*18+ scene.
The evening unfolded with an ease that surprised them both. They ate around the small wooden table, stew ladled into clay bowls, thick slices of crusty bread passed between them, and Alva filled the silences with her questions. Valtor reached for the bread, tore a piece in half, and passed it to her without a word. The gesture was simple, almost mundane, yet something about it lingered.
Nyla watched them with a faint smile, her chest tight with something she hadn't expected: the sight of him here, laughing softly at Alva's jokes, leaning back in his chair like he belonged. Every so often their eyes would meet across the table, fleeting, quiet glances that lingered a little too long.
After dinner, he insisted on helping clean up. The two of them moved around each other easily, passing dishes and drying cloth's in an unspoken rhythm. Once, his fingers brushed hers as he handed her a plate. Neither of them pulled away.
"You're full of surprises," she murmured.
"So are you," he replied, pulling away, and the look that came with it made her pulse jump.
The last of the dishes were stacked by the hearth, the smell of stew still clinging faintly to the warm air. Alva stifled a yawn so wide it brought tears to her eyes, and Nyla caught it immediately.
"All right, you," she said with a smile. "That's our cue. Bedtime."
"Aww, but—"
"No buts," Nyla said gently, brushing a curl from the girl's forehead. "You've been up since sunrise and tomorrow's another long day. Go get comfortable...and I'll show you the lights again."
That promise was enough to send Alva darting toward her small bed beneath the eaves, but halfway there, she stopped, turned, and looked back.
Valtor stood beside Nyla near the hearth, one hand resting on the back of a chair, his broad frame outlined in firelight. The warmth made his features gentler somehow, the hard edges eased by the flicker of the flames.
"Goodnight, Valtor," Alva said, shy but sure.
He blinked, caught off guard, and straightened a little. "Goodnight, little one."
Before he could say more, she crossed the room in three quick steps and threw her arms around his middle. The hug was fierce and brief, smelling of soap and stew and hearth smoke. Valtor froze for a heartbeat, startled, then lowered a hand to her back, the touch careful and unsure but kind.
"Sleep well," he said quietly.
"I will." And just like that, she spun away and clambered into the next room.
Nyla watched her, a small smile curving her lips before she turned to Valtor. "You see? You've been adopted."
He exhaled through a faint laugh. "Seems so."
"I'll be right back, don't go anywhere."
He chuckled, "All right."
Nyla followed Alva into the bed where she was climbing into a feather padded bed.
"Blankets," Nyla said, moving to the bedside. "All the way up. Candles out."
Alva giggled and obeyed, wriggling beneath the covers until only her nose and bright green eyes peeked out. "Lights now?"
Nyla chuckled softly. "Lights now."
Nyla lifted her hand, feeling warmth spread through her palm, touch the tips of her fingers and murmured one of the old charms, the kind passed down through midwives for generations, whispered over cradles and sickbeds alike. The air above the bed stirred, faintly, as though catching a breeze that wasn't there.
A soft shimmer bloomed in the dimness, small points of light unfolding like seeds taking root in the air. They drifted in slow, lazy circles, threads of silver weaving between them until the pattern resembled twinkling stars.
The lights pulsed gently, warm and alive, changing hue from gold to soft violet to deep blue, the colors of a night sky cradling a newborn moon. Their motion was slow, rhythmic, deliberate, the way Nyla had been taught: the pattern of a heartbeat, steady and safe.
Alva's eyes followed them at first, wide and heavy with wonder. The lights swayed, twinkling in time with her breath. "Goodnight, little cub." she whispered
Soon her lids drooped, her small hand curling against the blanket as the world blurred into comfort.
Nyla watched the lights settle into their orbit, her lips still moving in the final lines of the charm. The spell didn't hum or flare, it simply was, quiet and constant, a trick of magic and love old as the Hollow itself.
Even grown folk, she knew, slept easier beneath that light. With a soft goodnight, the cottage was quiet again. The fire had burned low, throwing a warm orange glow across the floorboards. When Nyla closed the door softly and returned, Valtor stood by the door, as if preparing himself to leave, reluctant but unsure. "Sorry to keep you."
"The lights?" he asked, voice low so as not to disturb the silence inside the room.
Nyla brushed her palms together absently, as though shaking off the last traces of magic. "Old sleeping charm," she said, "One of the midwives' tricks. Helps little ones drift off."
He nodded slowly, gaze flicking toward the closed door, something thoughtful in the set of his jaw. "Works well it seems," he murmured.
She smiled faintly. "It usually does."
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The warmth from the hearth spread lazily through the small cottage. "Thank you," he said after a pause, voice rough with hesitation. "For the meal. And... the company. It's been a long time since a night's felt like this."
"Actually..." Nyla said, her voice softer now. "I was going to open that wine you brought. If you're not in a rush."
His eyes lifted to meet hers and then cleared his throat, "I'm not."
Nyla hesitated, glancing toward the door where the cold pressed faintly at the seams. "My workshop is around the back."
"Lead the way."
"I keep herbs and books there...when I need a bit of quiet." Her gaze flicked up to his. "It's warmer than it sounds."
The snow crunched softly under their boots as Nyla led him around the side of the cottage, chill nipping at her neck, her lantern casting a golden pool of light on the narrow path. The outbuilding loomed ahead, a squat wooden structure half-swallowed by drifting flakes, its wooden door weathered but sturdy.
She fumbled with the iron latch, her fingers numb from the cold, and pushed it open with a low creak that echoed into the darkness within.
Nyla directed her focus towards the latern's around the room and with a casual flick of her fingers and the lanterns lit and warmed.
Valtor stepped in behind her, pulling the door shut against the wind. "I didn't know you were a caster." Valtor said, almost appreciately.
"I know the basics, like most people."
"I don't know many people who can command fire like you."
"It's easier than you think. I grew up in a temple, all the priestesses knew it. I could teach it to you if you like?"
Valtor's face softened, "Any magic I have I've channeled into the sword, I think. I've never been good at casting."
The air inside was warming, heated with the earthy scent of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. The small firepit blazed brightly lighting the room in brilliant orange hues. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with jars of leaves and roots, leather-bound books stacked in precarious towers. A single oil lamp flickered to life under Nyla's touch, bathing the desk space in amber glow.
Nyla set the wine bottle down on the scarred wooden table with a soft clink, and poured two mugs.
Valtor's gaze drifted from her to the room itself, slow and curious, as though the walls had begun to speak.
Shelves rose in tiers, crowded with glass jars that caught the lamplight like stained jewels. Moonlace petals floated in pale oil, their silver veins shimmering. Dried starwort hung in fragrant braids, releasing a faint citrus warmth whenever the air stirred. A crystal decanter labeled embermoss glowed faintly from within, the spores inside pulsing like slow heartbeats. On a lower shelf, bundles of dreamthorn were tied with twine, their violet tips still dusted with the frost she'd carried in from the ridge at dawn.
He stepped closer, boots scuffing softly over the packed-earth floor. "This is...remarkable," he said, voice low with genuine wonder. His fingers hovered over a jar of larkshade, the tiny indigo seeds shifting as if eager to be noticed. "I've seen apothecaries in the capital with half your stock and none of your order. You could mend a broken legion with what's in this corner alone."
Nyla's mouth curved, a quiet pride softening her eyes. "I didn't know you studied alchemy."
"I know the basics," he said with an amused look, "Enough to know you've got some impressive stock."
"They may seem impressive but all those ingredients made tinctures and tonics for quieter hurts. Fevers, bad dreams, the kind of ache that isn't obvious. Even hair-growth."
Valtor turned to her, the lamplight gilding the side of his face. "You have a gift."
"No, I was just taught very well," she said, and the laugh that followed was small but real, warming the space between them.
"Still... it suits you. This place."
"Because it's full of roots and dust?" she teased.
His lips twitched. "Because it feels...steady." He paused, eyes lifting to hers. "Like you."
The words hung there, unhurried and sincere, but something in them changed the air. She looked at him then, not the soldier or the guest, but the man standing quietly in her light.
For a moment they simply breathed the same scented air, the hush of the workshop folding around them like a secret. Then Nyla held out his cup and he took it gratefully, fingers brushing hers.
Valtor's hand found hers first, drawing her back against him with a gentleness that belied the intensity in his eyes. Nyla turned into him, feeling the strength of him press against her. No words now, just the soft exhale of breath mingling in the scant inches that remained.
His fingers, smooth and calloused brushed the chill from her cheeks, and leaned in. Their lips met slowly, a deliberate press that deepened by degrees, as if savoring the discovery of each other. Nyla melted into him, eyes slipping closed as lips turned to the soft edges of their tongues.
Gods, she'd needed this.
Nyla's fingers curled into the fabric at his collar, her hands roaming the broad plane of his back and with a hand sliding around her, he pulled them closer until their bodies aligned, chest to chest, the heat of him seeping through layers of clothing like sunlight through frost.
In a swift movement, he lifted her into his arms, thighs locking around his waist, and guided her backward until her shoulders met the wall, but there was no urgency in it, only the need to feel more. Nyla arched into him, her lips trailing from his mouth to the line of his jaw, tasting the faint salt of his skin, the subtle scratch of stubble.
"Nyla," he murmured, her name a low vibration against her lips, and she answered by threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him into another kiss.
As the warmth of his lips travelled from her lips to the tender flesh of her throat, Nyla's hands found the hem of his shirt, fingertips slipping beneath to trace the warm, taut skin of his abdomen. She felt the catch in his breathing, the way his stomach flexed under her touch, and she let her nails graze lightly upward, mapping the ridges of muscle until they splayed over his chest. His heart pounded beneath her palm, a steady drum that matched the pulse thrumming low in her own body.
She tilted her face up, lips parted, and he answered with a kiss that began soft, almost reverent, then deepened into something slower, hungrier, tongues sliding in a languid glide that drew a low sound from the back of his throat.
Valtor's hands moved again, one sliding up her spine to cradle the nape of her neck, the other easing beneath the edge of her blouse. His thumb brushed the bare skin just above her waistband, a feather-light stroke that sent a shiver racing through her. He lingered there, circling, teasing, until her hips shifted restlessly against his. Only then did he let his hand drift higher, palm gliding over the curve of her ribcage, stopping just beneath the swell of her breast, the heat of his skin searing through thin fabric.
Nyla dipped her hand between them, gently feeling for the hard bulge through his pants.
A quiet groan escaped him and he drew back just enough to look at her, pupils blown wide, the gold flecks in his eyes catching the lamplight like embers.
Nyla's lips were swollen, glistening; she licked them slowly, deliberately, and watched his jaw tighten. His forehead dropped to hers, breath ragged.
"Tell me," he whispered, voice rough, "if you want me to stop."
"Please don't." she whispered. Pleaded.
His mouth found the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, lips brushing, then teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. He soothed the spot with a slow, open-mouthed kiss, lips tracing the line of her throat as his hand finally slipped fully beneath her blouse, cupping her breast with a reverence that bordered on worship. Her nipple tightened instantly against his palm; he circled it with his thumb, a maddening rhythm that matched the pulse between her thighs.
Nyla's fingers dug into his shoulders, anchoring herself as the world narrowed around them.
His lips returned to hers, the kiss slower now, deeper and in one measured move he laid her gently on a low platform draped in wolf-fur and a quilt patched from old traveling cloaks.
Nyla's fingers found the laces of his shirt; she tugged once, twice, and the knot gave. The fabric parted, revealing the slope of his shoulders, the faint scars that mapped old battles. She traced one with a fingertip, reverent, then leaned up to press her mouth to it. Salt and skin and the faint taste of pine smoke from the hearth.
Valtor exhaled, a shaky sound, and let his own hands drift to the ties of her dress. Each one slipped free with deliberate care and when the fabric fell open across soft supple flesh, he paused, drinking in the sight of her: the delicate ladder of her ribs, the soft curve beneath her breast. Nyla arched into his touch, a slow, liquid motion, and her hands slid into his hair, guiding without demanding.
He moved lower, lips brushing the slope of one breast, then the other, never hurried. When his mouth closed over her nipple, warm and wet, she gasped softly, the single syllable trembling in the quiet. He lingered there, learning the weight of her, the way she shivered when he circled with his tongue, the way her thigh pressed against his hip in silent plea. Only when her breathing grew ragged did he lift his head, eyes meeting hers, asking.
Nyla answered by reaching for the ties at his waist. Her fingers shook only slightly as she loosened them, pushing fabric down over the lean muscle of his hips. When he was bare to her, she let her palm glide along the hard length of him, a slow, exploratory stroke that drew a low groan from deep in his chest.
The feel of him was velvet over steel, thick enough that her fingers barely met when she encircled him, long enough that the slow drag of her hand from root to crown left her own breath catching in anticipation. He caught her wrist gently, kissed the inside of it, then guided her hand to the furs above her head. Not restraint, just a promise to take his time.
He eased her dress open the soft wool framing her thighs, then lifted it over her head in one fluid motion, letting it fall to the furs beside them. Thefabric whispered away, leaving her bare save for the faint flush climbing her skin.
He gently nudged at her, and in one smooth, deliberate wet glide, he pushed inside. Nyla gasped, and he paused when she inhaled sharply, giving her time to adjust to the stretch, the fullness. Her legs wrapped around his waist; her hands framed his face. They moved together in long, delicious measured strokes. it'd been so long since Nyla had felt the body of a man like Valtor under her hands.
She reached down between her legs feeling herself getting closer and when she came, it was a ripple that started deep and radiated outward, her body clenching around him in soft pulses. Valtor followed moments later burying his face in the curve of her neck, her name against her skin. They stayed together, breathing slowing, the world reduced to the thud of two hearts finding the same rhythm until Valtor kissed her head and withdrew.
*
Valtor drew the quilt up over their cooling bodies, tucking it snug around Nyla's shoulders before settling back beside her on the pallet. Leaning down, he kissed her head, and she shifted instinctively, curling into his side with her head pillowed on his chest, one leg draped over his thigh.
The air still hummed with the heat of their lovemaking. He reached an arm toward the low table nearby, fingers closing around the half-forgotten mugs of wine.
Nyla took the cup with a soft hum of thanks, propping herself up slightly on one elbow to sip. The wine was tart and warm on her tongue, a perfect counter to the lingering heat in her veins. She watched him take his own slow pull, his throat working as he swallowed, eyes half-closed in quiet contentment as he leaned in and kissed her head. "You are fit for a king, Nyla. Your touch has awakened something within me I thought long dead," she said, her tone light but intimate, nestling back against him.
"I don't know about that," Nyla said, "A blacksmith, though? Honest, dependable, looks good swinging a hammer..."
Valtor chuckled, fingers swirling circles on her waist. "I will just have to make you my Queen then."
A surge of excitement but also fear gripped her heart, but she refused to let it taint the moment. She sipped again, letting the silence sit comfortably before breaking it. "Where do you go during the Winter? I notice you're gone for weeks sometimes." Her voice held no accusation, just the quiet truth of someone who'd waited before.
A chuckle rumbled through his chest, "I didn't know you were keeping an eye on me."
"It's hard not to notice when someone you like is missing from the village," she countered coyly,
He blew out a breath, "Mostly east. Better hunting there, and I have a cabin not far from Eodwyn. Trade pelts, make coin..." his eyes glanced down at her, "I'm never far away though."
Nyla watched him from beneath lowered lashes, tracing the edge of his collarbone with her fingertip. The faint rise and fall of his chest matched the slow rhythm of her own breath. Everything felt softer now, the light, the air, even the space between them.
"So you just go where the wind takes you," she murmured, not accusing, just stating what she knew of him. "Sounds nice."
He gave a quiet sound that might've been amusement. "The wind's been kind lately. Besides, you're here aren't you? I have no doubt you could go anywhere and your skills would be invaluable."
"It's nice here...and I have Alva now. Maybe when she's older we'll go back to Eodwyn, maybe even a bit further South, where it's warmer...if only we had a tall handsome guide with a big sword to accompany us on our journey..." Her smile curved against his skin.
That earned her a laugh, the sound low and bright in his chest, the kind that felt earned. He tilted his head enough to press a kiss to her head, a gesture so natural it startled her. "Only if I get to cook you dinner next."
A smile broke Nyla's face as she pressed her forehead against his side, "Deal."
"And Alva? How did you come to care for her?"
Nyla's heart dropped at the thought of Lisanne and Markim, Alva's parents. "Alva's mother Lisanne had been sick since Alva was born, and even with my care it still wasn't enough to save her. When fever swept through the village, she and her father died. Alva had no-one, and ultimately it fell to me to ensure she was cared for. So I did."
"Just like that?"
"There was really no question to it at the time. I can't imagine life being any different now, Alva's been more help than I care to realise and she learns so quick. A true talent."
"You two were meant to find each other it seems."
"Seems fate had that same idea for you and I."
They talked until the fire sank to embers, trading small, unguarded pieces of their worlds, her stories of frostbitten mornings and riverlight in Andris, his of rain-soaked forests and mountains that swallowed the sun. Their voices drifted between laughter and silence, the kind that felt comfortable, inevitable. By the time sleep came, the room was steeped in warmth and the scent of wine, their words fading into the quiet rhythm of shared breath beneath the quilt.
The fire had burned down to a low glow, throwing red-gold light over the walls. Nyla shifted, tucking herself closer beneath his arm. For a while, neither spoke. His breathing deepened, slow and steady, and she let herself follow it, her thoughts blurring at the edges. The night outside whispered through the cracks of the shutters; the world felt smaller, safer, suspended between waking and dream.
By the time she drifted into sleep, the last thing she remembered was the warmth of his arm secured around her and the quiet certainty that she hadn't imagined any of this.
Morning came with the pale grey of dawn creeping across the floorboards. The fire was cold. The place beside her was empty. Her heart instantly sank and she covered herself instinctively, despite being alone.
For a moment, she lay still, eyes half open, the quilt pulled close. The scent of him still lingered faintly, pine and leather, but it was already fading.
Then she saw the scrap of parchment on the table, weighed down by the cup she'd left there last night.
Had to see to something. I'll be back before morning. With love - V
Her gaze lingered on the words until they blurred. The light had changed; the sun was already well past the horizon. She drew the quilt tighter around herself, the weight of the room settling heavy with quiet understanding.
He'd be back, he'd said. But the day had already begun without him.