Chapter 6

The crisp morning air was laced with the steady rhythm of hooves on stone as the company made its way toward Durnholde Keep. Thorwin rode at the head of the procession, his silhouette a commanding figure against the pale dawn sky. His steed moved with a purposeful gait, its mane rippling like a banner in the wind. The armored retinue flanking him was an imposing sight—twenty riders adorned in gleaming plate, their pauldrons bearing the intricate Stormsong insignia. The emblem's unblinking eye seemed almost alive, its watchful gaze etched into every piece of armor, a symbol of dominance and precision.

The journey was serene, the empty road lined with verdant hills that rolled endlessly into the horizon. A soft breeze carried the earthy scent of dew-kissed grass, mingling with the faint notes of a lute. The melody drifted from Raelor, who rode just behind. The half-elf's deft fingers danced over the strings, coaxing a tune that complemented the beauty of the Hillsbrad foothills. It was a rare moment of tranquility, one Thorwin found himself reluctant to disrupt. He allowed his horse to slow, savoring the serenity, his sharp eyes scanning the landscape. For all the turmoil his duties demanded, here, at least for a fleeting moment, was peace.

The sun had begun its descent by the time they approached the gates of Durnholde Keep. Shadows stretched long across the path, the waning light casting a warm glow over the weathered stone walls. As the company drew closer, the keep's true state became apparent. What had seemed formidable from afar now revealed itself as a patchwork of decay and neglect. The fortifications were crude, their makeshift repairs haphazard and stained with grime. Streaks of filth clung to the battlements, and the gates bore the scars of age and disrepair. The road leading to the gates grew quieter, the echo of hooves muted as they approached. The stillness was broken only by the groan of the gate creaking open, its sluggish movements revealing a narrow passage within. No challenges were issued, no demand for identification—the banner of Stormsong was enough. It commanded respect, and perhaps even fear, among those within the keep.

A lone figure stepped forward to greet them, his voice carrying a crisp authority. "Mi'lord," he called, his brown hair catching the fading light. "It is a great honor to welcome your arrival." His salute was sharp, his tone precise, yet there was something practiced about it, as though the words carried more obligation than sincerity.

Sliding from his saddle, the weight of his armor pulling slightly against his movements, Thorwin landed firmly on the ground. His eyes, sharp and discerning, fixed on the speaker. "Captain Arthur, adjutant to Lord Aedelas Blackmoore," the man introduced himself, his voice steady but his stance betraying a hint of unease. "I have been tasked with leading you to your accommodations while the Lieutenant General is... away."

The words lingered in the air, carrying with them a deliberate slight. A flicker of irritation sparked, though he masked it well. Instead, he exchanged a subtle glance with Raelor, whose ever-present smirk hinted at amusement. "At ease, Captain Arthur," came the reply, smooth and edged with a veneer of civility. "A gesture of this nature from Lord Blackmoore is truly… flattering. Might I inquire as to what duty so urgently commands his absence?"

"Lord Aedelas has taken the men on a nightly patrol," Arthur replied, his tone carefully neutral but not entirely devoid of irony. "He ensures the perimeter is clear of any rogue orcs and that all internment camps remain in order."

A quiet growl of frustration escaped under his breath, though he quickly gathered himself. Straightening, his voice rang out loud enough to carry to the walls. "Raelor, did you or did you not send prior notice of our arrival?"

The half-elf straightened, his reply loud enough to be heard by those manning the walls. "I did, my Lord. Quite impeccably, if I may say so."

A flicker of exasperation crossed Thorwin's face as he turned back to the captain. "Then it appears the Lieutenant General has either misplaced his eyesight or chosen to disregard it entirely. Captain Arthur, I trust you will remedy this oversight immediately. Dispatch riders to retrieve the Lieutenant General from his patrol. I expect him within these walls before night falls."

The command left no room for argument. The captain stiffened, his hesitation betraying unease. "R-right away, sir," he stammered, before barking orders to two idle footmen near the stables. The men scrambled to mount their horses, and within moments, they were galloping through the gates into the encroaching dusk.

The tension hung thick in the air as the retinue remained still, their presence casting long shadows on the stone courtyard. A faint rustle of activity echoed from within the keep, the distant clatter of weapons and hurried voices betraying the stir caused by their arrival. Gloved hands tightened into fists as he surveyed the scene, his expression unreadable. Inwardly, though, his thoughts seethed. What in the light have they been doing here...

Raelor leaned in slightly, his voice low as he whispered. "A curious start to our stay, my lord. Shall we expect the Lieutenant General to greet us with the same fervor as his adjutant?"

Thorwin's response was measured, yet heavy with meaning. "If he values his position, he'll do far more than grovel." Turning sharply, he motioned for the company to follow him and Arthur, as the man began to lead them to their stay. 

The lodgings mirrored the state of the keep—walls cracked and bowed with age, ceilings sagging ominously as if each passing breeze threatened to bring them crashing down. The faint scent of mildew clung to the damp wood, mingling with the earthy aroma of decay. Thorwin stood in the center of the room, his gaze sweeping over the dismal surroundings. A low groan escaped him, a sound of both weariness and disappointment. He had expected far more, given the Alliance's substantial resources and, more pointedly, the generous contributions from his own family. Lavish quarters or, at the very least, accommodations befitting the dignity of a Stormsong heir seemed a reasonable assumption. Yet, here he was, in what could only be described as a glorified hovel.

His eyes lingered on the sagging beams overhead as his thoughts churned. Where had the funds gone? The question gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside. There was little use pondering such matters before Aedelas Blackmoore presented himself, and until then, the keep and its sorry state would remain an unanswered indictment.

As soon as the captain led him to his chambers, Thorwin waved him off with a curt dismissal. Raelor, however, had been given a separate task—to accompany the captain to Blackmoore's station under the pretense of surveying the keep. In truth, Raelor's sharp wit and keen eye would uncover more in an hour than Thorwin could in a day. Once the doors closed and his guards stationed themselves firmly outside, he allowed himself to sink into a creaking wooden chair. The furniture groaned under his weight, much like the keep itself, though he found himself too tired to care. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the rough-hewn table. The silence of the room wrapped around him, broken only by the faint whistle of the wind through unseen cracks in the walls.

A moment of rest was all he needed. After a few deep breaths, he reached down and retrieved a leather bag from beside him. Its familiar weight was comforting, a small anchor in the midst of chaos. From it, he pulled a sheaf of parchments, laying them out carefully on the table. Letters. Some bore the crests of his family; others were marked with the seals of friends. The sight of them brought a flicker of warmth, a rare moment of solace in an otherwise grim day.

One particular letter caught his eye. His fingers brushed over the delicate paper as he whispered, "Jaina…" Her name lingered in the air, soft and bittersweet. The faint scent of the parchment wafted toward him, and he paused, taking it in. It was no longer the briny, floral fragrance of sea stalks he had come to associate with her. Instead, it carried a sweet, gentle aroma tinged with the freshness of meadow air. His lips curved into a faint smile. Peaceblooms, he realized. Those flowers had once been a favorite of Varian's mother, the late queen. The change was subtle, yet it spoke volumes—a quiet transformation reflective of her new surroundings.

His thoughts drifted to her, as they often did. He could picture her now, strolling through the gardens of Dalaran. The image was vivid: Jaina seated on a stone bench, her attention absorbed by one of her beloved tomes, the breeze toying with her hair. The sun would catch the strands, making them gleam like spun gold, and her expression would be one of serene focus. The vision brought a small measure of peace, a fleeting escape from the grim reality of his current situation.

For a moment, the weight of the keep, of Blackmoore's slight, and of the dilapidated walls around him seemed to fade. He allowed himself to linger in that thought—a quiet reprieve in a world that offered precious little of it.

The echoes of hooves on stone reached their crescendo, growing louder with every second until it seemed the walls themselves trembled. The sound was unmistakable—a large party had arrived, their numbers boasting more than what the situation warranted. The clamor woke him from a restless nap, the faint haze of sleep vanishing as a wave of irritation settled over him. The absurdity of it all, the audacity—it was enough to ignite a fresh surge of anger.

He pushed himself up abruptly, his chair groaning under the force before nearly toppling backward. His hand brushed over the rough grain of the table as if grounding himself for the storm he knew was to come. A sharp knock sounded at the door.

"Enter!" The command left his lips before he fully processed the interruption.

The door opened to reveal Raelor, stepping inside with his usual composed air. His sharp half-elven features caught the dim light, lending him an otherworldly aura. Yet, his expression carried something closer to weariness than mystique.

"I trust you've found something?" came the question, biting and direct.

Raelor shook his head slowly. "Nothing, my lord."

The response did little to temper the smoldering ire building within. He straightened, his gaze narrowing. "And what of the guards? Did they offer any useful testimony?"

"None," the steward replied, his tone clipped but calm. "I attempted to loosen a few tongues with coin, but it seems their loyalty to Blackmoore holds firm."

"Loyalty?" The word was a sneer, sharp and cutting. His pacing resumed, boots striking the floor with a steady rhythm. "There is no loyalty in a cesspit like this unless bought and paid for. Aedelas must be filling their coffers, perhaps enough to blind them to the state of this decrepit keep."

Raelor watched in silence as his master's movements quickened, the fire in his words growing with each step. "We'll root out the truth," he declared, voice low but firm, like distant thunder promising a storm. His gaze flicked to Raelor, steel-gray eyes locking onto the steward's. "And you'll find it, no matter what methods you must employ. Do you understand?"

The half-elf inclined his head, the faintest shadow of determination crossing his features. "As you command, my lord."

The distant call of a guard interrupted their conversation. The words were clear, even through the thick walls: "The general has arrived!" The air in the room shifted. A heavy silence fell as he turned sharply on his heel, striding toward the door without so much as a glance back. His cloak, worn and battered from travel, billowed behind him like storm clouds rolling over a desolate plain. Raelor followed, his keen eyes studying the tense line of his master's shoulders, the rigidity of his steps. This was not mere irritation; this was a slow-burning rage barely kept in check.

Outside, the evening air carried the mingled scents of damp earth and sweat. The assembled company was a sight to behold, their formation bristling with a mixture of arrogance and hostility. At their head rode a figure whose reputation preceded him. Aedelas Blackmoore dismounted with the nonchalance of a man unburdened by accountability. His dark hair, streaked with hints of gray, fell loosely around his shoulders, framing a face marred by a jagged scar across his left eye. He exuded a brutal charisma, the kind that could command both fear and disdain in equal measure.

The general approached, his smile a carefully crafted performance. "Lord Stormsong!" he called, his tone dripping with an exaggerated warmth that bordered on mockery. "I must apologize for my tardiness. My men and I were conducting nightly patrols, ensuring the safety of Durnholde Keep."

The thin veneer of civility grated like sandpaper against a wound. The words might as well have been spoken into the void, for no response came. Instead, a long silence hung in the air, broken only by the faint rustle of cloaks and the shifting of horses. When he finally spoke, it was not to offer pleasantries but a simple, pointed statement.

"We will speak privately," Thorwin said at last, his voice low but resonant. There was no room for argument in his tone.

Blackmoore hesitated for the briefest of moments, then forced a laugh. "But of course! And dinner, my lord—I shall have a fine meal prepared. You must be famished after your journey from Southshore."

Thorwin gave a curt nod, signaling Raelor to remain behind. The half-elf caught his master's gaze, reading the unspoken command there. Raelor's role now was to observe, to gather what the officers might reveal in their unguarded moments as he dines with them. With a subtle tilt of his head, Raelor acknowledged the order and turned toward the hall.

Blackmoore led Thorwin through the keep's dimly lit corridors, the walls adorned with faded banners and the occasional shield that had long since lost its luster. The air was heavy with the scent of mildew and smoke, the decay of the structure more pronounced in the quieter halls. Blackmoore's stride was confident, though his back seemed slightly stiffer than before—a subtle sign of his unease.

As they reached the study, the general pushed the heavy wooden door open, revealing a room that stood in stark contrast to the rest of the keep. Here, at least, some semblance of order and wealth persisted. A large oak desk dominated the space, its surface cluttered with maps, ledgers, and quills. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books that looked as though they had been hastily arranged to give the illusion of a well-read occupant. A pair of leather chairs sat before a roaring fireplace, the flames casting long shadows that danced across the room.

Blackmoore gestured for Thorwin to take a seat. "Please, my lord, make yourself comfortable. Would you care for a drink? The wine here is humble, but it has its charms."

Thorwin ignored the offer, his eyes sweeping the room. Every detail was cataloged—the disorganized books, the untouched decanter on the shelf, the way Blackmoore's fingers lingered a moment too long on the back of his chair. Finally, he sat, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

Blackmoore poured himself a glass of wine, his movements slow and deliberate as though savoring the process. "Now then," he began, taking a sip before setting the glass down. "What brings the scion of House Stormsong to my humble keep? Surely it is not merely to enjoy the... picturesque scenery."

"Spare me the pleasantries, Blackmoore," Thorwin replied sharply, his tone cutting through the pretense like a blade. "I'm here to discuss the state of this keep and the funds allocated to it. What I've seen so far raises more questions than answers."

The general leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Ah, straight to the point. I respect that. But surely you understand, my lord, that maintaining an internment camp of this size comes with its challenges. Supplies, wages for the men, repairs—"

"Repairs?" Thorwin interrupted, his voice laced with derision. "If there have been repairs, they are invisible to the naked eye. This keep is falling apart. The lodgings are barely fit for cattle, let alone the soldiers stationed here. And yet, the funds my family and the Alliance have provided are more than sufficient to maintain this place."

Blackmoore's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered. "As I said, my lord, the challenges are numerous. The orcs—"

"The orcs," Thorwin cut in again, his eyes narrowing. "Are you truly suggesting that they've consumed the resources meant for their containment? Or is it something else entirely?" His gaze bore into Blackmoore, unrelenting. "Perhaps you'd care to explain the presence of those women among your men. Some looked like they'd been weeping, others far too eager to play the part of companions. Is that where the funds have gone? To sate your indulgences?"

Blackmoore's face darkened, the jovial mask slipping. He leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly together. "Careful, Lord Stormsong. Accusations without proof can be... dangerous."

"Proof," Thorwin echoed, leaning back in his chair with a cold smile. "That will come in time. For now, consider this a warning. The Alliance is watching, and so am I. Whatever schemes you've concocted here will not stand unchallenged."

The tension in the room was palpable, the air thick with unspoken threats. For a moment, neither man moved, their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. Finally, Blackmoore broke the silence, his voice measured but tight. "Very well, my lord. I'll ensure that the matters you've raised are addressed. You have my word."

"See that you do," Thorwin replied, rising to his feet. "And remember, Blackmoore, the Alliance does not take kindly to betrayal." He locked eyes with Blackmoore. "Especially from someone of your kind." 

The momentary flicker of anger in Blackmoore's eyes was brief, yet unmistakable—a sharp, almost feral glint that he quickly forced into submission. His fists, however, betrayed him. They tightened involuntarily, the knuckles whitening as he clasped them on the table. Thorwin caught the subtle tremor of suppressed rage, and it gave him pause. This was no mere brute of a man; there was a calculated restraint to Blackmoore, a reminder that his temper was a weapon, not a weakness. Thorwin's thoughts turned briefly to Father Alonsus Faol's teachings—about the dangers of allowing anger to guide judgment. He swallowed the bitterness rising in his chest and let himself settle back into his chair, the motion deliberate and unceremonious.

The silence between them stretched, tense and heavy, until it was interrupted by the soft shuffle of footsteps. A girl entered the room, her honey-blonde hair catching the firelight in soft waves. She carried a tray of dishes with practiced grace, her gentle smile wavering slightly as she approached the table. Thorwin's gaze lingered, studying her. She couldn't have been much older than him, perhaps even the same age. It struck him as strange that someone so young, so seemingly delicate, could survive in a place like Durnholde Keep. Surrounded by men who thrived on dominance and vice, she seemed wholly out of place—a flicker of light amidst the gloom.

Blackmoore's voice broke the moment. "Ah, my secretary's little jewel," he said, the words dripping with a lecherous undertone. His eyes roamed her figure, pausing with unabashed lust at her budding form. The girl's posture stiffened under his gaze, a fleeting expression of disgust crossing her face before she smothered it with practiced neutrality.

"Taretha," Blackmoore urged, his tone suddenly saccharine, "greet our esteemed guest, Lord Thorwin Stormsong."

She hesitated, her soft brown eyes darting toward Thorwin, lingering as though searching for something. Her silence stretched, and Thorwin noticed the faint trembling of her hands. There was a fragile dignity in her defiance, but it only seemed to fuel Blackmoore's irritation. The jovial mask he wore slipped, replaced by a simmering fury.

"I said greet our guest," he barked, his voice a venomous snarl, "not look at him with your filthy eyes, you damned whore!"

Thorwin barely had time to react before Blackmoore surged to his feet. The first slap came without warning, a sharp crack that echoed in the chamber. The second followed swiftly, harder, leaving an angry red mark blooming across her cheek. Taretha stumbled but didn't cry out. She stood there, trembling, her face flushed with humiliation, her hands clutching the tray like a lifeline.

"Enough," Thorwin said sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. Cold, detached, and utterly commanding. His words stopped Blackmoore mid-motion, the older man freezing like a predator caught in the act. Thorwin turned his attention to Taretha, his tone softening just slightly. "You may leave. The dishes will suffice. Thank you."

She looked at him, her expression unreadable but her eyes shimmering with an unspoken gratitude. She nodded quickly and turned to leave, her steps hurried but not frantic.

"Off you go, bitch," Blackmoore sneered after her, his words venomous even in retreat. He returned to his seat with a nonchalant air, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his simmering anger. Picking up his goblet, he took a slow, deliberate sip of wine before addressing Thorwin again.

"My lord," Blackmoore said, his voice oozing with false contrition, "please accept my apologies for the insolence of my servant. Rest assured, she will be dealt with appropriately. I'll see to it that you are well-compensated for this... disrespect."

The smile that followed was anything but sincere. It curled at the edges, revealing more malice than remorse, a sinister promise lurking beneath the surface. Thorwin did not return the smile. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his gaze unflinching as he regarded Blackmoore with a quiet, calculating intensity.

"The respect of a servant reflects the character of her master," Thorwin said evenly, his words deliberate. "I suggest you keep that in mind, General."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the tension crackling like a storm waiting to break. Blackmoore's expression hardened, but he forced another smile, his teeth flashing in the firelight. Whatever game the man was playing, Thorwin was determined to be three steps ahead.

The game they played had shifted into motion late into the night, when the keep had grown silent, save for the faint shuffle of guards on their night watch. Thorwin stirred from a restless slumber as a soft knock echoed against the heavy wood of his chamber door. The blaring moonlight seeped through the narrow window, illuminating half his face and casting shadows that danced across the room. He blinked away the haze of sleep, his mind already running through possibilities. Raelor? No, we had already convened before retiring. The thought brought no comfort.

Could Blackmoore have sent someone? Impossible. Even that bastard wouldn't dare risk his life and station by orchestrating an assassination here—Thorwin's death would be an execution warrant for all within the keep. Yet, caution was a habit forged through experience. Reaching for the gold-inlaid dagger resting on the table beside his bed, its Stormsong crest glinting faintly in the moonlight, he moved deliberately toward the door.

The sight that met him when he opened it was a jarring blow to his expectations. Taretha stood there, trembling, her mantle clutched tightly around her body but offering little modesty. The chill of the night air caused her slight frame to shudder visibly, and trails of tears glistened on her cheeks, carving silent paths from her reddened eyes to her chin. The tears fell unchecked, pooling onto the stone floor beneath her, yet she uttered not a single sound.

"You…" Thorwin's voice faltered, his mind reeling. Was this Blackmoore's idea of compensation? Fury surged within him, threatening to cloud his judgment. How dare he! he thought, but even in his outrage, he knew he needed to act quickly. Without another word, he stepped aside and gently pulled her into the room, closing the door firmly behind her to shield her from prying eyes.

"What did Aedelas mean by this?" His voice was soft but sharp, his gaze flickering to the faint bruises on her wrists. Each mark seemed to scream of the injustices she had endured.

Taretha's voice trembled as she replied, her tone barely above a whisper. "He means for me to accompany you tonight, my lord. To offer my innocence, as he has done with all the other women in the keep for his esteemed guests." Her words were heavy with resignation, and though she tried to maintain composure, a fresh tear slipped down her cheek.

Thorwin felt the weight of her words like a physical blow. The rumors had been true. Aedelas Blackmoore, in his depravity, used the women under his command as pawns in his political games, offering them to high-ranking officials in exchange for favor and alliances. It was revolting. As he looked at Taretha's tear-streaked face, her vulnerability and quiet bravery, something else struck him—she bore a striking resemblance to Jaina. That resemblance only deepened his rage.

"You're safe here, Tere—" he hesitated, his tongue faltering over her name. "Tabi?"

"Taretha, my lord," she corrected softly, her voice laced with a faint, almost tragic amusement.

Thorwin managed a faint chuckle despite the heaviness of the moment. "My apologies, Taretha," he said gently. "But my word stands—you're safe here. You have my protection."

He turned and retrieved his cloak from where it hung over the back of a chair, wrapping it carefully around her shoulders. The heavy fabric dwarfed her, but it offered some semblance of comfort. "I promise," he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for doubt.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of trust and uncertainty. For a moment, the harsh reality of Durnholde Keep seemed to fade, replaced by a fragile hope. Thorwin led her to sit on the edge of his bed, keeping a respectful distance as they settled side by side.

"Now," he said, his voice softening further, "why don't you tell me about your life here in the keep?"

Taretha hesitated, her fingers clutching the edges of the cloak as if it were a shield. The room fell into a quiet stillness, broken only by the distant rustle of wind against the stone walls. Slowly, she began to speak, her voice trembling but steadying as she recounted her life under Blackmoore's rule.

"I was born here," she said, her gaze fixed on her lap. "My mother served the keep before me. When she died... he took me in. At first, I thought it was out of kindness." Her voice cracked slightly, and she drew in a shaky breath. "But I learned quickly what kind of man he truly is."

Her words painted a grim picture of Blackmoore's cruelty and the suffocating fear that permeated the keep. She spoke of other women, their fates, and the hollowing silence that followed their screams. Thorwin listened intently, his fists clenching and unclenching as she detailed the horrors she had endured and witnessed. By the time she finished, her tears had dried, but the weight of her story hung heavily in the room. Thorwin's anger simmered beneath the surface, a quiet, seething fury that he kept in check only by sheer will.

Thorwin hesitated only for a moment before his arm moved instinctively, encircling Taretha's shoulders in an attempt to offer solace. The tension in the room hung heavy, but his gesture seemed to have an immediate effect. Her quiet sobs softened, and the trembling that wracked her frame began to subside. She raised her head to meet his gaze, her tear-streaked face still bearing the weight of fear and sorrow. Yet in her eyes, there was something else—something raw and uncertain that stirred within him, a mixture of vulnerability and gratitude that made him feel inexplicably drawn to her.

Her face, streaked with tears and illuminated faintly by the moonlight spilling through the window, seemed almost otherworldly to him. A strange, foreign feeling settled in his chest—intense, unfamiliar, and undeniably stirring. Her proximity heightened his awareness of every breath, every tremor, and every unspoken word between them.

Before he could process what was happening, Taretha moved closer. Her lips brushed against his in a tentative, almost hesitant kiss. It was clumsy, uncertain, yet undeniably earnest. The warmth of her breath mingled with his, and for a moment, he froze, unsure how to respond. Her innocence was palpable, and he could feel her desperation—a silent plea for solace, for something pure amid the bleakness of her existence.

As quickly as the moment began, she pulled away, her face flushing with shame. She avoided his gaze, her hands clutching at the cloak he had wrapped around her as though seeking refuge from her own actions. "I… I am sorry, Mi'Lord," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I shouldn't have done that. How could I…?" Her words trailed off, choked with guilt and fear.

Thorwin sat still, his mind racing. The surprise of the kiss had sent a jolt through him, yet now, an undeniable force seemed to take hold of him. The primal part of his mind whispered to act, to reassure her, to respond to the connection she sought. For all her innocence, she had been placed in a world far too cruel, and now she was here, seeking something he could not entirely name but understood deeply.

He reached out, his hands steady despite the storm raging within him. Gently, he cupped her tear-streaked cheeks, his thumbs brushing against her flushed skin. She froze, her wide eyes searching his for answers, but he didn't give her time to second-guess herself. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in and closed the space between them.

This time, it was he who initiated the kiss. It was tender, unhurried, yet filled with an intensity that neither of them could deny. The warmth of her lips met his, and he felt her relax under his touch, her body leaning into his as if seeking the protection she so desperately needed. The moment was fragile, fleeting, and entirely unspoken, but it carried an undeniable truth.

When they finally broke apart, Taretha's eyes glistened with something other than tears—relief, perhaps, or the faintest flicker of hope. Thorwin searched her face, his heart heavy with a mixture of emotions he couldn't name. Whatever was happening between them, it wasn't something either of them could ignore, but neither could it be rushed.

"You have nothing to apologize for," he said softly, his voice reassuring. "You've done nothing wrong."

Taretha looked at him with disbelief and gratitude, her lips parting as though to respond, but no words came.