The winds of Eiradell do not howl. They whisper.
They whispered his arrival like a secret into my ears.
I stood alone outside the shrine, white robes damp from snowmelt, listening. The spirits stir when something unholy approaches—and they stirred now.
Heavy boots cracked the frozen path. A grunt. A ragged breath. Then—collapse.
I ran toward the sound.
A man lay face-down on the shrine's steps, blood dripping in dark beads onto sacred stone. Not snow. Blood. So much it made my knees buckle.
"Who are you?" I asked.
He looked up. Even blind, I could feel the heat of his gaze on my skin.
"Dude," he rasped.
He passed out.
And I carried him inside.
He awoke with a blade to his throat. My blade.
He didn't flinch. Just smiled.
"You kiss everyone who saves your life with steel?"
"I kiss no one," I said.
"Shame."
I almost laughed. Almost.
His wounds were deep—slashes from steel, burns across his ribs, something black and coiled near his shoulder that didn't come from man or beast. I peeled his shirt away and felt his body twitch under my fingers.
"You're cursed," I said.
He grabbed my wrist.
"No," he whispered. "Just unlucky."
But something about his touch burned. Not in pain.
In promise.
That night, he slept on the shrine's altar bed. I watched him.
He groaned. Turned. Whispered a woman's name.
I hated that name.
I hated how he said it.
I touched his chest and felt the crest under his skin. Not ink. Not scar. Magic. Old. Forbidden.
"Umbros," I whispered. The name of a dead house. A cursed bloodline.
He sat up instantly, eyes wild. Grabbed my wrist. Pulled me close.
"Don't say that again," he warned, voice low.
Our mouths were inches apart.
And I made the first move.
His kiss was like his blade—sharp, sudden, overwhelming.
My robes fell first, fluttering to the floor like surrender. His clothes followed in torn fabric and fast hands.
He pressed me against the sacred columns, lips roaming down my neck, over the slope of my breast, then lower—worshipping every inch with tongue and teeth.
I cried out his name—not the false one, but the name I felt in his spirit.
He answered with motion.
He took me like a man starved, hands under my thighs, thrusts deep and relentless. The shrine moaned with us.
I rode him in the snowlight. He held me like he didn't believe I was real.
Our bodies moved like a ritual. His voice broke as he came.
So did mine.
We collapsed together, sweat on holy stone, steam rising around us.
At dawn, he was gone.
No words. No apology.
Only a silver coin left in my palm—carved with three notches, the mark of the Umbros exiles.
And a whisper left in the wind:
"You were the safest danger I've ever known."
I smiled.
Because I didn't want him to stay.
But gods help me, I wanted him to come back.