Amor had already learned enough to understand that asking Valdor broad questions rarely produced elaborate answers, yet the warrior answered every inquiry with such grave consideration that even the simplest subject began to feel significant. He did not exaggerate the accomplishments of his people or soften details he believed might offend noble sensibilities, nor did he seem interested in presenting the Blackstone Tribe as either more civilized or more fearsome than it truly was. Valdor simply listened, considered precisely what Amor had asked, and answered with a seriousness that Amor found increasingly endearing.
"How many people belong to the Blackstone Tribe?"
Amor asked, reaching for another small sandwich before remembering he had already eaten the last one.
"The original treaty records describe your people as though you are a single settlement gathered around one fire, but I suspect kingdom scholars have never traveled far enough north to count properly."
"More than eight thousand..."
Valdor replied.
"We live across seven permanent settlements and many smaller hunting camps, though all answer when the Blackstone horn is sounded."
"Eight thousand?"
Amor repeated, his brows rising.
"That is considerably larger than the collection of half-naked hunters our historians would have people imagine."
Valdor glanced down at his bare chest, then back toward Amor.
"Some of us are fully naked."
Amor paused.
The warrior’s expression remained completely solemn, offering no immediate indication that he had intended humor, yet the faintest shift at the corner of his scarred mouth betrayed him. Amor lifted his fan and lightly struck Valdor’s shoulder with its painted edge, the gesture accomplishing absolutely nothing against the dense muscle beneath his skin.
"You have discovered jokes alarmingly quickly."
"I knew jokes before meeting you."
"I find that difficult to believe."
Valdor accepted the insult without offense, and the subtle warmth in his obsidian eyes suggested he enjoyed the rhythm their conversation had acquired. Amor had expected someone raised among monster hunters to possess little patience for idle questions, but Valdor never rushed him or allowed his attention to wander. Each time Amor spoke, the warrior focused upon him with the same intensity he might have brought to tracking an elusive beast through the mountains.
Amor shifted slightly in his chair, allowing one flowing sleeve to spill over the carved wooden armrest.
"Do all seven settlements follow your father directly?"
"Vervath is high chieftain..."
Valdor explained.
"Each settlement has an elder and a hunt leader, but disputes between settlements are brought before him. During war or a great migration, his command reaches every Blackstone warrior."
"And when he no longer wishes to command?"
"The clan chooses another."
Amor tilted his head.
"You do not inherit his position automatically?"
"No."
That answer surprised him, because the kingdom’s nobles spoke of Valdor as the chieftain’s heir whenever the Blackstone Tribe was mentioned at court. Amor had assumed the title would pass from father to eldest son in much the same way noble estates transferred through blood. Valdor appeared neither disappointed nor defensive about the uncertainty, however, as though the idea of receiving authority without first proving himself would have seemed far stranger.
"The elders choose from those who have earned enough marks to stand for judgment..."
Valdor continued, touching one thick finger to the angular designs crossing his chest.
"Blood matters because a chieftain’s children are trained early, but blood alone does not lead the tribe. A weak firstborn may follow a stronger younger sibling."
Amor’s gaze traveled over the black markings with renewed interest.
"Each of these represents something you earned?"
"Most."
"What do the others represent?"
"Kin, home, and promises."
Amor leaned closer, his pink eyes narrowing as he attempted to distinguish one design from another. The broad-winged creature across Valdor’s chest was composed of overlapping lines and hooked feathers, while smaller symbols traced the shape of his shoulders and disappeared along his ribs.
"Which mark represents your family?"
Valdor raised one arm and indicated a series of connected black diamonds along the inside of his forearm. Each shape contained a smaller pattern, some resembling claws or mountain peaks, while a single empty space remained near his wrist.
"Each diamond belongs to one of my mother’s children."
Amor counted them carefully.
"You have seven siblings?"
"Eight."
He looked again and realized one of the smallest symbols had been hidden near Valdor’s elbow.
"Your poor mother."
Valdor’s expression remained steady, though something softened within his eyes.
"She wanted more."
Amor stared at him, unable to imagine any woman voluntarily enduring enough pregnancies to produce nine children while also commanding hunting parties against monsters. The kingdom’s noble families considered three surviving heirs an extraordinary blessing, while many struggled to produce even one healthy child despite years of marriages, physicians, and expensive fertility remedies.
"Is that common among your people?"
"Yes..."
Valdor replied.
"Blackstone women and men are fertile. Large families keep the settlements strong."
Amor nearly reached for his tea before remembering the cup in front of him had gone empty.
"Men?"
"Some Blackstone men carry children..."
The answer was delivered with such ordinary certainty that Amor’s fingers stopped halfway toward the teapot. Valdor observed his reaction without apparent concern.
"Not many, but enough that no one finds it strange. The spirit-speakers say the mountain grants life through any body strong enough to shelter it."
Amor carefully lowered his hand. The novel had apparently considered monsters, magical materials, and dramatic love-at-first-sight perfectly relevant, yet it had neglected to mention that some men in this world could become pregnant.
"The kingdom’s scholars truly know nothing about your people."
"They do not ask good questions."
"They likely spend too much time staring at your clothing."
Valdor looked down at the fur secured around his hips.
"There is little to stare at."
Amor’s gaze followed his before he could stop himself, settling for one treacherous moment upon the narrow strip of monster hide stretched low across Valdor’s powerful waist. There was, in fact, a great deal to stare at, although very little fabric was responsible for it. He lifted his fan to conceal the sudden twitch of his lips and directed his attention firmly back toward the warrior’s face.
"Your tribe’s fertility must make family relationships terribly confusing..."
Amor said.
"How does anyone remember so many siblings, cousins, and children without accidentally courting a relative?"
"We remember our blood."
"Everyone?"
"Children learn their mother-line and father-line before they learn trade numbers."
Amor imagined a settlement filled with enormous warriors reciting several generations of family connections while preparing to hunt monsters, and the image fascinated him far more than the genealogical obsessions of kingdom nobles. Among aristocrats, bloodlines existed primarily to preserve titles, prevent inconvenient marriages, and justify why one spoiled man deserved more land than another. Among the Blackstone people, family appeared to function as a living structure rather than an entry within a ceremonial record.
"How old is your youngest sibling?"
Amor asked.
"Four months."
His eyes widened.
"Your mother recently gave birth?"
Valdor did not answer immediately.
The silence that followed was not awkward, but it carried a subtle heaviness that Amor recognized before the warrior spoke. Valdor’s gaze shifted away from him for the first time since they entered the garden, settling upon the pale purple flowers growing along the base of the arbour. His broad hand rested against one bent knee, fingers curling slowly into the dark fur wrapped there.
"My mother died last spring."
He said. Amor’s amusement vanished.
Valdor’s voice did not tremble, and his expression remained composed, yet grief existed beneath that control like a deep river hidden below winter ice. Amor remembered what Valdor had said earlier about burying those taken by monsters, though he had not realized one of those losses had been so recent or so intimate.
"During a hunt?"
Valdor nodded.
"A frost-jaw crossed the eastern ridge before the snow melted. It was starving and came close to a settlement where children gathered winter roots."
Amor knew little about frost-jaws beyond a vague illustration he had once seen in the original novel, depicting something between a bear and a scaled wolf with tusks curving from its lower jaw. The book had described a single creature as capable of killing several armored knights, yet Valdor spoke of his mother confronting one as if the decision required no explanation.
"She protected them."
"She killed it..."
Valdor corrected.
"But its tusk entered beneath her ribs."
The words settled heavily between them. Amor looked toward the family marks covering Valdor’s forearm, now understanding why one of the diamonds had appeared darker and more elaborate than the rest. His mother had died only months earlier, leaving behind a newborn and eight other children, yet Valdor had traveled to the capital for an envoy tradition rather than remaining within the familiarity of his settlement. The weight of that responsibility made his calmness seem less like natural stoicism and more like discipline built through necessity.
"What was she like?"
Amor asked softly.
"Brave and beautiful."
"And the infant?"
"She named her Mevara."
Amor repeated the name silently, committing it to memory as carefully as he had remembered Valdor’s.
"Who cares for her now?"
"My father’s sisters, my eldest younger sister, and every woman nursing a child within the settlement..."
Valdor replied.
"No Blackstone infant belongs only to one pair of hands."
The answer loosened some of the sorrow tightening Amor’s chest. Mevara had lost her mother, but she had not been left without care, nor would Vervath’s other children be expected to survive grief in isolation. Amor reached across the small distance between them and placed his hand lightly over Valdor’s enormous one.
"I am sorry for your loss..."
He said.
"Not because I believe you need pity, but because your mother sounds like a woman whose absence deserves to be mourned."
Valdor looked down at Amor’s pale hand resting against his scarred knuckles.
For several breaths, he did not move, as though even the smallest response might disturb the touch. His obsidian eyes rose gradually to Amor’s face, carrying an emotion deeper and warmer than the amusement Amor had previously coaxed from him.
"She would have liked you."
Amor’s expression softened.
"You said that before."
"It is more true now."
The simple conviction within those words affected him more than any elaborate compliment offered by the kingdom’s practiced noblemen. Valdor had not described his mother as gentle, indulgent, or easily impressed; he had described a hunt leader who killed a monster to protect children and survived long enough to ensure it could not reach them. To be considered worthy of such a woman’s affection felt strangely significant.
Amor withdrew his hand before the moment could become too intimate, though Valdor’s fingers shifted as if resisting the loss.
"You mentioned several siblings. Are they all as serious as you?"
"No."
"That answer contained the faintest trace of suffering."
"My second brother speaks from waking until sleep."
Amor smiled.
"How old is he?"
"Twenty-four. His name is Tharek, and silence makes him believe something has died."
"I think I would like him."
"He would speak to you until you fled into the mountains."
"Then perhaps I would like him from a moderate distance."
Valdor continued describing his family as Amor guided him with increasingly personal questions. Tharek was a talented tracker whose endless talking prevented hunters from approaching anything requiring stealth, while Valdor’s eldest sister, Kesra, oversaw the settlement’s food stores and could calculate winter provisions without writing down a single number. There were younger twins named Varo and Veya, a quiet thirteen-year-old brother named Kahco who preferred carving bone charms, two sisters, Meika and Zahrah, still young enough to compete over hunting knives, and the infant Mevara, whom Valdor had held only twice because his hands felt too large around her.
"You feared dropping her?"
Amor asked.
"No."
"Then why only twice?"
Valdor looked toward his own hands.
"She is small."
Amor could not prevent the laugh that escaped him, though he softened it when Valdor’s expression grew faintly defensive. The image of this enormous warrior standing motionless with a tiny infant tucked against his broad chest was so unexpectedly tender that it lodged immediately within Amor’s mind.
"You fight monsters, cross flooded mountain passes, and eat meat capable of breaking ordinary teeth, yet a newborn frightened you."
"She was not frightening."
"You avoided holding her."
"I guarded the doorway while others held her."
"How heroic."
Valdor narrowed his eyes, but the warmth beneath his sternness remained unmistakable. Amor found the reaction irresistibly amusing, particularly because every teasing remark seemed to draw another subtle expression from the warrior’s otherwise controlled face. Valdor did not smile freely, yet his emotions lived within the minute shifts of his brows, shoulders, and eyes, rewarding anyone patient enough to look closely. Amor had always enjoyed puzzles.
"What do you do when you are not hunting, protecting settlements, or standing in doorways while your sisters care for terrifying infants?"
He asked.
"I craft tools."
"What kind?"
"Knives, traps, arrowheads, tanning blades, carving hooks, and whatever else is needed."
Amor glanced toward the thick leather pouch and several smaller tools attached to Valdor’s belt. The craftsmanship had appeared crude from a distance, but closer inspection revealed careful stitching, balanced shapes, and symbols carved with remarkable precision.
"You made those yourself?"
"Most."
"Even the beads in your hair?"
"My youngest brothers carved the bone. I shaped the stone."
Amor leaned toward one of the narrow braids hanging near Valdor’s temple, studying the dark violet bead secured among the animal teeth. It had been polished into an oval and carved with a delicate spiral so fine that he could barely see the individual lines.
"This is beautiful."
Valdor became still again. Amor lifted the bead carefully between two fingers, unaware—or perhaps only pretending to be unaware—of the way his knuckles brushed the warrior’s cheek. The stone was smoother than expected and possessed the faint translucence of a gemstone, though its irregular shape made it more appealing than anything cut by a court jeweler.
"What is it?"
"Mountain glass."
"Obsidian?"
"Similar, but purple when held beneath firelight."
Amor released it slowly.
"You made something so delicate?"
"My hands are not always used for breaking."
The statement carried no boast, yet it drew Amor’s gaze toward Valdor’s thick fingers and scarred palms. Those hands were capable of killing beasts, shaping stone, and producing ornaments fine enough to interest a noble accustomed to extraordinary luxury. The contradiction made Valdor more compelling with every answer.
"What else do you enjoy?"
Amor asked.
"Hunting."
"That was predictable."
"Crafting."
"You have already said that."
Valdor considered for a moment, his eyes shifting toward the garden surrounding them.
"Small flowers."
Amor blinked.
"Flowers?"
"Purple and pink."
His attention followed Valdor’s gaze to the low blossoms clustered near the arbour, their tiny petals forming a muted carpet beneath the larger cultivated roses. They were not the dramatic flowers selected by noble gardeners for color or fragrance, but resilient little blooms that grew close to the soil and returned each season despite being overshadowed by everything around them.
"Those?"
Valdor nodded.
"Similar ones grow near Blackstone settlements after the snow retreats."
"Do they have a name?"
"Fireheart blooms."
Amor looked again, surprised that something so delicate carried such a forceful name.
"Why fireheart?"
"They grow first where funeral pyres have burned."
The answer stole the amusement from Amor’s expression, replacing it with quiet fascination.
Valdor reached toward the flowerbed but did not pluck anything, merely brushing one fingertip against the edge of a tiny lavender petal.
"The soil remains warm beneath the ash, and their seeds open before other plants. We say the dead leave fire behind so the mountain remembers where life should return."
"That is unexpectedly beautiful."
"It is true."
Valdor spoke as though beauty and truth required no distinction, and Amor found himself smiling.
"Do you collect them?"
"No. They die quickly when removed."
"Then you simply look at them?"
"Yes."
Amor’s smile deepened despite himself. The enormous warrior who could tear monster apart with his bare hands and wear animal claws around his neck enjoyed quietly admiring tiny pink and purple flowers because they reminded him that life could return after death. Every new detail made Valdor appear less like the barbarian imagined by kingdom society and more like a man filled with careful, restrained tenderness.
"You have excellent taste."
Amor declared. Valdor looked at him rather than the flowers.
"Yes."
Something in the certainty of that reply made heat brush across Amor’s cheeks. He opened his fan and stirred the air before his face, refusing to give the warrior the satisfaction of seeing him unsettled.
"I was complimenting your preference in flowers."
"So was I."
Amor peered over the fan’s edge. Valdor’s expression remained perfectly serious, though his obsidian eyes rested upon Amor’s lavender hair and pink gaze with an intensity that rendered his meaning embarrassingly obvious. The warrior had apparently decided that subtle flirtation was unnecessary when he could simply compare Amor to every beautiful thing he admired. Amor should have found the bluntness crude.
Instead, he found it charming.
He changed the subject before his composure betrayed him further.
"You said your tribe has participated in the envoy tradition for twenty years. Is this your first visit to the kingdom?"
"No."
Amor raised one brow.
"You have been here before?"
"Once."
"When?"
"Seven years ago."
Valdor’s reply carried no particular emphasis, yet something about it caught Amor’s attention. Seven years ago, Valdor would have been younger but certainly old enough to remember the capital, its customs, and perhaps even House Moons. Amor searched the fragmented memories inherited from the original body but found no immediate image of a towering Blackstone youth, although the original Amor had ignored countless people he considered irrelevant.
"Where did you stay?"
Amor asked.
"With House Merrow."
Amor knew the name as belonging to a wealthy ducal family whose lands included several western ports. They had likely been selected because of existing trade interests rather than affection for the Blackstone people.
"Did you enjoy the month?"
"No."
The blunt answer nearly made Amor laugh again.
"Why not?"
"They hid their daughters, locked the weapon rooms, counted every piece of silver after we ate, and served meat cooked until it tasted of ash."
"That does sound dreadful."
"They also asked whether we slept on floors."
Amor glanced at Valdor, who was currently seated upon the garden grass despite an available chair.
"Do you?"
"When floors are better than beds."
He chose not to point out the irony. Valdor’s second visit should not have mattered beyond satisfying Amor’s curiosity, yet a faint unease stirred within him as he considered the forgotten foyer scene from the novel. If Valdor had visited the kingdom seven years earlier, there was a chance he had encountered the original Amor before the failed meeting described in the book. The warrior offered no indication of recognition beyond the intense interest he had displayed from the beginning, but Amor could not determine whether that interest had truly begun today.
He remained quiet rather than asking.
There would be time during the coming month to explore the question without revealing how incomplete his memories were. Valdor answered honestly, but Amor suspected even honest men could withhold information when no direct question demanded it. For now, he stored the detail carefully alongside everything else he had learned.
The conversation drifted onward until Amor reached for another cake and found only an empty silver tray.
He stared down at it.
The assortment had been generous when he first returned to the arbour with Valdor, including several cream-filled pastries, honey cakes, fruit-glazed tarts, and soft sponge squares prepared specifically for their shared tea. Amor had eaten through every one of them while listening to Valdor describe his family, apparently consuming the entire selection without noticing. Not even a stray sugared berry remained.
A faint blush warmed his pale cheeks. Valdor followed his gaze toward the empty tray.
"I appear to have eaten all the cakes..."
Amor admitted, lowering his fan with unusual embarrassment.
"You must be hungry after traveling and enduring Father’s negotiations, yet I have spent the afternoon interrogating you while devouring everything placed between us."
"I am not hungry."
"That is clearly untrue. You are approximately the size of a carriage and composed almost entirely of muscle."
Valdor looked down at himself as though checking Amor’s assessment.
"I ate this morning."
"This morning was several hours ago."
"I can wait."
Amor frowned, displeased by the suggestion that Valdor should remain hungry simply because his host possessed no restraint around sweet food. He lifted one hand toward the servants positioned at a discreet distance beyond the arbour, and they responded immediately by approaching with another covered tray. Within moments, a fresh arrangement of cakes had been placed upon the table, even softer and more beautifully decorated than the first.
Amor selected a pale pink sponge topped with whipped cream and held the small plate toward Valdor.
"Eat."
Valdor glanced at the cake. Then he looked back at Amor.
The warrior had watched him consume each sweet with quiet fascination, observing the subtle pleasure that softened Amor’s expression whenever cream or fruit touched his tongue. To Valdor, the cakes appeared fragile and decorative, much like the cultivated flowers surrounding the arbour, offering very little substance compared with the dense foods carried by Blackstone hunters. Yet Amor clearly delighted in them, and that alone made surrendering the remaining sweets an effortless decision.
Valdor’s thoughts returned to the fireheart blooms growing near his home.
Amor reminded him of those small flowers, though not merely because of his lavender hair, pink eyes, or the delicate beauty that made everything around him appear duller. Fireheart blooms seemed fragile enough to be crushed beneath a careless boot, yet they emerged through ash, stone, and melting snow without waiting for gentle hands to shelter them. They survived without care, but when protected from harsh winds and given warmth, they spread across entire slopes in colors too brilliant to ignore.
Amor possessed the same contradiction.
His flowing clothing, pale skin, and narrow body encouraged others to believe he required constant protection, yet the intelligence behind his eyes carried the resilience of something accustomed to blooming without permission. He could survive neglect and hostility if forced to, Valdor sensed, sharpening himself until beauty became a weapon rather than a weakness. Still, survival was not the same as flourishing.
Valdor wondered what Amor would become if someone cared for him properly.
The thought settled deeply within him, simple and powerful. If Valdor protected him from the winds that sought to break him, fed every hunger without demanding gratitude, and gave him enough freedom to spread his roots wherever he pleased, Amor might blossom into something beyond anything the kingdom had ever seen. Valdor found himself intensely curious to witness that transformation.
He pushed the offered cake gently back toward Amor.
"You eat it."
Amor blinked.
"I have already eaten nearly an entire tray."
"You wanted more."
"That is not the issue."
"It is food you enjoy."
Valdor reached toward the leather belt resting low around his waist and opened a pouch Amor had assumed contained tools. From within it, he withdrew a leather wrapping and uncovered thick strips of dark meat so dry and hardened that it looked more like treated leather than something intended for consumption. The edges were rough, and faint crystals of salt clung to its nearly black surface.
Amor stared.
"What is that?"
"Ridgeback jerky."
"Is a ridgeback an animal or a monster?"
"Both."
Before Amor could ask anything further, Valdor lifted the strip to his mouth and bit through it.
The jerky separated beneath his teeth with an ease that seemed physically impossible. Amor had seen decorative leather softer than that meat, and he suspected any ordinary noble attempting the same bite would shatter a molar before leaving so much as a mark. Valdor chewed calmly, his jaw moving with the relaxed rhythm of someone enjoying gum rather than consuming preserved monster flesh. Amor watched in open fascination.
"You carry that with you?"
"It keeps for months."
"Does it always look like material intended for repairing boots?"
Valdor glanced down at the jerky.
"This piece is soft."
Amor looked toward the nearest servant, who quickly lowered his eyes to conceal an expression of horror.
Valdor tore away another section and continued chewing, evidently satisfied with his chosen meal. His trained teeth worked through the hardened meat effortlessly, while the substantial muscles along his jaw shifted beneath his skin. The sight was both slightly alarming and, to Amor’s annoyance, strangely compelling.
"You prefer salty foods, then?"
Amor asked.
"I prefer food that gives strength."
"That sounded suspiciously like an insult toward my cakes."
"They give you happiness."
Amor paused. Valdor swallowed before taking another bite.
"Happiness has strength."
The answer erased Amor’s offense before it could properly form.
He looked down at the untouched pink cake still resting upon the plate, its whipped cream beginning to soften beneath the afternoon warmth. Valdor had refused it not because he disliked sweets, but because he had noticed Amor wanted more and possessed his own food to satisfy his hunger. The gesture was practical rather than dramatic, yet it held more consideration than many extravagant gifts Amor had received since awakening in this world.
"Well..."
Amor said, drawing the plate closer.
"It would be wasteful to allow it to spoil."
Valdor nodded as if Amor had reached the only sensible conclusion.
Amor lifted the cake with a small silver fork and took a slow bite, the soft sponge collapsing immediately against his tongue beneath the sweetness of cream and strawberry preserves. His eyes closed for a brief moment of pleasure before he remembered Valdor was watching him. When he opened them again, the warrior’s gaze rested upon his face with unmistakable satisfaction.
Amor chose not to question it.
He took another bite and allowed Valdor to continue eating his monstrous strip of jerky, privately pleased that the fresh tray now belonged entirely to him. The warrior appeared equally content, chewing his impossible meat while listening to Amor ask which Blackstone foods did not require the teeth of a mountain beast. Their preferences could not have been more different, yet the quiet companionship settling between them felt unexpectedly natural.
Amor reached for a lavender-glazed pastry.
Valdor’s eyes followed his hand, warmth spreading beneath his ribs as Amor smiled at the selection. He did not need the fragile sweets, nor did he understand how anyone could consider such light food satisfying. It was enough that Amor enjoyed them.
Beneath the flowering arbour, one man ate cakes soft enough to dissolve upon his tongue while the other tore through monster hide disguised as food. Neither questioned the absurd picture they created, and neither noticed the servants exchanging increasingly knowing glances beyond the garden path. For the first time since entering the kingdom, Valdor found himself hoping that one month would pass very slowly.