edierone - Tumblr blog

edierone · 14 hours ago

Text

Familiar (52/?)

(This is the NSFW chapter you've been waiting 90,000 words for.)

The sound of the latch falling home lingered in the air, sharp against the hush.

Fox didn’t move from the door at first. He just stood there, watching her with a gaze that made her feel like he saw more than she wanted to show. The last light through the shutter slats banded his face in gold and shadow, marking the lines of his jaw, the sweep of his cheekbone.

Dana’s pulse kicked hard, though she kept her hands flat on the table beside her satchel. “You didn’t answer,” she said, her voice suddenly tremulous.

“I was… occupied,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling faintly.

She swallowed, suddenly aware of the smallness of the room—the narrow bed, the single washstand, the way the air seemed to press close around them. “Occupied with what?”

His eyes swept over her, slow as if taking in every detail, before they lifted to meet hers again. “Deciding whether to lock the door.”

Her fingers tightened on her satchel. “And?”

He stepped toward her, relaxed, each movement deliberate enough that she felt it in the tightening space between them. “I decided I would.”

The warmth of their bond brushed against her like a slow exhale, curling through her ribs, under her skin. She could feel the shift in him—not the quicksilver playfulness he sometimes wore, but something heavier, more intent.

Fox crossed the space between them in two unhurried steps until he loomed over her, the size of him still surprising her, and he closed in until he seemed to fill the narrow room. He stopped just short of touching her, though every line of him promised that he could, that he would, if she gave him even the faintest leave.

The weight of the day pressed in from all sides: the strangeness of the world, the silent streets, the shuttered windows, the Overseer’s absence like a hollow in the air. But here—here it was only him.

Her pulse thudded, quick and certain.

Fox’s eyes swept over her face, lingering, reading, as though he could feel every beat of her heart through the weave of the bond. Then, with the smallest tilt of his head, he stepped even closer, and the space between them narrowed to a breath. His hand lifted, not quite touching her cheek, only hovering, the air between his skin and hers alive with heat.

Her body leaned toward him without permission, every nerve urging her forward.

But a thought that had been gnawing at her rose sharp and insistent, cutting through the thrum of want.

“Fox—wait.”

The word left her in a whisper, but it stilled him instantly. His hand dropped, though his eyes didn’t leave hers, still burning with that intent, tethered to her by something neither of them could name.

Dana pressed her palm flat against her satchel, grounding herself. “There’s something I need to ask you. Before… before any of this.”

The bond shivered between them, his frustration muted but present—tempered by curiosity, by the steadiness she always found in him. He inclined his head a fraction, silent, waiting.

“I worry,” she started, “that the decisions you make are not your own.”

He tilted his head, watching her, patient and waiting.

She took a breath and pressed on before she lost her nerve. “The way you became my familiar…” She faltered, then forced the words out. “The raven told me that a witch chooses her familiar, and her familiar chooses back. But I never chose you.”

His eyes stayed on hers, sharp and searching.

“I choose you now,” she rushed to say, reaching out, fingers trembling, and caught his hand before she lost the courage. His palm was warm, callused, steady against her own. She clung to it like an anchor as she pressed on.

“But I fear… I fear your fealty to me, the depth of your feeling… What if someone has given you this life? This life that’s not your own. What if it’s that magic that’s endeared me to you?”

He studied her for a long moment.

“Dana,” he said at last, voice low. “How do you feel about me?”

“How do I—”

“The first words you said to me,” he cut in, a smile tugging faintly at his mouth, “were to drive me off. To be gone. ‘I have a shadow already! I’ve no need for a new one!’” He finished the memory in a teasing falsetto.

Despite herself, she smiled.

“Do you still wish me gone?” he asked softly.

She shook her head.

“Then you see,” he said softly, thumb brushing her knuckles. “Whatever magic brought me to your side, it was not enough to keep me there. You did that. Your courage. Your strength. Your resilience.” His gaze softened. “And your beauty.”

His hand slipped free only so he could lift it to her face, his palm warm against her cheek. She leaned into his touch.

“When we were separated,” he murmured, voice low, “the Overseer offered me my freedom.”

Her throat tightened. “From me?”

“From you,” he answered. “I didn’t take it.”

Dana leaned back slightly, though her hand tightened around his. “But that’s what I’m saying! The you—the whole you. The man I don’t know. The one who walks in sunlight. The one with memories and a past. The mage.” She swallowed hard. “What if he would choose something different? Someone different.”

Her gaze dropped to the mark on her wrist. She touched it lightly, and in answer, his own flared with soft light across his skin.

“And what if by marking you, I’ve doomed you to a life you didn’t choose? I couldn’t live with that.”

A fat tear slid down her cheek.

“But I do choose you,” he said softly, reaching up to wipe the tear away.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he leaned toward her, earnest, every line of him tight with conviction.

“I am bewitched,” he said. “By some power that stole my memory and tied me to you and to your service. But I can feel enough of myself, enough of what is still my own free will, to know that I would choose you anyway. When I regain my memory”—he lifted her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles—“I will choose you then, too.”

Her breath broke. She launched herself into his arms, and he caught her easily, one arm cinched tight around her waist, the other cradling her head against his chest. For a moment she let herself sink into him, small and sheltered in the strength of his embrace.

But then she pulled back, blinking through tears, needing to look him in the eye. He let her go, reluctantly.

“You asked how I feel about you?” she whispered.

“You don’t have to—”

She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“I love you,” she said simply. “Not because of the bond, or the magic, or the way you’ve saved me without thought or hesitation—but because you saw me before I even knew who I was. You never tried to control me or stop me from being who I am. You trusted me, challenged me, stayed when you didn’t have to. And somewhere along the way, that quiet, steady loyalty became the most certain thing in my life—the only certain thing.”

His eyes searched hers, overwhelmed with emotion. She shook her head faintly.

“If what you feel is anything like what I do—” she began, but before she could finish, his hands were on her face, cupping her cheeks with a reverence that left her trembling.

The moment hung suspended, air crystallizing between them. His eyes blazed—green as the luminous lichen in Highveil. He leaned in until his forehead pressed to hers.

“I would drown the world to slake your thirst,” he whispered, the words hooking into her very soul. And then his mouth was on hers.

***

The kiss seared her. There was no hesitation—no shyness, no restraint. His mouth claimed hers like it had always belonged there, and she met him with equal fervor, clutching at the linen of his tunic, her heart hammering so hard it shook through her bones.

His touch burned as well: one arm wrapped low around her back, pulling her flush against him, the other cradling the nape of her neck to better angle her to him. She melted into the heat of him, the solidity, the ferocity.

Her hands fluttered—up his face, down the strong line of his shoulders, across his waist. She didn’t know where to touch, only that she needed to, that instinct drove her to find more, to feel more.

She was so frazzled with indecision, a nervous laugh slipped from her. Fox pulled back at once, eyes darting to hers. She turned her gaze aside, shy, then back up to find the fire still banked in his.

“Dana,” he rasped, “how much do you—”

“I know what comes next,” she blurted, cheeks heating.

She knew the mechanics—life on a farm taught one early. And Mildred had been frank, teaching her that there was no sin in desire, only the danger of letting someone else’s will eclipse her own. It was part of the reason she had turned from Alexander. With him, she had felt no true regard—only the urge to tame her, to keep her like some rare and lovely thing caught in his fist.

Still, knowing and doing were worlds apart, and with Fox standing before her, she felt the chasm between them yawning wide. A little thrill of fear tangled with want. Not fear of him—never that—but fear of what it meant to step fully into this choice.

Fox’s hands were steady, reverent, each movement an asking rather than a taking. And for the first time, she understood what Mildred had meant: the choice was hers, and she wanted.

Her eyes skimmed down him, lingering over the hard planes of his chest, the breath moving through him. She swallowed and smiled, embarrassed but not—not with him.

“Where do I put my hands?” she asked, laughing softly.

His expression stayed intense, unflinching. He stepped back just far enough to pull his tunic over his head and drop it aside. When he came back to her, his eyes were locked on hers, sharp as arrowheads.

“Wherever you damn well want,” he said, serious as a vow.

She reached forward, hands tracing the firm ridges of his chest, the warm skin, the faint scatter of hair beneath her fingertips. Down over the taut lines of his abdomen. He shivered under her touch, a sharp breath leaving him.

Curiosity guided her hand lower, to where the evidence of him pressed against the fabric of his stockings. She’d glimpsed boys at the river, seen the outlines of men in passing, but this—this was heat and weight and life. She brushed him lightly, skin against cloth, and he drew a hiss through his teeth.

“Like this?” she whispered.

His jaw tightened, voice low. “Yes. Like that.”

Then his mouth was back on hers, and she was aware of everything—the rough cadence of his breath, the heat of his body, the way his hands clutched her like he’d never let go. There was nothing delicate, nothing cautious—only truth, raw and unstoppable.

Fox’s mouth left hers and trailed down the column of her throat, a slow, searing path that stole her breath. Each brush of his lips, each scrape of his teeth, left her trembling. He nosed lower, into the hollow where her pulse hammered, then down to the edge of her bodice, breath hot against the fabric that hid her.

Her fingers fumbled for the clasp at her throat. The cloak slipped free, falling heavy to the floor. She reached back next, hands clumsy with urgency, searching for the knots of her laces. The harder she tried, the worse they shook.

Fox stilled against her, panting hard, his forehead pressing to her shoulder. She felt the change in him—the sharp hunger tempered by something softer, steadier.

His hand closed gently over hers. “Dana,” he rasped, voice rough but careful. “Let me.”

Her chest heaved, heat rising to her cheeks as she gave the smallest nod.

He worked at the ties with a patience she hadn’t expected, loosening each in turn until the bodice slackened. His fingers brushed the back of her shoulders as he slid the garment down and away, leaving her in her threadbare shift, the thin fabric nearly translucent in the candlelight.

She stood trembling before him, bare-shouldered, the rise and fall of her breath unsteady. Fox’s gaze swept over her with a reverence that made her knees weaken. The lean muscles of his bare chest caught shadow and light, every line of him alive with restrained force.

When his eyes met hers again, they were full—of heat, yes, but also of something that steadied her, something that made her lift her chin despite the way she shook.

And then he reached for her, slow and sure.

The room was quiet but for the rasp of their breathing, the faint crackle of the fire in the room’s small hearth.

Fox’s fingers found her—the slope of her collarbone, the trembling curve of her shoulder. His fingers drifted down her arm, a featherlight stroke that raised gooseflesh in their wake. She shivered, though the air was warm.

Her shift was thin, worn soft from years of washing, and when his palm brushed her waist, she felt the heat of him as if nothing lay between. His breath hitched, rough and uneven, and he closed his eyes for a moment as though steadying himself.

Then he bent to her, his mouth closing slowly over the tender curve of her breast with a low, worshipful sound that went straight through her, as though he had touched something older than flesh—something secret and buried deep. She arched into him, and the hesitation in him shattered. His hands gripped, sure and hungry, while his lips found her nipple through the thin weave of her shift. The pull of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, sent a thrill racing over her skin, her nerves alight—flaming, fizzing—as the bond between them flared and tightened.

When he pulled back, she let forth a plaintive, whining sound she didn’t recognize, but his hand skimmed back up, fingers curling at the ribboned neckline of her shift. He toyed with the edge, testing, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t.

Instead, she raised her own hand, trembling, and tugged the ribbon loose herself. The fabric gaped, a bit of it wet from his mouth.

Then she shrugged a shoulder and the garment fell away, and she stood there naked before him, the pebbled skin of her nipples pulling tight in anticipation. His chest rose sharply as he looked at her, not with hunger alone, but with awe—as though he’d never seen anything so dangerous and so precious at the same time.

“Dana,” he murmured, almost a prayer.

The bond stirred, a pulse of heat and ache that threaded through her ribs. She swayed into him, into the heat of his bare chest, and his arms came up around her at once, folding her in with a gentleness that nearly broke her.

Her face pressed against the hard line of his shoulder, she let out a shaky laugh that caught on a sob. He made a low sound—comfort, need, both—and tipped his head to press his mouth to her temple, her hair, her jaw, slow as though each kiss were sealing something eternal.

Her hands drifted along the skin of his shoulders, down along the slope of his rib cage until they encountered the top of his wool hose. He hissed against her skin, reaching down to still her hands.

When his eyes found hers, he said only one word: “Bed.”

She nodded, throat too tight for words.

His hands were warm as they framed her waist, guiding her back a step at a time. The edge of the mattress caught her knees, and she sank onto it, the coarse sheets that covered it scraping her skin.

Fox lingered on his feet, gaze locked on hers, and in that span of stillness she watched his fingers go to the ties of his boots. The leather thudded softly to the floor, one and then the other. Then his hands slid higher, to the fastening of his wool hose. The sound of them pulling free was low, intimate, more startling to her than a footstep in an empty room.

Her breath caught as the hose joined the boots in a heap, leaving him in only a pair of pale linen braies that clung to him in the firelight. So little left between them. And through that thin cloth, she glimpsed her first true sight of a man’s desire, startling and undeniable, and it made her pulse leap.

When he came down to her, the shadow of his body closed over hers, the heat of him flooding the narrow space between them.

For a breathless heartbeat, they only looked at each other—her bare skin against rough linen, their bond thrumming so fiercely she thought it might split her open. Fox loomed over her, chest bare, eyes raking over her in a way that stole the breath from her lungs. Not greedy. Not careless. Devoted. He looked at her as though he were seeing something holy, something he’d never expected to be allowed to touch. The air between them seemed to hum with it, the bond thrumming through her blood until her skin prickled with heat.

Dana fought the urge to curl in on herself, to shield what little modesty she had left. Not from shame, but from the strangeness of being so wholly revealed, of standing bared before someone who saw her as no one ever had.

. But his gaze stopped her. Whatever he saw—whoever he saw—was enough to still the trembling in her limbs.

When he rolled toward her, the mattress dipped, the warmth of him pressing full along her side. His arm slid beneath her shoulders, drawing her against him until she could feel the thud of his heart, hard and unrelenting, against her breast. The length of him pressed to her hip, a solid weight through linen, impossible to ignore. She swallowed, her body lighting with equal parts wonder and nerves.

“Fox…” It was hardly more than a whisper, his name spilling from her lips like a plea.

He shifted, bracing on an elbow above her, his breath hot against her cheek. “Dana…” he answered in a murmur. She could tell he was holding back, but she didn’t want that. Every part of her cried for more.

She reached for him, fumbling at the edge of his braies. He caught her hand, briefly stilling it, then let go—granting her choice.

When she urged at the linen, he shed the last of it in one quick motion, tossing it to the floor. The breath caught in her throat. She’d thought she knew what to expect, but the reality of him—heavy and thick—made her cheeks flame, her belly clench with both shock and an aching need she hadn’t known she could feel.

Her hand fluttered, uncertain where to land. But then he was lowering himself again, docking himself between her knees, the weight of him covering her, the heat of bare skin to bare skin stealing away any last trace of hesitation.

Fox moved over her, careful, deliberate, bracing himself so she bore only as much of his weight as she wanted. Still, she felt every inch of him, his body fitted to hers like it had been carved for no other purpose. Her pulse drummed in her ears, her breath shallow as he settled between her thighs.

“Are you sure?” he rasped, the words trembling against her lips.

She nodded, though her throat was too tight for sound. Her hands rose, framing his face, and that was answer enough.

He took himself into his hand and rubbed the thick head of himself against her seam, coating it in the slip that pooled there. She looked down, watching, dazed, wondering how it would fit, how it would feel. She had seen coupling before, in Mildred’s fields, rough and instinctive, but this was something very different.

Then their eyes met, and in the dark heat of his gaze she felt a promise—that he would not break her, that he would be patient, that he was hers.

When he eased into her, her body tensed—an ache sharp enough to draw a gasp. He stilled at once, forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged, waiting, giving her the moment. She clung to him, heart hammering, and then… slowly, the pain softened, made way for something deeper, fuller. She exhaled, her body opening, and when she whispered his name, he began to move.

The rhythm came halting at first, then surer, stronger, building between them until it filled the air like the pounding of a second heartbeat. The bond burned through her veins, brighter than fire, brighter than fear. Every touch of his hands, every drag of his mouth against her throat, every thrust of his hips—each fed into the pulsing current that tethered them.

If she thought she knew sorcery before, she was wrong. This—this—was magic.

Their breaths tangled, rough and desperate. She was lost in him—in the heat, in the weight, in the raw need that was hers as much as his. Her hips rose to meet him, her body learning him, chasing a feeling that seemed to hover just beyond reach.

And then, together, they crested.

The world shattered into light.

It burst from their joined bodies, sparking across her skin, flaring through her veins, the makeup of her blood changing. Magic ripped free like a storm, scattering in brilliant arcs that lit the rafters and made the very walls tremble. She cried out, clutching him, as the bond sealed—final, unbreakable, eternal.

Fox groaned her name, the sound raw and reverent, and collapsed against her, his body shuddering with the last tremors of release. Still the light poured from them, shimmering, weaving them into one.

Where their skin touched—his hand against her hip, her palm against his back—it glowed, soft and radiant, as though the fire of the stars themselves now lived beneath their flesh.

Dana lay breathless beneath him, dazed and awed, her body and magic both undone. She had never known such wonder. Never known such belonging.

And through it all, the bond sang in her blood—no longer a thread, but a blazing cord of light.

#🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥

17 notes · View notes

edierone · 1 day ago

Text

Familiar (51/?)

The road curved between fresh green fields, the tender shoots swaying in a mild breeze. Wildflowers freckled the ditches in pale yellows and soft blues, the delicate lace of wild carrot blossoms dancing on air that carried the damp-sweet scent of turned earth. In the distance, bees moved lazily between the first blossoms of the hedgerows, their hum a low, steady counterpoint to the rustle of grasses along the swale.

Fox padded at Dana’s side, his paws soundless on the packed dirt. The Overseer walked a little ahead, the soft tap of his staff keeping time with their steps.

“Where are we going?” Fox asked, his voice low. “I assume you have a destination.”

“I do,” the Overseer replied, though he didn’t elaborate.

The sun had begun its slow descent, shadows stretching long across the road.

“There is a village ahead,” he said after a moment. “An inn. A good place to sleep tonight.”

He glanced back, his eyes passing briefly over Fox before resting on Dana’s wrist as she absently rubbed at the bond mark.

“How does the bond feel above the Veil?” he asked.

“Easier,” she said. “It’s easier to connect to him here.”

He nodded, as if considering that. “Do you feel it even when you’re not touching?”

“Yes… sometimes.”

“And when you are?” His gaze lingered, just for a heartbeat, on the space between her hand and Fox’s ruffled shoulder.

Dana frowned slightly. “Stronger.”

He gave the smallest smile, nodding.

She glanced at him, but he had already turned his eyes back to the road.

Ahead, a burst of starlings rose from the fields, the flock curling and tumbling through the sky. The raven joined them for a single turn before catching an updraft and soaring higher.

***

Fox listened as the Overseer spoke to his witch.

Above the Veil, their bond was a live thing—quicker, stronger, impossible to ignore. His senses, already keen in this form, felt sharpened to a dangerous edge. A fox could read the air below the Veil well enough, but here the wind whispered to him in layers rich with secrets. The ground thrummed faintly beneath his paws, as if the earth’s pulse beat just under the surface, calling to him.

And Dana… she was everywhere. His awareness of her had collapsed inward, dense as a star, dragging him into her gravity. Not just through the bond, but through every point of contact: her fingers combing through the ruff at his neck, the measured pull of her breath. He could track the steady rise of her pulse in the hollow of her throat, watch the warm breeze tease the fine hairs along her arms. Her scent came to him in delicate strands—goldenrod pollen clinging to her sleeve, the faint oil in her hair, the salt-bright edge of her breath. Beneath it all was a deeper, darker note, purling from her center. It wound through him like a coiled bowstring ready to loose.

“You’re very quiet,” she murmured through the bond, her voice brushing against his mind alone.

He shook his head—unable to tell her what he was thinking without crossing into indecency, yet unwilling to lie.

“The shadows grow long,” he said instead, voice low. “I’m eager to regain my human form.”

Her heartbeat skipped—barely enough for anyone else to notice, but to him it was thunder. Her breath shifted, that smallest shiver of awareness.

“As am I,” she answered.

His gaze caught hers, holding for a moment too long before he tore it away. Fox shook out his coat and padded ahead toward the village’s edge, where the Overseer had chosen to stop for the night—before he let himself dwell on how little the dark would hide.

***

The road sloped gently toward the village, the last stretch hemmed in by low stone walls gone mossy with age. The sun had already dipped low, painting the peaks in bronze and throwing long shadows across the fields. From a distance, the place looked lively enough—broad streets, tall houses with slate roofs, a market square at its heart. But as they drew closer, the stillness became impossible to ignore.

Shutters were drawn on many of the shops, their painted signs faded and peeling. A cobbler’s window was thick with dust, a single boot lying unfinished on the workbench inside. The flower boxes under the apothecary’s eaves had gone to seed. In the wide square, the stalls stood empty save for one, where an old woman sold early greens from a wicker basket, her eyes following them as they passed.

The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something older—a dry, brittle scent like parchment left too long in the sun. Birds called from the thatch, but no children’s laughter echoed in the streets. Even their footsteps seemed too loud.

“Where are all the people?” Dana asked.

“The magic above the Veil is dying,” the Overseer said. “There aren’t many left.”

Dana processed this, her gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sun sagged lower still, gilding the rooftops. Someday soon the sun might set on magic altogether, she thought—and that day might be closer than anyone dared to believe. She thought of the Dark Mage’s words: the last . Here, it was easier to believe them.

Fox padded close at her heel, his fur brushing her skirts. She kept her eyes ahead, but the thought nagged at her—what would they make of her here, walking in with a fox at her side? Below the Veil, it would have been unthinkable.

“Do you think it’s wise?” she murmured. “Me walking into a village with a fox following me?”

“They’ll notice you,” the Overseer said, his voice low but certain. “Not him. Above the Veil, it isn’t unusual for a familiar to walk openly with his witch.”

She glanced down at Fox. He flicked an ear at the word witch , but the warmth in their bond steadied her more than the Overseer’s reassurance.

They passed an open-fronted bakery where a single rack of loaves cooled in the window. The baker—a round man with forearms dusted in flour—nodded to them without surprise. Dana felt the hum of magic in him as they drew near, subtle but undeniable, like catching the scent of herbs in rising steam.

Here and there, she caught that same quiet presence in others—the woman sweeping the stoop of a tavern with a broom she didn’t need to touch, the stable boy who looked up from his work to nod politely while a set of bridles coiled themselves neatly on a peg behind him. No one stared. No one asked questions.

The inn stood at the far end of the square, its wide sign swinging gently in the evening breeze: The Starling and Crown . Just as Dana pulled open the door, the raven and Moth took flight, disappearing into the eaves above.

Inside, the timbers of the front hall gleamed dark with polish, but the benches by the door stood empty. The air was warm, scented faintly of rosemary and polished wood. Only a handful of patrons occupied the common room—a man in a deep green cloak nursing a steaming cup, an older woman by the hearth knitting as the fire burned in an unnaturally steady rhythm. All glanced up as Dana, Fox, and the Overseer stepped inside. All looked away again without comment, though their eyes lingered on the Overseer.

He let the door fall shut behind them, his gaze sweeping the room once before settling on Dana.

“This is where I leave you,” he said.

Dana turned sharply. “You’re not staying?”

From the doorway behind him, the last light of the sun slanted through, gilding the side of his face and catching on the crystal of his staff.

“No,” he said, quiet but certain.

“Have you no coin? I have enough for all of us, or you could—”

“He’s not welcome here,” came a voice from across the room.

The innkeeper stepped out from behind the counter—a tall woman with pale hair drawn neatly back, her eyes a soft, unyielding grey.

“This is a village of Light,” she said. “If he wants a room, he’ll find one past the border.” The words held no malice, but there was no bending in them either.

Dana’s mouth opened to argue. “But he’s an old man—surely you can—”

A warm hand settled on her arm. She looked up to find the Overseer shaking his head.

“My flock and I will be fine,” he said.

“Then we’ll come with you—”

“No.” His tone was final.

“I don’t understand.”

“Lass.” He gave her arm a small squeeze. “Lay your head on a soft pillow this night. With the dawn will come answers—more than you may be ready for.”

He bent beside Fox, murmured something too low for her to catch, then straightened and walked into the fading light beyond the door without looking back.

“You’ll be wanting a room, then?” the innkeeper asked, her gaze shifting to Dana.

Dana hesitated, still staring at the doorway where the Overseer had gone. The street beyond lay in shadow now, the last edge of the sun gilding the rooftops in molten gold. His absence seemed to pull something out of the air—lightening it, yes, but leaving it emptier too. The thought of him being turned away simply because his magic ran Dark gnawed at her.

“Yes,” she said finally, turning back to the counter. “A room.”

The innkeeper gave a single nod and reached beneath the counter for a heavy iron key. “Up the stairs, second on the left. Supper’s still hot if you want it.”

Dana took the key, the cool metal biting against her palm, and crossed the common room without another glance at the patrons.

They ascended the stairwell, footsteps muffled on the thick pile rugs that covered the steps.

She pushed open the door to her room and stepped inside, Fox padding in after her. Without turning around, she set her satchel down on the small table near the bed and toed off her boots, pulling her stockings with them.

“I didn’t realize Light and Dark kept to their own sides here,” she said, her tone sounding more uneasy than she meant it to be.

No answer.

She turned—and found Fox in human form, the last traces of gold from the window catching in his hair as he leaned back to close the door. The latch fell into place with a resounding snick.

The sound seemed to echo in the small room, and the air between them shifted—warmer, charged, as if the quiet outside had followed them in but changed its nature entirely.

#fuck yeah

20 notes · View notes