But I felt that I was the one at a disadvantage, not her. She contained a whole world inside her head, and because I lacked the ability to hear her, I was the one missing out on her fire.

I didn’t think I could stand to miss it.

If Cirri can learn six languages, you can learn one more, I told myself, holding the journal as I closed my eyes and tried to recall what the Silent Brother had taught me.

I managed to remember several more words, but this was something that would take time—time well worth spending to understand my eloquent wife without the need for pen or paper.

My memory would not be enough.

I gently set the journal aside and rummaged in my desk for pen and paper. Within minutes my hasty missive was scrawled.

I would pay a mountain of gold for the privilege of speaking with her directly. The steward could cry to me about the treasury all he wanted; I would give up an entire tower of the keep for this plan to work.

Only when the sun rose, piercing the veil of mist, did I close the journal again, fully intending to go to her and tell her that there was nothing I would not do to earn her, to learn the priests’ tongue, to see her achieve all she hoped for.

But duty found me first, in the form of the steward knocking on my door.

I shoved my letter into his hands. “See this delivered to Thornvale immediately.”

“My Lord… wait—” He trotted after me as I swept towards the Tower of Spring, full of hope and good intentions.

The steward finally lunged at me with the desperation of a man on fire. “My Lord! Commander Visca has received an urgent summons—there was a warg sighting in the night, only several miles away. It cut across the trail from Fog Hollow; scouts found warg-sign this morning.”

I came to a halt, my burning desire to see Cirri conflicting against the fact of a warg in my territory.

A warg sent by Hakkon, another reminder that he was watching us.

Watching her.

The choice was quite clear.

So I did not see Cirri for all those hours of meager daylight; I drank from a prisoner, fueling my shift, and prowled the forest until the first tinge of dusk touched the sky. My claws regrew as I shifted further into the mind and body of a hunting fiend, tracking the thing all the way to the eastern mountains.

Crouched on a rocky slope, hidden by the shadows and crowded pines, I peered at the old goat-trail used by the warg. The scent was still fresh, but she had long retreated back into Forian territory.

I shifted in place, debating the urge to follow. Possibly all the way to Thurn Hakkon himself… and ending the threat once and for all.

But Hakkon would not be on the front lines. The old Forian was far too wily to place himself within easy reach; the ancient Fae tunnels under Foria stretched far and wide, the landscape littered with old, crumbling keeps and towers he could be holed up in. It was entirely possible the warg was not a scout, but a lure, the bait in a greater trap I couldn’t quite see.

I dug my claws into the earth, already regretting turning my back on the idea of crossing the border now, but Cirri was at home, and I wanted to be by her side.

Running on all fours, I raced against the setting sun.

I didn’t make it home until the moon was high, but the fires of the keep were still flickering; my kind kept late hours.

It took several minutes to shift myself back into walking upright, and as I made the change, I moved slowly towards the Tower of Spring, retracing this morning’s steps.

Something caught the corner of my eye as I passed a dining room, a flash of scarlet, and I stopped in my tracks.

She sat alone in a dining room, seated at the end of a long table. A candelabra flickered before her, illuminating the spill of her hair; a crimson rose tucked behind her ear had wilted.

I bristled at that; who had put bloodroses in my wife’s hair? That was a gesture for a lover—or a husband—to make.

But it was the look on her face that held me back from anger.

She toyed with the spoon in her soup, not eating, but staring gloomily into it like an oracle reading a terrible future.

For a moment I lingered in the doorway, hesitating to go to her. Was I the cause for that expression, the downturned lips and lowered eyes?

I didn’t believe so, and yet… I couldn’t stop my feet from walking in, carrying me towards her with silent steps.

Cirri looked up, dropping the spoon with surprise. She signed something rapidly, pressing a hand to her chest with a weak smile.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” I lifted one foot, the claws arched back so as not to give my presence away as I walked. “The footsteps of predators never come with a warning.”

This time her smile was more genuine, and she let out one of those breathy laughs. Then she patted the table next to her, offering me the seat to her right.

“Why do you look so gloomy?” I pulled out the chair and sat delicately; it still creaked under my weight. “I didn’t mean to leave you all day, my lady. Not after what happened.”

Cirri shook her head, signing something I could almost understand just from the breezy way she moved her hands—she seemed to imply that the tragedy of Fog Hollow was not to blame for her melancholy.

Her eyes were so green in the candlelight. The forests of the Rift only wished they could be that vibrant, a deep emerald. But I couldn’t stop my eyes from drifting to the bloodrose behind her ear, its petals already darkening at the edges.

She followed my gaze, reaching up to touch it, then yanked it from her hair.

I understood ‘forgot’ in the next sentence she signed. Cirri laid it aside, nudging it away from her plate, and when she picked up her spoon again she actually took a mouthful of soup instead of just swirling it around.

“Who put it in your hair?” I asked, wondering if I might have cause for genuine jealousy. If it was Koryek, that damn handsome bastard who was so good at his job and outside her door day and night…

She mimed painting with one hand, and rolled her eyes upwards. I hid a smile. “Miro… he should know better than to take bloodroses from cuttings that don’t belong to him.”

Miro, that lazy, bitter lad… I’d owed his mother, so I’d given him a place in Ravenscry, working him as a lad in jobs throughout the keep. Visca had despaired of ever making a proper scout of him, Wyn found his attention to detail lacking, and Cook, the smith, and even the huntmaster had all sent him back within days of Miro’s apprenticeships, asking that I not darken their doorsteps with his presence again.

I couldn’t say his company was enjoyable in any way, but he had inherited some of Edda’s talent.

That talent had recently made him invaluable to me; he would paint Cirri, so that when she chose to slough the mortal coil and escape a lifetime with me for eternal peace, I would have a way to look back and remember her.

A sad excuse for the reality, but if I didn’t have him paint her now, I would regret it forever.

But now I wondered if Miro might be the one I should be wary of. He was no vampire, but then… neither was Cirri.

She signed something with brusque movements, her lips tightening with annoyance once more. In the midst of that, I recognized the words for ‘pig’ and ‘horse’s ass’, one I knew very well from the front lines with the Brotherhood.

“I can’t say I disagree,” I muttered, and Cirri smothered another laugh. My relief at her thoughts on Miro was palpable. “Is he giving you trouble? I would very much like this portrait of you, but I’ll find another artist if the horse’s ass is not to your liking.”

She shook her head and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. I took that to mean ‘he’s well enough’.

“If you say so.” I leaned onto the table and straightened when it let out an ominous groan.

Cirri smiled at me, finishing her soup. I was glad to see her eat, instead of picking away like a nervous bird. She cut into a slice of ham, popping a bite into her mouth and chewing as her eyes roved over me.