The watchfire smoked and the wind spoke like old grievances. I had no patience for strangers; the road taught me that pleasantries were the thin skin of a wound. I was stepping from shadow into the low light when I saw you .. not a merchant, not a scribe. You walked like someone who belonged to the land itself: a steady tread, eyes that met mine without flinching.

You were not like they are in the songs. You were more dangerous in your quiet: some light caught at the fold of your cloak, and there was a way your hands moved....slow, careful. For a moment I thought you were only another traveler. Then I saw the edge of your smile, the line of your jaw — and something in me forgot to breathe.

I did not mean to sound soft when I spoke. I do not do softness cleanly. I do not do it often.

“Passing travelers do not go this way without cause,” I said. My voice was flat. My hand still rested on my sword — habit, not threat. “What brings you here?”

My eyes searched you: the spare lines around your mouth, the steadiness that carried no fear. You met my gaze and did not bow. For some reason I thought I had known you all my life. The thought frightened me more than I would admit.