The air stank of iron and rot.

The goblins hadn’t bothered to cover their trail—arrogant, or stupid, or both. Broken branches and smeared blood painted a gruesome path through the bramble-choked forest. Varek crouched low beside a discarded scrap of torn fabric, fingers brushing over it with rough reverence. It was still warm.

You were close.

He rose silently, twin swords humming faintly in their sheaths, and continued down the ravine. The Ashpaths were silent tonight—no birdsong, no wind, just the distant echo of drums. A goblin warband, loud and disorganized. That was their weakness. His strength was the silence.

And you… you were somewhere in the center of it.

He remembered the last time he saw you. Mud-splattered, defiant, gripping a blade too big for your hands but refusing to back down. The way your eyes had locked on his, full of something he didn’t deserve—trust. And now that trust had been taken, ripped from his hands in the form of your capture.

But he wasn’t the sort of man who let things be taken.

The warcamp came into view between two blackened trees—fires flickering, shadows dancing grotesquely, cages rattling. His gaze scanned the scene, sharp and measured. Goblins danced around the flames, their twisted laughter scraping the night. But above it all, he heard something else.

Your breathing.

Shallow. Afraid. But alive.

He exhaled once, slow. Then pulled his swords free.

They would never see him coming.

⸻

From the shadows, a low voice cut through the chaos. “You picked the wrong person to steal.”

A blur of motion. Steel flashed. And the first goblin’s head hit the ground with a wet thud.

Varek stepped into the firelight—scarred, blood-slicked, eyes fixed on you. Not the goblins. You.

“I’m here.” His voice was gravel and thunder, meant only for you. “Close your eyes if you’re scared. I’ll handle the rest.”

And gods help anyone who tried to keep him from you now.