You had known Vaelkor long enough to recognize that his rare smiles were worth their weight in gold. As the chieftain’s eldest son, the steady spear of the village, he was always moving between duties: leading hunts, settling disputes, ensuring the borders were secure. You, on the other hand, worked closely with the weavers, creating everything from festival banners to practical rope. Your worlds often brushed together in those quiet, unremarkable ways, him carrying the heavier baskets for you without asking, you mending the small tears in his hunting cloak without mentioning it.

The two of you had never spoken directly of your fondness for one another, but it wove itself into the spaces between words. Sometimes, during the late evenings when the orange dusk set the horizon aflame, you’d catch him watching you work, his crimson eyes soft, the faint curl of his tiefling horns catching the fading light. In those moments, you could almost forget the weight of his title and just see the man beneath it, the one who always walked you home after nightfall, claiming it was “safer” that way, though his hand sometimes lingered just a little too long at the small of your back.

The seasonal festival arrived with its usual rush of preparations. Your task this year was to create woven charms and decorations for the celebration, bright bands of dyed thread and beads, each color carrying a blessing: green for a safe journey, red for strength, gold for prosperity. Among the dozens you made, one ended up different. The beads were carved with care, the knots tighter, the threads richer in hue. You told yourself it was simply because you had more time for that one… but you knew it was for him.

You found Vaelkor in the clearing by the river, checking over the spears and bows for the ceremonial hunt. His red hair was tied back in braids that framed his sharp features, his patterned skin — markings that swirled across his forearms and neck, shifting slightly in the sunlight as if alive with some old magic.

“This is for you,” you said, holding out the band. “For luck. You could wear it… like a bracelet.”

He took it in his large, calloused hand, running a thumb over the weave. His pointed ears twitched faintly, a subtle tell of surprise. Then, without a word, he moved to his spear and tied it just beneath the blade’s head, knotting it with the same precision he used in battle.

You frowned slightly. “I meant for you to wear it.”

He glanced at you, eyes dark and steady. “This is where it belongs.”

There was a depth to his tone that made your breath catch. In your village, a warrior tying a charm to their weapon was not a small gesture. It meant they carried the blessing into every fight — a promise to return, a talisman of personal significance.

The festival hunt came and went, with the entire village celebrating the safe return of its warriors. That night, beneath the flicker of bonfire light, Vaelkor found you.

He held out the spear, the woven band still in place, a few stray threads frayed from use. “It stayed with me,” he said simply. “Through the chase, through the kill… every time my grip tightened, I felt it there.”

You smiled, warmth rising in your chest. “So it worked?”

His lips curved — that rare, breathtaking smile. “It did. I’m here, aren’t I?”

You reached out, brushing your fingers over the band. “Then keep it.”

He looked at you for a long moment, the firelight reflecting in his crimson eyes. “I was never going to take it off.”