I Was Her Mortal Prisoner, Now I'm Her Only Protector

The fog rolled in without warning, thick and cloying, smelling of damp earth and something unnervingly sweet, like honey left to rot. One moment, Dawson was flanking Elara, his shield raised against the goblin skirmishers. The next, her war cry was a muffled echo, and the familiar pine scent of the King’s Wood was gone, swallowed by the unnatural mist. He called out for her, for Kaelen and Ren, but the fog drank his words, leaving only a ringing silence.

Panic, cold and sharp, tried to take root in his gut. He stamped it down with the hard-won discipline of a dozen campaigns. This wasn't a natural phenomenon. It was magic, a powerful illusion meant to separate them. His ranger training, a secondary skill he’d picked up from Kaelen, urged him to read the nonexistent tracks, to check the wind that didn't blow. It was useless. Every direction felt the same. He was walking in a gray, featureless void.

Then, a light bloomed ahead. It wasn't the clean, honest light of the sun, but a shimmering, iridescent curtain of color that pulsed with a soft, internal rhythm. It hung in the air like a tear in the world, its edges bleeding violet and silver into the oppressive gray. A way out, he thought. Or the source of the trap. Either way, it was the only thing in this damnable fog.

As he drew closer, a strange lethargy washed over him. A soft, persuasive whisper that wasn't quite a sound echoed in his mind, telling him this was the path, the only path. It promised safety, reunion. It felt so right, so logical. For a fleeting second, his fighter’s instinct screamed that it was a lie, a mental assault demanding he hold his ground, grit his teeth, and resist. He felt his will falter, the mental fortitude he relied upon to shrug off a harpy’s song or a vampire’s gaze cracking under the strain. The whisper was too comforting, the promise too sweet for his exhausted mind to fight. He failed to resist the enchantment, the feeling of his own resolve crumbling like sand.

He pushed through the shimmering veil.

The transition was jarring, a violent wrenching of senses. The gray void vanished, replaced by a world saturated with impossible color. The sky was a deep indigo, streaked with turquoise clouds, and two moons—one silver, one the color of pale lavender—hung in the heavens despite the blinding brightness of a sun that was nowhere to be seen. The air was thick and humid, humming with a palpable energy that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. Towering trees with bark like polished obsidian wept glowing amber sap. The ground beneath his steel-shod boots was a carpet of moss that glowed with a soft, blue light, and strange, bell-shaped flowers chimed with glassy notes as a breeze he couldn't feel stirred them.

He pulled out his compass. The needle spun wildly, untethered from any magnetic north he knew. The constellations were alien. The plants, the air, the very light—everything was wrong. His training, his experience, his finely honed survival skills… they were all worthless here. He was lost in a way he had never been before, a trespasser in a world that was actively, hostilely, alive.

He pushed deeper into the alien woods, his longsword a dull line of familiar steel in a world of blinding color. Every step was a gamble. Thorns like obsidian shards snagged at his cloak, and strange, giggling whispers seemed to follow him from the pulsating flora. He needed a defensible position, a place to rest and think. He found it ahead: a break in the oppressive canopy revealed a clearing bathed in the soft, dual light of the twin moons.

It was a grove of trees with silvery bark and leaves that shimmered like captured starlight. In the center, a pool of water reflected the alien sky perfectly, its surface undisturbed. Large, white flowers, their petals curled like sleeping fists, grew in clusters around the pool. As he watched, one of the flowers slowly unfurled, releasing a puff of glowing pollen that drifted on the air like dust motes in a sunbeam. It was beautiful, but the beauty held a sharp edge of danger, like a perfectly crafted dagger.

He wasn’t alone.

Leaning against one of the silver-barked trees was a woman. Her skin had the pale, smooth quality of polished river stone, with a faint greenish tint that seemed to drink in the moonlight. Her hair, the color of dark forest moss, was woven with tiny, glowing flowers, and her simple dress was made of what looked like layered leaves. When she turned her head, her eyes, the color of polished jade, fixed on him with an expression of pure, undiluted annoyance. She saw him not as a person, but as a pest, a piece of filth that had sullied her sanctuary.

She pushed away from the tree, her movements fluid and silent. A faint, cloying scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth filled the air around her. “You are a long way from your grubby little world, mortal,” she said, her voice like the chiming of glass bells, yet holding no warmth.

Dawson kept his shield up, his sword pointed low. “I mean no harm. I am lost.”

A cruel smile touched her lips. “All mortals are lost here.” She lifted a slender hand, and the air between them seemed to thicken. A subtle pressure pushed against his mind, a gentle but firm suggestion. You are tired. So very tired. Just past this grove is a soft, marshy bog. The ground is yielding. It would be so easy to lie down and rest there forever. The command was seductive, a siren song for his exhausted body and frayed nerves.

But he recognized the feeling. It was the same mental prod that had lured him through the portal. This time, he was ready. He anchored himself, focusing on the familiar weight of the shield on his arm, the worn leather of his sword’s hilt in his palm. He pictured a wall of iron inside his mind, the same discipline that let him hold a line against a charging ogre now turning inward. The mental pressure met that wall and slid away, useless. He blinked, the command evaporating like mist.

Myfanwy’s smile vanished. Her jade eyes widened almost imperceptibly, her casual posture stiffening. A mortal, caked in dirt and reeking of steel and sweat, had just shrugged off her will as if it were a mild breeze. He was not some simple-minded farmer who had stumbled through a gate. He was something else, something more dangerous. The air in the grove grew cold, the chiming of the flowers ceasing as the tension between them became a palpable force.

“I seek passage, not a fight,” Dawson said, his voice low and steady, a stark contrast to the chiming quality of hers. He needed to de-escalate this. A direct conflict with a creature of this plane, in her own territory, was a fool’s death. “Just a path back to the mortal realm. I can pay you. Gold, a service, anything.”

Myfanwy let out a laugh, and this time it wasn’t like bells, but like the splintering of ice. “Pay me?” she repeated, the word dripping with disdain. She gestured around the glowing grove. “Does this look like a place that has any use for your heavy, worthless metal? And what service could a clumsy brute like you offer me? You reek of iron and blood and foolish loyalty. You are an offense.”

She took a step closer, circling him like a predator examining its prey. Her jade eyes scanned his dented shield, the travel-stains on his cloak, the exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. “You speak of ‘passage’ as if it is a road to be walked. You are arrogant, even for a mortal. There is no safe passage here. This land is not a kingdom to be negotiated with. It is a living thing, and it does not like you.”

Dawson stood his ground, rotating slowly to keep her in his sight. “Then what do you want?”

“Want?” She stopped, tilting her head. The little flowers in her hair pulsed with soft light. “I wanted to watch you sink into the Murk-Mire. It would have been a moment’s amusement. You denied me that.” Her gaze was sharp, analytical. “But you are… resilient. Strong-willed. Perhaps a different amusement can be found.”

She raised a hand, not for another spell, but to point past him, towards the oppressive, dark woods that bordered her grove. “I will not harm you,” she said, the words sounding like a formal declaration, a binding statement. “My hand will not be the one that ends your short, brutish life. That is my bargain.”

Dawson waited for the other half of the deal. With the Fae, there was always another half.

“But you will not stay in my grove,” she continued, her voice turning cold. “You will leave. You will walk back into those trees, and you will survive on your own. The twin moons have just risen. If you are still breathing when they rise again, I will be… surprised.” She smiled, a flash of white teeth in the gloom. “The Wilds will take you. The ground will swallow you, the beasts will tear you apart, or the despair will simply rot your mind. It is all the same. Now go. You are trespassing.”

He saw no room for negotiation in her eyes. It was not a request; it was a dismissal. He had been offered a single, impossible chance. Clenching his jaw, Dawson gave a stiff nod. He had faced down dragons and liches. He would not be broken by pretty flowers and a hostile fae. He turned his back on her and the serene beauty of the grove, and walked toward the dark, waiting thorns at the edge of her territory. He could feel her watching him, her cold amusement a physical weight on his shoulders. The chiming of the flowers started again behind him, a mocking farewell.

The moment he stepped out of the moon-petal grove, the forest turned on him. Vines, thick as his wrist and covered in thorns, snaked across his path, forcing him to hack them apart with his sword. The effort left him breathing hard, the humid air feeling thin and useless in his lungs. The very ground seemed to resent his weight, with roots shifting under his boots to trip him.

His ranger training was a lifeline, but a frayed one. He knew the principles of survival, but the rules here were different. He found a stream, but the water flowed with an oily, rainbow sheen. He spent an hour building a fire—a difficult task with the damp, strange wood—and boiling the water until the unnatural colors faded, hoping he’d rendered it safe. It tasted of moss and ozone, and did little to quench the deep-seated thirst that felt more magical than physical.

Foraging was a nightmare. He recognized the shape of a berry bush, similar to the ones that grew on the Sword Coast, but the fruit was a sickly yellow and bled a viscous, milky fluid when he crushed one. He left it alone. After hours of searching, his Survival check finally paid off, but only just. He found a cluster of pale, lumpy tubers. He roasted one over his fire, and it tasted like dirt and regret, but it was sustenance. It was enough to keep him moving.

The sun never moved. The twin moons hung in the sky, their positions shifting with an unnerving speed that made tracking the time impossible. There was no day or night, only an endless, draining twilight. The magic of the plane was a constant, low-grade assault. It wasn't a spell he could resist or a curse he could break; it was in the air he breathed, the ground he walked on. It settled into his bones, a profound weariness that sleep couldn’t cure. Every muscle ached with a fatigue that went beyond exertion. He felt stretched thin, his mortal essence fraying at the edges in this place of overwhelming life.

From the high branches of a weeping willow with silver leaves, Myfanwy watched him. She had followed, silent as a shadow, expecting a quick and satisfying end to the mortal’s arrogance. She’d seen others stumble into her realm. They usually screamed, or cried, or ran blindly until they were ensnared by a hungry plant or lured off a cliff by a pixie’s illusion. They broke.

This one did not.

He moved with a weary purpose, his head on a swivel, his shield never far from his arm. He tested everything, his caution a stark contrast to the usual mortal recklessness. He didn't despair. He didn't rage against the injustice of his fate. He simply worked, his jaw set in a stubborn line. He fought for every foot of ground, for every mouthful of brackish water and bland root. It was tedious. It was graceless. And it was utterly fascinating. He was a creature of iron will and stubborn flesh, and he refused to lie down and die. Her initial contempt was slowly being eroded by a feeling she couldn't name—a grudging curiosity that bordered on respect. He was still an intruder, a stain of iron and mortality in her world, but he was proving to be a remarkably persistent one.

The unnatural silence of the forest was shattered by a sound that didn't belong—the splintering crack of a massive tree trunk, followed by a guttural roar that was part bird-shriek, part bear-bellow. It was a sound of pure, mindless rage.

Myfanwy’s head snapped up, her jade eyes narrowing. From the edge of the woods, a monster crashed into view. She recognized its shape instantly: an owlbear, a creature of primal fury, native to the fringes of the Wilds. But this one was wrong. Its feathers were matted with a black, tar-like substance that seemed to writhe on its own, pulsing with a faint, sickly violet light. One of its eyes was a blind, milky orb, while the other burned with a malevolent red energy. A dark ooze dripped from its chipped beak, sizzling as it hit the mossy ground, killing the vibrant flora on contact. A blight-beast.

Her casual observation of the mortal turned to cold fury. This filth had no place here. It was a cancer spreading from the darker, unclaimed territories. Green light gathered around her hands, the air crackling with the scent of ozone and fresh sap. The ancient moon-petal trees were the heart of her grove, the source of much of her power, and the blighted owlbear was lumbering straight for the eldest of them, its massive claws tearing furrows in the earth.

She was about to unleash a torrent of thorns, to bind it and let the earth swallow it whole, when a figure burst from the undergrowth.

Dawson.

He had heard the roar and seen the destruction. He knew that shape. The hulking body of a bear, the head and razor-sharp beak of a giant owl. An owlbear. He’d fought them before on the Material Plane. They were brutal, territorial, and deadly. But this one was different, twisted. The dark corruption clinging to it was a foul magic he could almost smell.

He didn't hesitate. The exhaustion was a fire in his muscles, but instinct was a whip at his back. He saw the fae woman preparing her magic, saw the monster threatening her glowing trees, and made a decision born from a hundred battles. He pushed off the ground, sprinting not away from the danger, but directly towards it.

“Hey!” he bellowed, a raw, human sound in the alien woods.

The owlbear, its attention fixed on the shimmering trees, turned its massive head. Dawson didn’t slow down. He planted his feet, angling his shield just as the beast’s massive, clawed arm swiped at him. The impact was a thunderclap of sound, steel groaning against chitin. The force shuddered up his arm and into his shoulder, but his stance held.

“Over here, you ugly bastard!” he yelled, using the creature’s momentum to pivot. He drove the pommel of his longsword into the owlbear’s thick thigh. It wasn't a damaging blow, but it was an insult. It was a challenge. The creature’s burning red eye swiveled from the glowing grove to fixate entirely on him. Its shriek tore through the air, its rage now focused completely on the small, defiant man of iron and flesh who had dared to stand in its way. Myfanwy watched from the edge of her grove, her hands still glowing with power, her expression unreadable as the mortal she had cast out now stood as the sole barrier between the blight and her home.

The monster’s shriek was a physical force, and Dawson braced against it, his shield firm. He had its full, undivided attention. Good. The blighted owlbear charged, a chaotic mass of muscle and fury. Dawson set his feet, letting the beast commit to a clumsy, powerful swing. He deflected the claws with his shield, the impact jarring his entire skeleton, and thrust his longsword into the creature’s side. The blade sank into corrupted flesh, but the owlbear seemed not to feel it, its red eye burning with mindless rage.

Just as it reared back to strike again, thick, thorny vines erupted from the ground, wrapping around its legs. The creature stumbled, roaring in frustration as it tore at the grasping plants. Myfanwy. Dawson glanced toward the grove and saw her, one hand outstretched, her face a mask of concentration. The blight on the owlbear fought her magic, the vines blackening and smoking where they touched its hide, but they held just long enough.

Dawson pressed the advantage. He lunged forward, not with his sword, but with his shield. He slammed the flat steel face into the owlbear’s chest, a maneuver designed to unbalance a foe. The beast staggered back, its footing tangled in the dying vines. It gave Myfanwy the opening she needed.

A volley of sharpened branches, hard as iron, shot from the ancient trees at her back. They slammed into the owlbear’s flank and neck, punching through feathers and muscle. The creature shrieked, a sound of both pain and fury, and swatted the projectiles away. It turned its hateful glare back toward the fae, ignoring Dawson for a fatal second.

“No, you don’t!” Dawson bellowed, driving his sword deep into the back of the creature’s knee joint. Tendons snapped. The owlbear’s leg buckled, and it crashed to the ground with a shuddering impact. It tried to rise, to drag itself toward Myfanwy, but its hind leg was useless. As it pushed itself up with its powerful arms, preparing for one last, desperate lunge, Dawson saw his chance. He dropped his shield, gripped his longsword with both hands, and drove the blade down through the nape of its neck, severing the spinal column with a sickening crunch.

The red light in its eye flickered and died. The blighted flesh seemed to dissolve, melting away into black sludge that sizzled and vanished, leaving only the corpse of a normal owlbear behind.

Silence descended, broken only by Dawson’s ragged breathing. The adrenaline fled his body, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. The pain in his shoulder, where a claw had torn through his armor and into the muscle beneath, flared with white-hot intensity. His vision swam. He leaned heavily on his sword for a moment before his legs gave out, and he dropped to one knee in the ruined clearing.

He heard the soft tread of feet on moss and looked up. Myfanwy stood before him, her expression unreadable. She looked from the dead owlbear to the deep furrows its claws had left in the earth, then finally to him. Her jade eyes took in his torn armor, the blood soaking the leather padding of his pauldron, and the tremor of exhaustion in his hands.

“You fought,” she stated, her voice devoid of its earlier mockery. “You did not need to. It was a threat to my grove, not yours.”

Dawson could only manage a grimace. “It was a monster. I fight monsters.”

She was quiet for a long moment, studying him as if he were some strange new specimen of flora. “My bargain stands,” she said, her tone clipped. “My hand will not be the one to harm you.” She paused. “But it would be a poor story if the grove’s defender were left to bleed out on its doorstep.”

She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards the moon-petal grove. “There is a fire. And clean water. Come. You can rest until the moons set. It is a temporary truce, mortal. Nothing more.”

Dawson followed her into the grove, every step an effort. The air inside was different—cooler, humming with a quiet energy that soothed the ragged edges of his nerves. A small, smokeless fire burned in a ring of smooth river stones, casting a gentle, dancing light on the luminous petals of the surrounding trees. He sank onto the mossy ground beside it, the warmth a welcome relief against the growing chill of the Fae twilight. He gritted his teeth as he tried to unbuckle the straps of his pauldron, but his fingers were clumsy with exhaustion and the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his shoulder.

“Stay still, mortal,” Myfanwy’s voice was soft, but it was a command. She knelt beside him, her proximity making the small hairs on his arm stand on end. He could smell her scent now, not just the general aroma of the woods, but something uniquely hers—like damp earth after a rain, night-blooming flowers, and a hint of ozone.

She reached out, her long, slender fingers moving with practiced efficiency to unfasten the complex leather straps of his armor. He held his breath as her knuckles brushed against the skin of his neck. Her touch was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of his own skin and the fire radiating from his wound. Once the steel pauldron was off, she carefully peeled back the torn, blood-soaked gambeson beneath, exposing the ragged gash in his shoulder. It was deep, the muscle torn and weeping blood.

“A clumsy wound,” she murmured, though there was no judgment in her tone. She produced a handful of what looked like dark green moss, shimmering with faint silver motes of light. “This will feel strange.”

He braced himself for a sting, but when she pressed the enchanted moss into the gash, there was only a profound, spreading cold. It was not the biting cold of ice, but a deep, soothing chill that sank into his flesh, numbing the pain instantly. He watched, fascinated, as the silver motes in the moss pulsed with a gentle light. He could feel a faint pulling sensation as the torn edges of the wound knit themselves together under her gentle pressure. It was the most intimate magic he had ever experienced, a quiet, life-giving force that felt alien and yet deeply comforting.

“What is this stuff?” he asked, his voice low.

“It is life,” she answered simply, her focus on her work. Her fingers moved over the poultice, guiding the magic. “It draws vitality from the grove to mend what is broken. A gift, not to be used lightly.”

Her gaze met his, and for the first time, he saw not a hostile fae, but a woman. The firelight softened the sharp angles of her face and caught the deep, forest-green of her eyes. “You still haven’t answered my question. Why did you fight?”

He considered the lie, the easy answer about self-preservation. But looking at her now, with her hands literally healing his body, it felt cheap. “It was a blight-beast,” he said. “A corruption. I’ve seen what they do to the land, to people. You don’t let that kind of rot spread if you can stop it.” He looked around at the glowing trees. “Even if the land isn’t yours.”

Myfanwy’s fingers stilled for a moment. She looked from his eyes back to his shoulder, where the gash was now only a thin, red line. The magic was done. She began to pull her hands away, but he caught her wrist. Her skin was smooth and cool. Her pulse beat a steady, slow rhythm against his thumb. The surprise in her jade eyes was unmistakable. He was intensely aware of the strength in her slender arm, the solid feel of the muscle in his own shoulder where her hand had just rested. The air between them grew thick, charged with the quiet aftermath of violence and the unexpected intimacy of her healing.

He let go as if her skin had suddenly grown hot, a flush creeping up his own neck. Myfanwy snatched her hand back, her composure momentarily fractured. She rose to her feet in a single, fluid motion, turning away from him to poke at the fire with a stick, the gesture needlessly abrupt. The silence that fell between them was heavier than before, filled with the unspoken thing that had just passed between them.

“My, my, Myfanwy. Playing nursemaid in the dirt?”

The voice was like honeyed wine laced with frost, sliding into the quiet grove without preamble. Dawson was on his feet in an instant, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, his body protesting the sudden movement.

Leaning against one of the moon-petal trees was a fae male he hadn’t heard approach. He was tall and slender, with an archer’s build, exuding an air of casual lethality. His hair was the color of spun moonlight, braided with threads of silver, and his eyes were a startling shade of amethyst, sharp and intelligent. He wore clothes of soft, dark leather and deep blue silk that seemed to absorb the firelight, a stark contrast to Myfanwy’s earthy greens and browns. A longbow of polished yew was slung over his shoulder. He pushed himself off the tree with a predator’s grace, a slow, mocking smile playing on his lips.

“Kaelen,” Myfanwy’s voice was tight, all warmth gone from it. “This is my territory. You are not welcome here without my leave.”

“Oh, I know,” Kaelen said, his amethyst eyes sweeping over the grove before landing, with pointed interest, on Dawson. “But when I heard the delightful sounds of a scuffle, I had to investigate. And look what I find. One of our little rustics has caught a stray.” His gaze traveled down Dawson’s body, taking in the worn armor, the bloodstains, and the sword in his hand. It was a look that was both appreciative and dismissive, as if admiring a well-made tool he had no intention of using.

“He is under my protection,” Myfanwy said, stepping slightly to place herself between them.

Kaelen’s smile widened. “Is he now? How very charitable of you. Does he have a name, this pet of yours?” He ignored Myfanwy and addressed Dawson directly, his voice a low, persuasive hum. “You have the look of a warrior. It’s a shame to see you covered in mud and blood, taking charity from a hedge-witch.” He took a step closer, circling just outside the firelight. “The courts of the Gilded Thorn have far more to offer a man of your… talents. Proper wine, soft beds, and bargains that hold their shape. Not truces that last only as long as the moon is in the sky.” His eyes glittered with amusement and challenge. “Tell me, mortal. What brought you so low as to need the help of a creature who talks to trees?”

Dawson’s jaw tightened. He ignored the throbbing in his shoulder and met the archer’s amethyst gaze without flinching. “She’s not a hedge-witch,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “And she just saved my life. That’s more than I can say for someone who waits until the fighting is over to show his face.”

Kaelen’s smile didn’t falter, but a cold light flickered in his eyes. “Loyalty. An admirable, if often misplaced, mortal trait.” He dismissed Dawson’s words with a wave of a perfectly manicured hand. “But loyalty won’t keep a Grasping Vine from pulling you under in your sleep, or a Whisper Wisp from stealing your memories. Myfanwy offers you a fire for one night. I am offering you a future.”

He stepped fully into the firelight, his presence commanding. The silks he wore seemed to drink the light, making him a figure of deep shadow and sharp, moon-pale highlights. “I, Kaelen of the Court of the Gilded Thorn, make you a formal offer, warrior. A bargain. Swear your service to me until the next full moon, and I will grant you safe passage through these lands. You will have a place at my table, wine that tastes of starlight, and the company of those who appreciate strength. At the end of your service, I will personally guide you to a stable gate back to your own drab little world.” He paused, letting the offer hang in the air, rich and tempting. “A simple price for survival, wouldn’t you agree?”

“His price is never simple,” Myfanwy bit out, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Don’t listen to him, Dawson. His words are snares.”

Dawson looked from Myfanwy’s fierce, protective glare to Kaelen’s predatory patience. He had heard stories of fae bargains his entire life. They were traps for the desperate and the foolish, gilded cages offered as sanctuary. Kaelen’s offer was everything a lost man should want: safety, comfort, a promise of home. Yet, looking at the archer’s flawless face, Dawson saw only the calculating gleam of a merchant weighing a prize. He remembered the cold, clinical way Kaelen had sized him up, the subtle mockery in his voice.

Then he looked at Myfanwy. She had threatened him, yes, and left him to fend for himself. But she had also fought beside him. She had knelt in the dirt and laid her hands on him, her strange, cool magic knitting his very flesh back together. There was no artifice in her, only a wildness that was as honest as it was dangerous. He trusted the ground beneath his feet, even hostile ground, more than he trusted a honeyed promise from a silver-tongued courtier.

“I appreciate the offer,” Dawson said, his voice steady. He made a point of looking directly at Kaelen, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “But I’ve already accepted a truce. I’ll see it through.”

The pleasant mask on Kaelen’s face tightened. The amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a flash of cold fury so sharp it was almost a physical blow. The air grew colder. “You would choose roots and mud over silk and wine? You would trust the word of a territorial outcast over a formal bargain from a member of the Court?” He let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You are a bigger fool than I thought, mortal.”

He gave a sharp, mocking bow, his movements fluid and insulting. “Very well. Stay with your little dryad. When you’re screaming in the belly of some beast she was too weak to stop, perhaps you’ll reconsider the value of my offer.”

Without another word, Kaelen turned and melted back into the shadows between the trees, his departure as silent and sudden as his arrival. The grove felt warmer the instant he was gone.

Dawson let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He looked at Myfanwy. The tension had drained from her shoulders, and in the firelight, he saw a flicker of something in her jade eyes he couldn’t name—relief, surprise, perhaps even a sliver of pride. The temporary truce suddenly felt like something much more solid.

Myfanwy stamped out the fire with a twist of her boot, then glanced at him over her shoulder. “Come. If you’re staying with me, you should see what you chose.”

He followed her into the deeper dark, the moon-petal trees thinning into columns of silver-barked elders veined with faint green light. The air cooled, sweet with wet leaf and the iron tang of distant water. She moved like she had grown from this place, guiding him along a path that wasn’t a path until his eyes adjusted to the faint, living luminescence threaded through the roots. When he stumbled, her hand caught his forearm, fingers wrapping in a sure, firm grip. Heat bled through his sleeve. He didn’t pull away.

“What did he mean?” he asked quietly. “Outcast?”

Myfanwy snorted, the sound soft and human. “The court prefers compliance. I prefer… stewardship.” She slowed, palm brushing an arching fern whose fronds uncurling revealed a cluster of glass-clear berries. She plucked one and pressed it to his lips. “Bite.”

He did. It burst cold and fragrant, tasting of rain and something floral that hit the back of his throat with a mild, pleasant numbness. His heartbeat steadied as the ache in his shoulder dulled. “You could have told me you carry a garden in your pocket.”

“That would ruin the lesson.” Her smile flickered, shy and there, then gone. “We’re taught to take power. I ask for it. This grove answers me because I listen.” She guided his hand to the trunk of a tree. “Feel.”

He set his palm against the bark. A slow pulse answered, steady as a sleeping animal. It traveled up his arm, through his chest. He realized he was breathing with it, slower, deeper.

“Roots carry warnings,” she said. “When Kaelen lies, the nettles stiffen. When a gate yawns open, the mushrooms open their caps toward it. The forest speaks, if you barter your attention.”

He turned his hand, catching her fingers before she withdrew. “I’m listening,” he said. The words landed heavier than he meant them to, honest and too close. Her gaze flicked to his mouth and back.

A breeze threaded the leaves. The whisper slid through it, light as dust. He heard his name in a voice exactly like his sister’s, low and urgent: Dawson. You’re running out of time. He glanced over his shoulder, muscles tightening.

Myfanwy’s fingers squeezed his. “Ignore it.”

The wind rose, carrying laughter that sounded like Kaelen’s, wrapped in a woman’s sigh. Dawson felt the tug of doubt—his party, the gate, the danger of trusting a stranger—but Myfanwy stepped closer, crowding his space. “Look at me.”

He did. Up close, the fine shimmer of her skin appeared not like glitter but like dew on stone. The green in her irises haloed darker flecks, deep moss shot with sparks of gold. She smelled clean, like crushed mint and warm skin. Her thumb brushed the inside of his wrist, right over the vein. “He wants to make you run. He can’t move you if you anchor.”

He swallowed. “To what?”

“Me. This.” She took his hands and placed them at her waist, under the drape of her leather jerkin where the thin linen of her tunic warmed with her body heat. The curve of her hips fit his fingers. Her breath hitched—not the forbidden word, a true catch—and then steadied. “He can’t thread doubt through a line that’s taut.”

The wind sighed again, bringing the scent of distant wine and the rush of a crowded hall. Dawson’s throat tightened with the echo of home—campfire smoke, his friends’ laughter. He started to turn, and she moved in, chest against his, her mouth a breath from his cheek.

“If you want to leave,” she murmured, “say so. I won’t bind you.” Her lips grazed the edge of his jaw, a slow, deliberate stroke that sent heat flooding lower. “But if you want to stay tonight, stay. Choose it. Not because you’re trapped. Because you want me.”

His hands flexed on her waist. He felt the line of her abdomen under the thin cloth, the dip of her navel, the subtle shiver when his fingers traced the seam of leather at her back. The ache between them sharpened. She turned her face and kissed him, soft at first—testing, cautious—and then with a hungry pressure that stole thought. Her mouth was warm and sure. She opened to him when he parted his lips, letting his tongue slide against hers. The taste of the berry lingered, faintly floral, and underneath it the particular taste of her. She made a low sound that vibrated under his hands.

He pressed her to the tree, careful of his weight and her armor, and she arched, chest brushing his. Her hands framed his jaw, thumbs stroking the stubble there. The kiss deepened, unhurried but intense, the kind that made time bleed at the edges. His cock stirred, hard and insistent against the line of his trousers. She shifted her hips, feeling it, and exhaled against his mouth, hot and pleased. Her palm slid down his chest, over the planes of muscle and scar, pausing at his belt as if to claim the idea, then returning to his ribs with a warning gentleness he understood: not yet, but yes.

Another whisper skimmed the clearing—Dawson, the gate, the court—but it slid away, blunted by the thud of his pulse and the way her tongue teased the corner of his lower lip like she wanted to memorize the shape of him. When they finally broke apart, he chased her mouth a fraction, unwilling to let it go. She smiled, breathless and a little flushed.

“Good,” she said softly. “Now you can hear me over him.”

He rested his forehead against hers. “Keep talking.”

“I’ll do more than talk.” She took his hand and led him onward, deeper still. The narrow path opened into a hollow where bioluminescent moss softened the ground to a pale green glow. Water threaded from a rock shelf in a thin veil, the fall’s breath cool and fine. She spread her palm, and the air hummed. “This is a listening place,” she said. “I share it with no one from the court.”

He understood what she was offering. Trust, yes. A key, also. He squeezed her fingers. The wind sighed again, frustrated now, Kaelen’s illusion fraying against the closeness they had forged. A cold prickle chased his spine, as if eyes watched from the treeline, patient and calculating.

Myfanwy’s attention flicked to the dark beyond the moss light, jaw setting. “He’s near,” she murmured, not releasing his hand. “Let him watch.” She drew him closer to the fall’s veil, water misting their skin, and lowered her voice. “Tonight, I show you how to walk here without bleeding. Tomorrow… we will keep him from your mind.”

The water whispered, and the shadows beyond the hollow shifted, as if someone moved just out of sight.

Kaelen stepped through the veil of shadow as if it were only a curtain, water beading on his hair like scattered stars. He didn’t look at Myfanwy first. He looked at Dawson, all teeth and charm, and the grotto’s soft light turned his smile into a blade.

“My, my,” he purred, voice low and coaxing. “So this is where she hides her treasures. You should see what the court considers a prize, mortal. Silk sheets. Wine older than your bloodline. A thousand hands to serve you. No more sleeping on roots. No more hunger gnawing your bones.”

Myfanwy didn’t move from Dawson’s side. Her fingers tightened, grounding. “Do not listen.”

Kaelen’s gaze slid to their joined hands, then back to Dawson. “He is already listening.” He took a step closer. The air thickened, sweet and heavy, a perfume of ripe fruit and warm bodies. His eyes caught the moss-light like polished emerald. “You’re tired. You miss home. Come with me. I’ll get you there. I swear it on my bow and my breath.”

The promise braided itself into Dawson’s head, threading through the ache and the hunger and the fear. He felt the pull like a soft hand at the back of his neck, coaxing him forward. He could see it—a gate opening, familiar faces, the relief of stepping out of danger. Kaelen’s voice stroked that sore spot until it ached in a way that felt good.

Myfanwy shifted closer, shoulder to his chest. “Anchor,” she breathed, so quiet it almost disappeared under the whisper of the fall. Her other hand rose to his sternum, fingers spreading over his heartbeat. “Choose.”

Kaelen’s magic pressed tighter. The grotto seemed to tilt toward him, light bending. “Come,” he said, pupils blowing wide. “Leave the mud-witch to her moss and her lonely roots. Let something worthy hold you.”

The urge to step forward surged—one step, just one, and the ache might stop. Dawson swallowed, jaw clenching. He forced his eyes to Myfanwy. Up close, the water had dampened the stray curls around her ear. A drop hung at her throat, trembling. Her gaze was fierce and afraid, not of Kaelen, but of losing him. Not possessive—protective.

“Look at me,” she whispered. Her thumb stroked over his heartbeat once, steady and sure.

He latched onto that rhythm. The trees’ pulse he had learned earlier met his own, a slow, grounding thud. He pulled air into his lungs. “No,” he said to Kaelen, voice rough but steady. “I told you. I’m staying. With her.”

Kaelen’s smile thinned. The pressure became a shove, invisible hands trying to turn Dawson’s shoulders. “You don’t understand what you’re refusing,” he hissed, court-polish stripping away to reveal something sharp. “You won’t survive a week.”

“Maybe not,” Dawson said. He took Myfanwy’s hand and laced their fingers, lifting them between them like a knot. “But I’m not walking anywhere I haven’t chosen.”

The air snapped. Kaelen’s glamour faltered on that word, the sweet scent burning off like fog under sun. He went still, face blanking for a heartbeat. Then his posture shifted, casual and cold. “So be it.” He lifted two fingers, murmuring a word that made the fall’s veil stutter. The moss-light flared, then dimmed.

Myfanwy moved, her free hand slicing through the mist. Roots shivered underfoot, rising just enough to trip a charging man. “You will not work spells on him in my hollow,” she said, voice low and resonant, power threading each syllable.

Kaelen’s laugh was bare. “You think this is yours? All of this is ours.” He ghosted sideways, but the roots caught his boots, slowing him. He threw a look at Dawson, and for a flash there was something like respect. “Stupid, but brave.”

Dawson stepped forward, setting himself between them without breaking Myfanwy’s grip. “You need to leave.”

“Or what?” Kaelen’s fingers twitched toward the bow at his back, then stilled. His gaze cut to Myfanwy. “You’ve taught him some tricks. Do you think that makes him safe?”

“No,” Myfanwy said. “I make him not alone.”

Silence gathered, heavy as rain. Kaelen’s eyes narrowed. The roots didn’t release his ankles, and he could feel, Dawson knew, the forest’s attention tipped against him. Kaelen shrugged, abrupt, a predator deferring only for now. “Enjoy your lesson,” he said lightly, but venom threaded the words. “I won’t be so polite next time.”

He slipped backward, melting into shadow and leaving no ripple but the lift of cold that chased over skin. The roots sank back. The moss brightened, cautious, as if waiting for another blow.

Dawson let out a breath he’d held too long. The space where the charm had been felt raw, like skin newly scrubbed. He turned back to Myfanwy. She was watching him with her guard down, eyes bright and wet at the edges. He lifted their joined hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles, tasting water and salt and skin.

“I meant it,” he said.

She exhaled, shaky. “I know.” Her palm slid up to cup his jaw. “Thank you.”

He leaned into her touch. His heart was still beating hard, but it wasn’t fear now. It was certainty, simple and solid. He lowered his forehead to hers, the fall’s cool breath washing over them both. Her lips brushed his, a brief, grateful press that promised more when they had breath for it.

“Then we’re partners,” she said, voice steadying. “He will come again. Together, we’ll be ready.”

He lifted his hands to her face, thumbs brushing the damp line of her cheekbones. Her skin was cool from the spray, silken under his calluses. She leaned into his touch like she’d been waiting for it, eyelids lowering, mouth parting in a quiet breath that shivered through him. When he bent to kiss her, there was no hesitation; she met him with a soft sound and pressed closer, closing the space as if it had offended her.

The kiss started slow, reverent, then deepened. Her lips were warm and responsive, the slick slide of her tongue a deliberate tease that made his stomach knot. He tasted the mineral tang of the water and the faint sweetness of the berry, but mostly he tasted her—alive and intent. He angled his mouth, opened to her, and she took the invitation, kissing him with a hunger that said she’d been holding herself back for far too long.

Her hands slid from his jaw into his hair, tugging gently, aligning him. He groaned when her fingers tightened, not from pain but pleasure, heat flashing through him. He stepped forward, guiding her backward until her spine met the smooth stone behind the veil. The fall’s mist clung to them, beading on their skin, making everything feel heightened, bright. He pressed his chest to hers, careful and sure, feeling the firm, perfect weight of her breasts against him even through leather and cloth. Her nipples pebbled, rubbing his sternum with each breath, and the answering throb in his cock was immediate.

She felt it. She rolled her hips, a subtle drag that aligned the ridge of his arousal with the curve of her pelvis. Her gasp broke against his mouth, and she followed it with a needy kiss that pulled him deeper. He slid one hand down, over the slender column of her neck, across the taut line of her clavicle, and then under the edge of her leather, finding the warm skin just above her breast. She arched into the touch, encouraging. He explored slowly, palm cupping the swell through the thin chemise beneath, thumb circling the stiff peak until she trembled.

“Dawson,” she whispered, the sound breathy and intent. His name in her mouth undid him. He mouthed along her jaw to the delicate place below her ear, tasting the water there, then further, closing over her pulse with his lips. Her fingers clenched in his hair, then slid down to his shoulders, gripping hard when he sucked lightly. She pushed her chest into his hand, silently asking for more. He obliged, slipping fingers beneath cloth to find bare skin. Her breast filled his palm, soft and firm, nipple dragging across his thumb. She keened, quiet but raw, hips grinding once-more firmly.

He pulled back enough to see her face—cheeks flushed, eyes blown, mouth swollen from his kisses—and the sight put heat low in his belly. He kissed her again, deeper, and she opened for him like she wanted him to take as much as he could. He did, mapping her mouth, memorizing the way she responded when he caught her lower lip between his teeth or stroked his tongue along hers.

Her hand went to his belt, not pausing this time. She slipped beneath the leather to the laces of his trousers and worked them loose, deft and sure. The fabric eased, and his cock pressed against the damp weight of his underthings. She slid her hand lower, fingers pressing him through the cloth, testing the hard line of him. His breath hitched, and then steadied as she stroked, slow and deliberate. He was painfully hard, leaking already, and the pressure sent sparks up his spine.

“Tell me if this is too much,” she said, words clipped with restraint that looked close to breaking.

“It isn’t,” he said. “It’s exactly—” His voice cut as she squeezed, thumb circling the head through the wet fabric, spreading the slickness. He braced a forearm against the rock beside her head and kissed her harder, messy now, gratitude and want tangled together. He slid his other hand down her ribs, over the narrow span of her waist, to the laces at her side. He found the seam, working loose just enough to slip his hand beneath, fingers splaying over the smooth plane of her stomach. Her muscles jumped under his touch. He traced lower, stopping to ask with the press of his mouth—okay?—and she answered by guiding his wrist down, making room.

His fingertips met trimmed curls and heat. She was wet, not from the fall, but from him, slick and hot and pulsing against his hand. He swore quietly, forehead pressing to hers as he circled her clitoris with careful pressure. She gasped, knees softening. He shifted his stance, supporting her, and stroked again, finding the rhythm she needed by the way her breath shattered and reformed. She was so responsive—every small adjustment drew a new sound, a new roll of her hips. He slid a finger lower, teasing at her entrance, then eased inside, the tight warmth gripping him. She moaned, low and helpless, and he swallowed it with another kiss.

They moved together, his finger curling to find the spot that made her jerk, her hand working him in an echoing pace that had him close to the edge. The world narrowed to the slick slide of skin, the slap of water against rock, the pulse under his mouth when he kissed her throat. She was shaking when it crested—he felt it in her, the sudden clamp around his finger, the way her breath broke into sharp, stuttering cries. He kept her there, careful and relentless, riding her through it until she shuddered apart against him, head tipping back, mouth open.

He followed a heartbeat later, undone by the sight of her. She squeezed him once, firm and perfect, and the pleasure ripped through him, thick and hot, leaving him braced and panting, forehead back on hers. For a moment neither of them spoke, only the waterfall did, cool on overheated skin.

She laughed softly then, breathless and a little unsteady, and smoothed his damp hair back from his face. “Boundaries,” she murmured, though she didn’t step away. “We should talk about them. Soon.”

“Soon,” he agreed. He kissed her again, tender this time, sealing the moment in the quiet of the grotto, their bodies still pressed close, their breathing slowly finding the same rhythm. The veil of water hid them, but he didn’t feel hidden. He felt seen. He held her face and she leaned into that hold, and the ache in him eased into something steadier, something that felt like the beginning of a vow neither of them had spoken yet.