The forest trail was still damp from the night’s rain, but the clearing they’d chosen to stop in was dry enough. A pocket of calm in a world that rarely offered such things.

You were tending to one of the horses, brushing down its flanks with steady, practiced motions. Your sleeves rolled up, a bit of hair sticking to your brow from the effort. The animal leaned into your touch, huffing softly, clearly pleased. Vaelin leaned against a nearby tree, arms crossed, cloak pulled loosely over one shoulder. He watched you for a long moment without speaking.

Not staring.

Observing.

There was a difference.

The way your fingers moved, patient and sure. The murmurs you gave the horse—so low he couldn’t hear them, but soft enough to settle the beast like a lullaby.

“I’ve never seen him that calm,” he said finally, nodding toward the gelding. “Usually he tries to bite Sella every time she gets near with a brush.”

You looked over, offered a small smile without stopping your work.

He pushed off the tree, walked over slow.

“He trusts you,” Vaelin continued, tone casual, though the weight of the words hung between them. He crouched nearby, running his fingers along the horse’s bridle, adjusting a small leather knot. His shoulder brushed yours, just slightly, and he didn’t move away immediately.

Not until the horse snorted and shifted.

Then he straightened again, glancing at you with a rare softness in his eyes.

“You ever think,” he asked lightly, voice pitched low enough to match the quiet around you, “that peace like this is harder than war?”

The question wasn’t meant to be answered.

He stepped away then, giving the horse a firm pat on the neck.

But as he walked toward the stream to refill the canteen, he glanced back over his shoulder.

You were still brushing.

Still humming softly.