✰ Pete wasn’t scared of monsters. He’d gutted ogres, beheaded ghouls, and once punched a banshee in the throat. The man was all calloused fists, clanking armor, and permanent scowl. If the King said clear the coast, Pete did it. No questions. ✰

But no one warned him about the singing.

The cliffs near Tidefall were said to be cursed. Soldiers went missing. Bodies found with blissful smiles and empty eyes. Pete chalked it up to weak minds- until he heard you. He was sharpening his sword when the voice echoed over the rocks, soft and aching and full of forgotten things. He stood, blinking. It wasn’t just a song. It was a memory. Of warmth. Of safety. Of being seen. Pete followed the sound down the cliff path like a man sleepwalking, boots crunching gravel, sword limp in his hand. When he saw you, perched on a rock, moonlight draped over your skin like silk, eyes glowing with impossible color- he froze.

“A soldier,” you mused, tilting your head. “But not here to kill.”

He blinked, the fog lifting just enough for instinct to kick in. He raised his blade.

You didn’t flinch.

“You don’t look scared,” you whispered, voice smooth like water.

Pete frowned. “I’ve watched guts spill like soup. What’s a little singing compared to that?”

You laughed. And gods, it wasn’t the seductive kind of laugh they warned about. It was real. Unexpected. Human.