My favorite color.
A sharp pain stabs through my chest, reminding me that I am, indeed, alone. I set the shuttles down, pour a glass of mead, and bring a jeweled goblet to my lips.
After a life of craving, suffering, and running, I cling to the peace and promise of happiness under the mountain like a woman seeking water in the desert.
I huff a laugh, pour another glass of mead, and let out a long breath, hoping it will shake loose the ache lodged in my ribs.
I worked so hard with Joso. I thought I’d been close to having a husband. A partner. A mate to help my broken body form a family.
I was wrong.
Even the wordmatescrapes against my already-raw nerves. Mygaze drifts back to the sunlit field of wildflowers woven into the fabric.
Joso had been kind to me when I arrived. Then, he protected during the raid on the cavern. When he’d carried me, it unlocked something inside me I thought had died with Daniel. A hunger for touch and trust.
He kept close to me after that.
A few weeks later, after walking me to and from my sessions teaching or weaving, he finally asked if I would join him for a meal. He kissed me that night, slow and careful, as if waiting for me to pull away.
Soft kisses were not as enjoyable as firm ones, but I was happy to go at a slower pace. I knew it would take me time to trust again.
He took me dancing, spun me through the fire lit halls, and laughed when I stumbled over the unfamiliar steps. He helped me wind skeins of thread. And then, a part of me fell quick and fast when he admitted that, like me, he wanted a mate. A family.
I thought that I could be happy with someone so… soft.
For months, I waited for a song to begin between us. For the crystals to hum, for the world to tell me that I had been chosen in this marvelous new place. None of it came.
Now, half-drunk and alone, I think about gods and fate.
What if… whatever song they’ve sung into the crystals doesn’t include a mate? Or a family? Or anything I’ve hoped for?
I let that truth roll through me, testing the sting.
Instead of accepting it, hope springs from some eternal fountain in my soul.
I picture a perfectly detailed future—one where a blue-skinned babe rests in my arms while a fire crackles in the corner of the room.
A brusque knock on the door shatters the lovely dream.
Bolting upright, I knock over the bottle at my feet. The world tilts slightly as I sway.
“Mierda,”I mutter, making my way toward the front door.
Another knock. Louder.
“I’m coming!” I shout, tripping over a rug that Fira, the headweaver, gifted me after I helped her knit a new robe. Righting myself, I realize that rug hadn’t been in that location either.
Before I have a chance to dwell, I hurry down the steps toward the hallway leading to the door as fast as I can without falling.
My fingers fumble around the bronze-gold handle, twisting it with more force than necessary as I yank the door open.
The moment I do, a dull roar fills my ears.
It’s not real. Not sound, exactly—more like the distant echo of a river. Danger. Pain. Sadness. Desolation.
It crashes over me with a frozen chill as I stare at the man standing in the doorway.
A human. Taller than me, but only just. His blond hair is recently shorn, his tanned skin marred by scars, and his bright green eyes are alight.