The steady rhythm of hooves against stone had long since faded into background noise. The cold mountain air bit against my face, sharp and thin, but it wasn't what held my focus.
The weight against my chest did.
Lyra.
Her breathing had evened out, finally surrendering to exhaustion. Her head rested against me, her cheek brushing my tunic, every small shift of her body molding closer. I told myself to focus on the trail, on the danger that still lurked behind us, but it was near impossible when every shallow breath of hers vibrated through me.
I exhaled sharply, my grip on the reins tightening until the leather creaked. The memory of that blade at her throat still burned behind my eyes. The sheer rage that had torn through me then—it hadn't been controlled. It hadn't been measured. For a moment, I hadn't cared if the entire mountain came down around us. All I had wanted was to end him for touching her. And I had.
It wasn't the first time, either. The Earthlin soldier I'd interrogated had felt the same wrath the moment he threatened her. Both times, I had snapped. Both times, something had surged inside me, wild and uncontrollable. Something dangerous.
A sudden shift in weight pulled me from my thoughts. Lyra slumped further into me, her face pressing fully against my chest. Her features were softened, the usual steel in her eyes gone, replaced with the fragile peace of sleep.
I looked down at her longer than I should have, jaw tight. Vulnerable. That's what she looked like. And she would hate me for thinking it.
Revik drew his horse closer, the faint smirk on his face obvious even in the dark. "Twice now," he said idly.
I didn't look at him. "What?"
"You've only really lost your temper twice in all the years I've known you." His tone was casual, but there was weight beneath it. "Both times had something in common."
My grip tightened on the reins. "I get angry when people threaten what's mine."
Revik gave a quiet snort, leaning back in his saddle. "If you say S o." He didn't press, but the smirk lingered, his silence more irritating than words.
I turned my gaze back to the trail. He wasn't wrong. But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.
—
The jagged stone of the Black Mountains eventually gave way to trees. The Ash Forest spread before us, thick and dark, ash drifting from the volcanoes far to the east. The world here always looked like it was burning down and regrowing at the same time, leaves heavy under a veil of gray snow.
We pressed on until the ground leveled and a small clearing appeared, ringed with trees thick enough to mask firelight. A stream trickled nearby, its surface dim under the moon.
"This will do," I said, pulling the stallion to a stop.
Revik swung down with a stretch. "Finally. I'll grab wood." He disappeared into the trees with his sword at his hip.
I looked down at Lyra. She hadn't stirred. Her lashes rested against her cheeks, her face tipped toward me, strands of hair spilling loose. For a moment, I let myself watch. Then I leaned closer, my voice a low murmur at her ear. "Wake up, little thief."
She shifted, lashes fluttering before her eyes cracked open. "Where are we?" she mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.
"The Ash Forest. We're stopping for the night."
She sighed softly, still half-asleep. I slipped down from the saddle, then turned back, my hands settling at her waist as I lifted her down.
She slid against me, every curve of her body brushing mine as she descended. Heat surged where her hip grazed my thigh, where her chest pressed briefly to my own. For a heartbeat I froze, every nerve alight, far too aware of the softness of her against the hardness of me.
She lingered there, suspended between falling and holding on, her small hands resting lightly on my chest. Her eyes fluttered open, hazy with sleep but steady, locking on mine as if she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
I forced my grip steady, my jaw tight, the words I should say caught in my throat.
"I never did thank you for saving me," she said quietly.
My throat tightened. "I'd do it again." I managed to say.
Her lips tugged into a small, crooked smile. "Thank you, Sparky."
A huff of laughter escaped me despite myself. "We need to get some rest."
But even as I said it, I knew rest wouldn't come for me tonight.
—
When I returned from tying the horses near the stream, Revik was muttering curses over the wood pile. "Where in the hells—ah, damn it, left the flint again."
I rolled my eyes and lifted a hand. Sparks crackled from my fingers, the wood catching in an instant. Flames roared to life.
Revik glared at me. "Show-off."
"You're welcome."
"One day you'll wish you had a flint instead of your fancy sparks," he grumbled.
Lyra chuckled, soft and genuine, and my gaze shifted to her before I could stop it.
Revik smirked, brushing his hands. "I'll get food. Try not to kill each other while I'm gone." He disappeared toward the horses, leaving the two of us alone.
The fire crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the ash-choked sky. The air was cold, sharp against my skin, yet warmth pulsed steady in my veins. Across the flames, Lyra pulled her cloak tighter, her shoulders hunched.
"It's strange," she murmured, her eyes on the fire. "How cold it gets at night here. The day feels unbearable, and then the sun sets and it's like the heat never existed."
I shrugged. "I don't notice."
She lifted her brows, the faintest smirk tugging her lips. "How could you not?"
"Because I'm always warm."
Her laugh was soft, low, the kind that curled under my skin. She shifted closer to the fire, holding out her hands. The flames painted her hair in streaks of silver and gold, made her eyes glow faintly violet in the flickering light.
My fingers twitched before I could stop them. I almost reached out, almost brushed my hand against hers just to see her reaction. Instead, I forced myself still, every muscle locked. Whatever this was between us, I couldn't afford to let it spark.
Not yet.
Revik returned with food and blankets, tossing one to Lyra and another to me. She spread hers near the fire, her movements heavy with exhaustion. I set mine down directly beside hers.
She blinked at me. "Really?"
"Can't have you running off in the night," I said evenly.
"If I wanted to run, I would've back at the cliffs."
I leaned slightly closer. "Maybe. But you didn't."
Her lips parted, but instead of answering she rolled her eyes and sat with a huff. I smirked and followed.
Revik was already sprawling across his mat. "Try not to keep me up all night," he muttered before promptly snoring.
Lyra ignored him, tearing into her bread. I ate mine in silence, eyes on the fire.
—
The flames burned lower as the night deepened. Lyra poked at the coals with a stick, her expression thoughtful. Finally, she spoke.
"You're not like they say."
I tilted my head. "And what do they say?"
"Cold. Ruthless. A monster."
A bitter laugh left me. "They're not wrong."
But she shook her head, steady. "They are. You saved me today, Raiden. You didn't hesitate. You would've brought the mountain down if it meant keeping me alive."
Her words cut deeper than they should have. The memory seared again—the knife at her throat, her voice calling my name, the wild fury that had overtaken me. My hands clenched. "I would have," I admitted, low and rough. "I didn't care about the risk. I just wanted him gone."
Silence. The fire popped, ash drifted down from the canopy. But her gaze didn't waver.
"You're not only that," she said, voice quiet, certain.
Something twisted inside me, sharp and painful. She doesn't know me. She can't. She's wrong. The thoughts clawed through my head like wildfire, desperate, defensive. She sees what she wants to see. Not what I am.
I turned away, my voice clipped. "What about you?"
Her laugh was bitter. "Nothing worth telling. Orphan. Learned the streets. That's it."
The way she said it—flat, dismissive—made something in me twist. Without thinking, I reached out and set my hand over hers. She startled, but didn't pull away.
"Don't diminish it," I said, firm.
She stared at me for a long moment, then gave a small, tired smile. "We should sleep."
She pulled her blanket close and lay down, turning her back to me. I did the same, close enough that her warmth brushed along my spine.
I stared into the fire until it burned to glowing embers, my eyes heavy but my body unwilling to give in.
Sleep never came. Not with her there. Not with the storm inside my chest that refused to quiet.
So I told myself—that she was nothing more than my duty. That I didn't want her. That I never would.
But even as I closed my eyes, I knew it wasn't entirely true.