separation from a child he had known for only one month shattered him so completely suggested an attachment deeper than childish fascination.
"[And Amor?]"
He asked. Vervath’s comb stilled.
"[Lady Avamor brought him outside to say farewell. After you calmed down you held him until I forced you to return him, and the moment he left your arms, he began wailing as well!]"
Valdor’s fingers curled against the sleeping mat. Vervath smiled faintly at the memory, though sorrow touched the expression now.
"[He cried while our carriage crossed the courtyard, and you leaned from the window calling that you would return for your Little Wife. Lady Avamor stood at the gates holding him, and Lord Lanslet looked torn between heartbreak and the desire to chase us with a sword.]"
The room returned to silence. Valdor no longer felt prepared for sleep.
He looked down at his hands, remembering how fiercely familiar Amor had seemed atop the grand staircase. The lavender hair, pink eyes, and delicate features had been unknown to his conscious memory, yet something in Valdor had recognized him before Lanslet spoke his name. His attention had fixed upon Amor with such force that even Vervath noticed, and every instinct afterward had urged him closer.
Had the child within him remembered?
Twenty years had erased faces, rooms, and voices, but perhaps the body preserved what the mind discarded. Perhaps the desire to take Amor’s arm, feed him, keep him warm, and stand between him and danger was not entirely new. The shape of the feeling might have changed with adulthood, but its foundation could have been laid before either of them understood affection.
Valdor touched the purple bead woven into one of his braids.
"[Did he remember me during the second visit?]"
He asked.
"[Oh you didn’t meet.]"
The answer caused him to look up.
"[House Merrow hosted us seven years ago...]"
Vervath explained.
"[Amor was always occupied by some party or another, and Lady Avamor had already passed. I considered requesting a visit, but you showed no memory of House Moons, and Lanslet was traveling through the southern provinces.]"
Valdor nodded slowly. He had passed through the capital without knowing that someone he once called his Little Wife lived only a short carriage journey away. Even now, Amor had shown no recognition of their childhood connection, although he had been an infant and therefore could hardly be expected to remember. The reunion upon the staircase belonged entirely to instinct. Vervath returned his attention to the pelt.
"[Perhaps that is why you watched him as though you had found something lost?]"
Valdor did not answer. His father’s statement came too close to the truth.
From the moment Amor appeared, Valdor had experienced an impossible sense that the delicate man was both new and profoundly known. Every smile uncovered something he wanted to preserve, while every touch seemed to restore a warmth absent for so long that he had forgotten it belonged to him. Discovering that they had once shared an attachment did not create those feelings, but it gave them roots.
’Was this fate?’
The question unsettled Valdor more than any physical danger could have.
Blackstone spirit-speakers taught that souls sometimes crossed paths repeatedly, drawn together by old promises, shared blood, or debts carried beyond memory. Fireheart flowers returned to the same soil after winter, even when snow erased every visible trace of the previous year. Perhaps people could do the same.
Yet Valdor did not want to claim Amor through a childhood promise neither of them remembered. They were no longer an impulsive five-year-old and a newborn incapable of choosing whose arms held him. They had grown beneath different skies, shaped by cultures that understood family, courtship, strength, and duty in vastly different ways. Amor belonged to a world of polished marble, flowing silk, intricate politics, and wealth beyond anything the Blackstone settlements required.
Valdor belonged to the mountains.
His home was filled with harsh winters, monster hunts, communal lodges, blood, smoke, and responsibilities that could not be abandoned whenever affection demanded comfort. Even if Amor’s curiosity drew him north for a visit, living there would require changes no noble luxury could fully soften. Valdor could build the warmest lodge in the tribe, fill it with furs, and prepare sweet food every day, but he could not remove the mountains from mountain life.
Nor could Valdor remain permanently in the kingdom without surrendering part of himself.
His people expected him to hunt, lead, protect, and perhaps one day stand for judgment as chieftain. He could not become an ornament in Amor’s estate, spending his life beneath chandeliers while others defended the settlements that raised him. Any future between them would require more than attraction, tenderness, or a forgotten childhood declaration.
Would it work?
Would nobles laugh at the delicate heir of House Moons for choosing a man they regarded as a barbarian?
Would Amor eventually tire of Valdor’s directness, limited speech, and unfamiliar customs, just as the court tired of every novelty once gossip lost its sweetness? Would the Blackstone Tribe accept someone shaped by aristocratic indulgence, or would they mistake Amor’s softness for weakness no matter how sharply his pink eyes warned otherwise? Valdor could withstand mockery directed at himself, but the thought of Amor being ridiculed because Valdor dared pursue him tightened something violent inside his chest.
Perhaps trying would make him a fool. The possibility did not frighten him as much as walking away.
Valdor had already lost Amor once without remembering the loss. The month ended, the carriage departed, and twenty years passed before fate—or coincidence, or the stubborn persistence of unfinished affection—placed them beneath the same roof again. Rejecting that possibility merely because others might laugh seemed like cowardice.
He looked across the room toward Vervath.
"[Why did you not tell me all this earlier?]"
The chieftain shrugged one broad shoulder.
"[I thought you remembered enough to recognize him.]"
"[I didn’t.]"
"[Humph, coulda fooled me. You clearly recognized something.]"
Valdor’s gaze hardened slightly.
"[You watched me struggle to understand it.]"
"[I watched you stare at him for less than a day before cooking, gathering medicine, carrying him through the garden, and nearly declaring war over a rampaging ram. Don’t think I hadn’t heard, I may be old but I am not dumb. You didn’t require my assistance.]"
Heat returned to Valdor’s face. Vervath smiled.
"[Besides, the memory is yours now. What you do with it should not be decided by what a five-year-old promised.]"
That was unexpectedly wise. Valdor resented it.
He lowered himself onto the sleeping mat again, turning onto his back and staring toward the dark wooden beams crossing the ceiling. The fireplace cast shifting shadows above him, their movement echoing the disorder now filling his thoughts. Amor slept several corridors and an entire floor away, perhaps with the honeyed medicine untouched beside his bed.
Valdor wondered whether he had drunk it. He wondered whether Amor would laugh upon learning that his supposed first meeting with Valdor was actually their second. He wondered whether the story of the garden kidnapping would amuse him, embarrass him, or inspire concern that Valdor’s possessive instincts had begun dangerously early. Most of all, he wondered whether the familiarity between them meant anything to Amor at all.
Valdor had no answer. Perhaps he did not want one yet.
Naming the connection as fate might place expectations upon Amor before either of them consciously chose what was growing between them. Valdor preferred the trust Amor gave freely—the linked arms, accepted food, guided embrace, and hand placed willingly within his own. Those gestures mattered because Amor chose them now, not because an infant had once cried when Valdor left.
He would not pursue a memory. He would pursue the man Amor had become, if Amor welcomed it. That decision should have steadied him, but the questions remained.
Vervath extinguished the lamp near his mat and settled beneath the wolf pelt, apparently satisfied after destroying any possibility of his son resting peacefully. Within minutes, the chieftain’s breathing deepened into the slow rhythm of sleep which soon gave way to rumbling snores. Valdor continued staring toward the ceiling.
His mind returned again and again to the image described by his father.
A small garden cave, blankets gathered into a clumsy nest, and a five-year-old Valdor holding a lavender-haired infant against his stomach while warning armed adults not to frighten his Little Wife. The story was humiliating beyond measure, yet beneath the embarrassment lived an aching tenderness. Even then, before strength, discipline, and responsibility shaped him, Valdor had apparently looked upon Amor and decided his place was close.
Twenty years later, nothing had changed as completely as it should have.
Valdor turned onto his side, facing the distant wall beyond which the upper floors of House Moons rose. He could not see Amor’s room, but he had memorized the path well enough to imagine precisely where it stood. The distance irritated him more now that he knew they had once slept in the same nursery.
Sleep would not come easily.
Vervath’s breathing remained peacefully steady from the opposite side of the chamber, proof that the man responsible for Valdor’s turmoil felt no guilt whatsoever. Valdor closed his eyes and attempted to empty his mind as he would before a hunt, concentrating upon the fire, the warmth of the mat, and the quiet safety of the estate. Amor appeared behind his eyelids immediately.
First atop the staircase.
Then beneath the tree.
Then asleep beneath lavender blankets, looking so much like the forgotten child from Vervath’s story that Valdor’s chest tightened around an emotion he still could not name.
’Was it really fate? Or something... more?’
Valdor did not know.
He only knew that this time, when the month ended, leaving Amor behind would not be simple.