Weeks fold into months as the seasons turn. The Whisperwood settles into a rhythm of renewed life, and so does our home. What started as a rough shelter has grown into a sturdy dwelling with reinforced walls of wood and stone and a budding garden. Every small improvement carries the warmth of our shared purpose. The work isn’t just about surviving anymore. It’s about building our life together.

  One crisp spring morning, when the first hints of golden sunlight reach through the branches, I’m down by the river fetching water. I hear Shineah approaching—the soft crunch of her boots in the cool earth, the quiet steadiness of her breath, and the familiar, light tread of Swiftpaw shadowing her steps. When I look up, there’s an undeniable light in her eyes, brighter than I’ve ever seen it before.

  She comes to my side without a word and takes my hand, guiding it gently to her belly—still flat beneath her tunic, but warm under my palm.

  “The Masters’ children may have lived,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion, “but ours will thrive. We are going to be parents, Tormack.”

  Everything inside me goes still. Then a deep, unshakable peace settles through my chest, making me feel as light as a feather. Tears blur my vision as I lift her off her feet, cradling her as the most precious thing in the world to me. I spin her once, laughing and crying, the forest blurring around us. When I set her down, I press my forehead to hers and kiss her, and it feels like every hardship, every doubt, every fear has been slain in this one moment.

  When we finally part, she lets out a sigh. “We need to tell my mom,” she says softly.

  Swiftpaw looks up to her, wagging her tail, seemingly knowing who we are talking about.

  I brush a strand of hair from Shineah’s cheek, trying to smile despite the knot in my stomach at the thought of the Direfangs returning.

  Then her smile falters as she presses a hand to her belly. “Maybe we should wait a little bit before doing so. It’s still really soon. Things can happen… the first weeks are fragile.”

  A protective instinct flares within me, but I’m happy at the thought of delaying the call. “No rush.”

  As she thinks things through, her eyes drift toward Nightshade, perched on a low branch nearby. “When we do call for my Mom… if Nightshade arrived empty?handed…” She swallows. “She might think we were in danger, but if we could tie a pink ribbon to Nightshade, my mother would know this is good news.” Her brow creases. “But… we don’t have any ribbon. We’d have to go into Oakhaven to get it.”

  The name hits me like a cold wind. “Oakhaven…” I murmur.

  Swiftpaw leans lightly against my leg, sensing the shift in mood.

  I slip an arm around Shineah’s waist, grounding her. “Shineah, I’ll go. I can do this. I’m sure I can get Arion, or your brothers, to help me if I need it.”

  She steps closer, resting a hand on my arm. “Tormack… the people there… they were poisoned by the Masters’ whispers. They saw you as a monster. Even when I returned, even when I declared our marriage, it did nothing to calm them.” She looks toward the faint path leading out of our clearing. “After Fendarrow—it’s dangerous. I don’t want you to go. It would be safer if I went.”

  The thought of her walking into Oakhaven, pregnant and vulnerable, makes something cold twist in my gut. I gently put a finger to her lips and pull a hood over my head.

  “No,” I say softly. “You need to be careful. You stay here with Swiftpaw. I need you and our baby safe.”

  Swiftpaw looks to Shineah and wags her tail, as if accepting the charge.

  Shineah shakes her head immediately. “Tormack, I don’t want you going alone. Not there. Not now.”

  I take her hands, steadying her. “Shineah… this is about more than just the ribbon. The prophet told me I needed to write my story. To keep a record for our children. For their children. I can’t do that without writing materials. I need to go anyway. I want our children and grandchildren to know who we are. I want them to know the truth, not the lies the city tells about me. I want them to know about the true God and about what He did for us.”

  Her eyes soften, filling with emotion. “Then we will teach them,” she says. “We will write it all down. Every miracle. Every trial. Every blessing.”

  I nod, feeling the weight of purpose settle in my chest. “I don’t want our family’s memory going cold like a fading hunting trail. These books matter. I have to go.”

  She takes a deep breath and looks down. “I still don’t like it.”

  “If you need anything,” I say, lifting her chin gently, “send Nightshade. I’ll come back the moment she finds me.”

  She nods, though her eyes are still troubled.

  Then she says something that makes my hands go cold.

  “Word of the Masters’ deaths has probably reached Oakhaven… Oakhaven frequently does trade with Fendarrow.”

  The term ‘Masters’ twists in my gut. “Shineah, let’s not call them that anymore.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “Their servants can call them that. But we are not their servants. Let’s just call them the Dark Ones.”

  “You’re right,” she whispers. “I won’t call them that again.”

  I nod, letting the moment pass. “While I’m in town, I’ll ask your brothers if they can help gather some more of your things. The ones you left behind.”

  Shineah watches me with worry and love intertwined, but knows by the look in my eye that I am determined. There is no changing my mind on this.

  She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small purse of coins, pressing it into my hand. “Then take this. You’ll need it… We are not stealing from Oakhaven.”

  The weight of the purse is small, but the meaning behind it is not. I curl my fingers around it, feeling her trust settle into my palm.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. “This will help.”

  “The key to the sidegate is in there too. Be safe and come back to me,” she whispers.

  “I will,” I promise.

  And then I step onto the path toward Oakhaven.

  The forest feels different without Charlie and Grizz lumbering at my sides. Their absence leaves the Whisperwood strangely hollow, every rustle louder, every shadow deeper. I miss their steady presence more than I expected. However, today’s journey demands subtlety, not two bear?sized companions announcing my arrival from a mile away.

  As the city walls rise ahead, my eyes drift toward the faint trail leading to the eastern side gate—the one Shineah and I slipped through with this very key. I thumb the metal through my pouch, already planning the route. If I’m fast and quiet, I can avoid the main gate entirely.

  But before I can angle that direction, a mounted guard crests a rise. He spots me immediately and slows his horse, matching my pace from a distance. He doesn’t challenge me, but I can tell he is watching me, and he is just near enough that any sudden turn into the trees would look suspicious.

  The only reason the key worked last time was because we were ghosts. Today, with a guard practically shadowing me, that would be impossible, and I can’t just turn around and go the other way to wait till dark either.

  So much for the side gate, there is only one way forward — the front gate. It stands open, but three guards cluster before it, spears angled forward, knuckles white around the shafts. They stop a farmer’s cart ahead of me, interrogating the poor man like he’s smuggling demons under his potatoes. Their eyes flick to me again and again, growing narrower each time.

  I keep my distance, wishing I’d had the sense to walk beside the farmer and pretend we were together.

  I tug my hood lower, suddenly painfully aware of the shape of my lower teeth pressing against my lip. Half?orc. Outsider. Monster. The old labels cling like burrs.

  One of the younger guards stiffens when he catches sight of my tusks. His eyes dart to the others, and I hear a low whisper: “Half?orc…” Another mutters, “Stay sharp.” Their grips tighten. They don’t appear to know who I am, but my features are already ringing warning bells.

  The farmer is finally waved through, and the guards turn their full attention to me.

  An old veteran with scars across his face steps forward and a flicker of dread hits me.

  “Ho there, traveler!” He says, voice gravelly, strained with suspicion, “State your business, and show your face! No cloaked figures within Oakhaven’s walls, not with the tidings we’ve been hearing. And put away that blade unless you mean to cause trouble!”

  His comrades shift uneasily, their hands tightening on their weapons, their gaze fixed on my concealed features.

  I alter my voice, not that they’d recognize it, but it gives me something to hide behind. “I come from Fendarrow,” I say aloud, deepening my tone, showing off my Fendarrow sword, still in its scabbard. “I’m here on urgent royal business.”

  Then another thought hits me. My gaze flicks heavenward.

  The old man’s eyes narrow. “Fendarrow, you say? On ‘royal business’?” He snorts.

  He fixes me with a steady, unblinking stare.

  “Reveal your face and state your name.”

  I take a breath and pull back my hood, fully revealing my face and ears.

  I take a deep breath and straighten my posture. A hint of challenge slips into my voice.“I am Tormack, The Purifier.”

  The old man’s eyes widen in confirmation. The other guards stiffen, exchanging sharp, wary looks. The title lands like a stone.

  One guard whispers to the others, low and tense, “That’s him… It's the Regicide…”

  “Yes. We’ve heard of you.” The old man says as his gaze sweeps over me again. “Tales good and ill, depending on who’s telling them.”

  Their grips tighten on their spears in a hush.

  The old man doesn’t turn, but his posture sharpens. “Hold formation.”

  All three spears lift in perfect unison.

  The old man steps forward. “We heard about what happened in Fendarrow,” he says, voice steady but edged. “And Oakhaven remembers you, the fire in our marketplace. Those beasts of yours tearing through the square. The riot. The house we burned after.”

  He takes another step, measured, spear tips following with precision.

  “And now the Regicide returns to our gate?”

  “I’ll ask you again, traveler. State your true business, or you’re not getting through.”

  Spears rise another inch.

  The guards shift around me into a tight, disciplined containment stance, shields angled, feet braced, every movement controlled and lethal. One spearhead levels directly at my throat, steady as stone.

  My pulse spikes —

  My stomach drops. … I let out a sigh.

  I lift my hands slowly, palms open.

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” I say, letting the tension drain from my voice. “I’m just here to get a gift for my wife.”

  The guards blink; the sudden shift from danger to vulnerability throws them off just enough to stop them from lunging. The spear aimed at my chest wavers.

  “She just told me we are expecting, and it is the least I can do.” I scratch my head and smile nervously. “I'm kinda new to this stuff, first-time dad and all... I just want to bring her something nice. Something that shows I’m trying.” My nostrils flare, and a tear almost escapes.

  Their stances shift, just slightly. The spear tips a hair lower. The old man takes a breath. They’re all still coiled tight, but the killing edge of the moment softens.

  I shrug helplessly. “Do you have any recommendations for what I should get her?”

  The guards look at each other, unsure of what to think.

  “Expecting, eh?” the old man grunts. His grip loosens only so he can shift his spear into a more ready angle.

  “Well, congratulations… if that’s true. But on account of your reputation, the Captain will want to speak with you.”

  I swallow. “Is he here? I was completely serious about being here for baby stuff…”

  The old man lets out a short, humorless bark of laughter, his eyes remaining sharp.

  “The Captain is never far from the gates these days, Purifier.”

  The old man turns to one of the younger guards. “Fetch Captain Voss. Tell him the Purifier is at the gate.”

  The younger guard nods and hurries off.

  The old man turns back to me, watching my every move.

  “He’ll be here shortly, Tormack. If you cause any trouble, your ‘baby stuff’ will be the least of your worries.”

  I keep my hands raised in peace, raising them a little higher. He grunts, unmoved. The silence between us is thick with tension and memory.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  It doesn’t take long until footsteps approach, heavy and authoritative.

  The captain of the guard emerges, grim?faced, hand resting on his sword. His eyes fall on me, assessing the situation.

  I try a disarming smile, wondering what I’ll say. “Did you know my wife Shineah? She really loves this town. It breaks her heart to be away from it. She’s devoted to its well?being. I actually consider Oakhaven to be like a former boyfriend to her.” I sigh nervously, with sincere jealousy pricking at me.

  Captain Voss’s expression shifts subtly, but unmistakably, at the mention of Shineah. The hardness in his eyes eases. “Shineah,” he says at last, voice low and steady. “Yes. She is a devoted woman. Oakhaven owes her much.”

  He studies me again, this time with a hint of sympathy, then gestures away from the gate. “Come, Tormack. Let’s speak where there are fewer ears. And then we’ll see about this… baby business.”

  I shout in my mind. But I follow, despite the knot of unease in my stomach.

  I pray silently.

  I follow Captain Voss, my silent prayer for the Father’s guidance echoing in my mind. The city unfolds before me, a strange mix of everyday life and lingering apprehension. Merchants hawk their wares, citizens hurry along the cobbled streets, but every glance seems to linger, every conversation dips to a whisper as I pass.

  Captain Voss leads me through a few winding streets, past shuttered shops and wary faces, until we reach a quieter courtyard beside what looks like the guard barracks. He gestures toward a weathered stone bench.

  “Here,” he says, “we can speak without drawing too much attention. Now, Tormack, let’s talk truthfully. What brings ‘The Purifier’ back to Oakhaven?”

  “I need books,” I say. “I want to make a holy record of my dealings with God.”

  Captain Voss raises an eyebrow at my sudden shift from danger and divine matters to books. “Books,” he repeats, but this time there’s no wry smile, just a pointed look. “What about all that talk you gave the guards about ‘baby stuff’?”

  Heat rises in my cheeks. “That… that part is true,” I admit, rubbing the back of my neck. “Shineah is pregnant, and I came to get her a gift.”

  Captain Voss’s expression shifts at once. The scrutiny in his eyes eases, replaced by something… almost warm.

  “Shineah has always been a woman of conviction. Loyal to her people and loyal to what is right.” His gaze settles on me. “If she says you are her husband, then that is enough for me. I trust her judgment.”

  He exhales through his nose, the tension in his shoulders softening just a little.

  “Whatever the city thinks of you, Shineah has never given me reason to doubt her. For her sake, I’ll take your words seriously.”

  I drop my voice to a whisper. “Captain… please keep the baby matter between us. I said that stuff too soon. I don’t want to put Shineah at risk because of me.”

  Captain Voss chuckles, shaking his head. “Tormack… it might be too late for that. The cat is already out of the bag. My men talk. The gate sees everything.”

  A cold weight settles in my stomach. I throw my head back with a groan at my own foolishness.

  “I’ll have to hurry,” I mutter. “I can’t stay long.”

  I steady myself and meet his eyes. “If it’s Fendarrow you want to talk about… the king and queen were corrupted. I did everything I could to plead with them to reject the darkness, but they refused… If only you had seen the abominations they were performing in their kennels…”

  Captain Voss nods slowly, the lines around his eyes tightening with something like understanding. “As you witnessed in the marketplace, we’ve been handling quite a bit here in Oakhaven,” he says. “The Master’s influence… it has been strong, leading people to awaken some kind of ancient power.” He exhales through his nose. “That kind of influence doesn’t simply get washed away.”

  He glances toward the street, watching a pair of citizens hurry past with their heads down.

  “People don’t always stumble into it,” he continues, his tone steady, almost clinical. “Some reach for it because they want relief. It offers quick answers. It numbs pain. It settles into places where life has already worn someone thin.”

  Captain Voss turns back to me, his expression firming. “But you didn’t come all this way just to speak of Fendarrow or air your grievances. You said you needed a gift for Shineah… and books?”

  “Yes, I need books that are sturdy enough to stand the test of time,” I say. “And something I can afford. I don’t have much money.”

  Voss strokes his beard, considering both my request and my lack of funds. “Durable and affordable is a difficult mix,” he says. “True vellum and fine inks cost more than most carry. They’re meant for royal archives, not travelers.” He pauses, thinking. “If you’ve got fifteen silver, you won’t get anything grand, but you could buy a sturdy leather?bound journal and a decent quill from Master Eldrin near the West Gate. His paper holds up well enough. However, if you want something truly lasting… that would require a larger investment, or a different kind of offering from Oakhaven.”

  “I appreciate the suggestion,” I say. “May I take my leave?”

  Voss gives a curt nod. “You may. Your business seems straightforward enough.” He rises from the bench, his gaze sweeping the courtyard.

  “You’re welcome to come with me if you wish.” I add.

  His eyes settle on me again. “No. My place is here, keeping order within these walls. But I expect you to move quickly and keep a low profile. And Tormack—no more fighting anyone in the streets. The city has had enough excitement. Once you have your stuff, leave as quietly as you arrived.”

  “I would enjoy the company,” I say, hoping he’ll reconsider.

  Voss hesitates. His brow furrows as he studies me. A sigh escapes him. “Enjoy the company, you say?” Something unreadable flickers across his face. “Very well. Consider it an escort. Not for your protection,” he adds, “but to ensure you keep your word and avoid any further incidents.” He places a hand on my shoulder, the grip firm.

  “Do you think this book shop of yours sells ribbon?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

  Voss lets out a low chuckle, the sound loosening his sternness. “Ribbon? From Master Eldrin?” He shakes his head. “No. He deals in parchment, leather, ink, and binding thread. If you want ribbon, try the general goods merchant or the clothiers’ district. They’ll have what you’re looking for.”

  “As important as those books are to me,” I say, glancing sideways at Voss, “my wife will kill me if I don’t pick up some pink ribbon for her while I’m in town.” A small chuckle escapes me.

  Captain Voss raises an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The wisdom of a married man,” he says. “A peaceful home is worth more than any treasure. And a woman expecting…” He gives a short nod, as if acknowledging a truth he’s seen many times. “Yes, we can make a detour. The bookbinder is near the market square. Plenty of shops there carry ribbon.”

  He gestures for me to follow. “Come. But keep a low profile. The market is lively at the best of times.”

  As we walk through the vendors, I pray his presence is a blessing in disguise. Eyes follow us, but no one steps forward to challenge me. Voss’s authority cuts a path through the crowd, giving me room to breathe.

  A splash of color catches my eye, a small stall tucked between a spice merchant and a leatherworker. Ribbons hang in neat rows, every shade imaginable. The shopkeeper, a plump woman with sharp eyes, watches us approach with a mix of caution and opportunity.

  “How much for the pink ribbon?” I ask.

  Her smile brightens at once. “We have silk from the southern ports and sturdy linen for everyday wear. For a gift…” She lifts a shimmering pink silk ribbon. “Three silver. Or a fine linen for one.”

  “I’ll take the silk,” I say, not wanting to skimp on Shineah.

  I hand over the coins. The shopkeeper wraps the spool of ribbon in clean linen and passes it to me with a polite, careful smile — the kind that avoids lingering too long on my tusks.

  Voss gives a small approving nod. “A good choice.”

  As we turn to leave, a stall to my right catches my eye. Small blankets, swaddles, and folded squares of linen hang from a wooden beam. I drift toward it. The woman behind the table is busy arranging her stock, muttering to herself as she folds a stack of tiny baby clothes.

  She doesn’t notice me at first.

  I reach out and lift a blanket from a stack to look it over and check the quality.

  She notices that.

  Her whole body jerks. Her eyes widen, then narrow with sharp, instinctive disgust. She immediately stops what she is doing and quickly approaches me, as if I’ve splashed mud on her merchandise just by standing nearby.

  “Don’t touch that!” she snaps, voice high and tight. “Those are .”

  I freeze for a moment, blanket still in my hand. Her face twists, and she looks past me, clearly expecting someone to step in and remove the problem.

  Her gaze lands on Captain Voss.

  Relief floods her features. She straightens, chin lifting, ready for him to do exactly what she wants: get the half?orc away from her stall.

  But Voss doesn’t move. Instead he gives her a look that indicates she is the one causing trouble.

  Confusion flickers first, then tightens into discomfort as the truth settles in: the Captain isn’t here to remove me. He is here escorting me.

  Her voice changes reluctantly, snapping into a forced civility.

  “If… if you’re looking to buy, sir,” she says, forcing the word out, “the blanket is five silver. The cloth diapers are ten.”

  Captain Voss coughs and looks to a price tag.

  She lets out a groan. “The blanket is two silver and the cloth diapers are five.”

  She can barely look at me. Her hands tremble as she reaches for wrapping cloth, careful to keep her fingers well away from mine.

  I hand over the coins. She snatches them quickly, wraps the items with jerky efficiency, and pushes the bundle across the table without letting our skin come anywhere near touching.

  We step back out into the street. “Now for the journal” I say.

  Voss points to a nearby building. “Master Eldrin’s shop is just ahead.”

  I hesitate.

  “I appreciate your suggestion, Captain. But could we visit my friend Arion first? He might be able to help me.”

  He turns smoothly, changing direction. “This way. His home is in a quieter part of the city.”

  I follow him through winding streets where the noise of the market fades into the distance. The sounds shift from hammer on anvil to children laughing behind a wall. The tension of the city loosens here, replaced by something calmer.

  Voss stops before a modest stone house with ivy climbing the walls and herbs growing in neat rows by the door. He raps once on the heavy oak.

  The door opens after a moment to Master Arion standing there, looking older but clearer, his eyes bright. His smile widens when he sees me. He steps aside, robes whispering as he gestures us in. “Captain Voss. Tormack. A welcome surprise.”

  Inside, the entryway is lined with books and scrolls. The air smells of parchment and herbs.

  I step inside and lower my voice. “Please forgive me for exposing your connection with me.”

  Arion waves a gentle hand. “There is nothing to forgive, Tormack. Truly. The Captain has always acted for Oakhaven’s well?being. I trust him.”

  I nod, relieved. “How have you been? How has your family been?”

  His expression softens. “We are well. Better than we were. My mind is clearer, and my household is steady again.” He exhales quietly. “There are still lingering threads of the Master’s influence to unravel, but we are no longer living under its weight.”

  I meet his eyes. “Please don’t call him the Master. He is your master no longer, Arion. Call him the Dark One, and I’ll know who you mean.”

  Arion absorbs that, thoughtfully. “The Dark One,” he repeats with a small nod. “Yes. That is the truer name.”

  “I hate to rush you,” I say, “but I can’t stay long.”

  “I understand,” he replies. “You carry much these days.”

  “You should come visit Shineah and I. We have much to talk about.”

  A quiet laugh escapes him. “I would like that. It has been too long since we spoke without shadows hanging over us.”

  I glance toward the shelves. “Also, I was wondering, do you have any empty writing journals I might be able to use?”

  Arion turns toward a cluttered bookcase, his robes whispering as he moves. “Journals? Yes, of course.” He kneels beside a small wooden chest and opens it, revealing several leather?bound books. “I keep these for my own work. Take one. No coin between friends.”

  I choose a single journal. “One is enough for now. Thank you. Truly.”

  He then reaches to a nearby shelf and picks up a simple but well?made quill, its feather trimmed neatly. “And you’ll need something to write with. This one holds ink well. Consider it part of the gift.”

  I smile. “Again, sincerely, thank you. I’d stay longer if I could, but my wife is waiting at home. She’s pregnant.”

  His face lights with joy. “Wonderful news. Visit anytime.”

  I look him in the eye, “Same to you!” I say with a smile.

  I clasp his hand, and the handshake becomes a hug. Then I step back into the doorway where Captain Voss stands watching and waiting. “I’ll see you back to the gate,” he says.

  We walk through the quieter lanes of Oakhaven, the noise of the market distant now. Voss’s stride is steady, his presence a constant weight at my side. The city watches us pass—windows shifting, doors half?open, the usual murmurs subdued.

  At the main gate, he stops. The guards straighten as he approaches.

  “This is where we part ways,” he says, offering his hand.

  I take it firmly. “Thank you for the escort, Captain.”

  Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, gone as quickly as it appears. “Safe travels, Tormack.”

  I give him a nod.

  As I leave through the city gate, the forest air is cool and familiar. Sunlight filters through the canopy as I look upward. “Thank you, Father, for teaching me this lesson in honesty today,” I say aloud.

  A warm smile spreads across my face as I glance back at Voss one last time. “God bless you, my friend.”

  He nods once before turning back to his duties.

  As I start down the path home, a thought surfaces. Shineah once rode to me on a horse. I wonder what became of it.

  The road into the Whisperwood feels gentle. The air is cool and refreshing, carrying the faint scent of pine sap and damp earth. Leaves rustle overhead in a familiar rhythm, and the distant calls of birds echo softly through the canopy. After the tension of Oakhaven, the forest feels like a welcoming balm.

  I walk at an easy pace, the weight of my purchases shifting in my pack.

  A squirrel darts across the path. A jay calls from a high branch. The forest feels alive, moving with its usual rhythms.

  Then a flutter of wings breaks the pattern.

  I look up. High on a gnarled oak, an owl perches in the fading light, dark feathers, a sharp silhouette, its eyes directly fixed on me. My heart lurches.

  The owl hoots once, soft, but urgent.

  Then she launches herself into the air and glides ahead through the trees.

  The peaceful quiet collapses in an instant.

  My pulse spikes. My hand goes to my sword. I break into a run, instincts roaring awake. Whatever calm the forest offered a moment ago is gone, replaced by a single, overwhelming thought,

  Branches whip past as I sprint at full speed, my lungs burning. By the time my homestead comes into view, my breath is ragged and my grip on my sword is tight enough to ache. The firelight glows through the windows.

  I don’t slow.

  I crash through the door, half?stumbling, half?charging, sword raised and ready to strike at anything that moves. Sweat drips into my eyes. My chest heaves. Every muscle in my body is coiled. “Shineah!” I shout, voice cracking. “I saw Nightshade, what is wrong?”

  Shineah whirls from the hearth, startled by the force of my entrance. The ladle in her hand clatters against the pot. Swiftpaw bristles, and snarls, then recognizes me and whines, circling my legs.

  “Tormack!” Shineah’s voice is sharp with alarm. “What in the world—?”

  Then she sees my face, the fear, and exhaustion as I’m gasping for breath.

  Her expression softens instantly.

  She steps toward me, her voice gentler now. “Nothing is wrong, my love.”

  She reaches for my wrist, guiding my sword down with slow, steady pressure. “I never sent Nightshade.”

  The words hit me like a blow to the gut. “I saw an owl...” I say in between breaths. The room feels suddenly too quiet, warm and safe for the terror that drove me here.

  She shakes her head.“All is well,” she murmurs, her hand warm on my arm. “Come sit. Eat. Put that away.”

  Swiftpaw presses against my leg, tail thumping once, as if reminding me I’m home.

  Before I eat anything though, I drop my pack and present my gifts.

  Shineah gasps with excitement when she sees the ribbon, the blanket, and the changing cloths on the table. Her hand hovers over them for a moment, touching each one as if they were all incredibly delicate.

  Her expression softens in a way that hits deeper than words. She looks up at me, eyes warm in the firelight.

  She steps close and rests her forehead against mine for a heartbeat, grounding me. Then she presses the bowl of stew into my hands, and I eat it slowly, savoring the flavor as the warmth spreads through me.

  Shineah moves to the doorway once the bowl is empty, lifting her hands to her mouth. Her hooting call echoes into the trees, soft at first, then carrying farther into the Whisperwood.

  Nightshade answers almost immediately. The owl glides down from the treeline, wings whispering through the air, and lands on the post beside the door with a soft flutter. Her amber eyes shift between the two of us, alert and steady.

  Shineah takes the ribbon from the table, cuts a strip from the spool, and ties it gently around Nightshade’s leg. I rest my hand on the owl’s back, feeling the strength beneath her feathers, the quiet readiness in the way she holds herself.

  “We need you to find my mother for us,” Shineah says respectfully.

  Nightshade hoots once with understanding, then launches from the post into the night, wings catching the firelight for a heartbeat before disappearing into the trees.

  “Godspeed, my friend,” I say, the words leaving me in a reverent breath.

  Shineah turns her attention back to me the moment the owl is gone, stepping into me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders, pulling me close with an unexpected, fierce warmth. Her body presses against mine, grounding me in a way that hits deeper than anything. I hold her just as tightly, the last of the exhaustion draining out of me as her breath brushes my neck.

  She tilts her face up and kisses me, slow at first, then with a heat that promises more, her fingers curling into the back of my shirt as if she’s afraid to let go.

  The night air cools my exposed skin. Swiftpaw circles once at our feet, then settles near the doorway, keeping a quiet watch as the firelight spills from our door out across the clearing.

  Shineah’s lips linger against mine, her body soft and sure in my arms. The world narrows to the two of us standing outside the doorway of our home.

  She takes my hand and tugs me back through the doorway with a provocative smile that leaves no doubt she is hungry for more.

  — End of Book One —