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Eira’s pov
The scent of roasted pheasant and rosemary stew wafted through the hall, settling between us like a silent truce. I picked at my bread, tearing the soft center with fingers that had once held blades steadier than this. Draven sat at the head of the long oak table, his silver goblet untouched, eyes not on his food,but on me.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally, voice low enough that only I could hear, though the servants still moved about clearing plates and pouring wine.

I didn’t look at him. “I’m eating.”

“You’re dissecting your meal like it holds state secrets.”

I smirked despite myself. “Old habits.”

“Old trauma,” he corrected gently.

I looked up then, met his gaze. His tone was soft, but his eyes,gods, his eyes were always storm-dark when he talked about my past like that. Like he wanted to rip it out of history and bury it six feet deep himself.

“You said something about gold earlier,” I said, changing the subject.

He tilted his head. “Hmm?”

“You were muttering about moving it?”

He chuckled. “Not muttering. Planning. I’m moving the high-yield veins north. Consolidating the haul. Thought maybe…” He trailed off.

“What?” I asked, sipping from my cup.

Draven’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Thought maybe one day I’d have reason to spend it on something more… personal.”

I arched a brow. “A new warhorse?”

He leaned forward, lips twitching. “A little girl. One with your eyes and my temper. Adorned in sapphires and velvet. A princess who doesn’t take no for an answer.”

I laughed.

But it was short. Because something twisted inside my chest then.

And when he looked at me like that, like I was already her mother… that was when everything began to spiral.

Later on, I found myself making my way to his room.
"You want a baby to make this... what? Whole?"

I didn’t scream it.

I didn’t need to.

My voice was calm, too calm. That kind of calm that comes right before something breaks. I stood in the doorway to his war room, arms crossed over my chest, staring at him like I didn’t already know the answer.

Draven froze.

The candlelight cast shadows under his eyes, sharpening every edge of his face. But he didn’t speak. Not yet.

“I heard you,” I went on, my voice steady but my heart racing. “Last night. The bracelet. The way you said it.”

He still didn’t say anything.

Typical.

“I need to know, Draven. Was that just a daydream? Or are you trying to build something out of broken pieces again?”

He turned slowly, meeting my eyes with that look,that look that made my chest twist and my stomach drop and everything I thought I knew about survival blur into ruin.

“I wasn’t trying to fix anything,” he said finally.

I folded my arms tighter. “Liar.”

Draven took a slow breath and stepped forward. “Eira, this… us… it’s not about fixing. Gods, I gave up trying to fix things a long time ago.”

“Then what is it?” I demanded. “Is it guilt? You think if you hold me enough, kiss me enough, dream about cradling some child that doesn’t exist, it’ll erase the blood? Yours. Mine. Hers.”

His jaw twitched, but his voice stayed quiet. “I want a future with you.”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t say that like it’s simple. Like it’s something you can just want and have.”

“I don’t want a baby to glue us together,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m not that stupid. I want what I’ve never had, Eira. A life. A real one. With you in it.”

I laughed bitterly. “You say that like I haven’t been here, right beside you. I am in it. I’ve given you pieces of myself I didn’t know I could give. But this? A child? That’s not a promise,it’s a risk.”

He looked at me then,not with anger, or pride, or stubbornness.

With something else entirely.

Like I was the only salvation left in the world.

“You make me want to be something better,” he whispered. “Not for redemption. Not for legacy. Just… because you exist.”

My throat closed.

And then he moved.

One step. Then two. Then his hands were on my waist, tentative, like he expected me to bolt. But I didn’t.

Because I couldn’t.

Because the moment he touched me, I remembered the way his arms felt around me in the dark, the way he stroked my hair to quiet my ghosts, the stupid bedtime stories, the way he listened even when I didn’t speak.

And when he kissed me,

Gods help me.

When he kissed me, I knew I was falling again. Hard.

My hands were in his hair, gripping like I might fall apart if I let go. His mouth was firm and warm and full of everything we never dared to say. He didn’t kiss me like a man chasing forgiveness.

He kissed me like a man starving for truth.

“Say it,” I breathed against his lips. “Say what you really want.”

“You,” he rasped, voice thick. “Only you.”

I grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him back, step by step, through the hall, through the shadows, until we stumbled into my room like two soldiers surrendering to something stronger than war.

His hands were everywhere,on my back, my hips, my face. Like he couldn’t decide which part of me to worship first.

And I let him.

I let him touch every scar, every burn, every memory. I let him kiss the past off my skin and replace it with something new.

When we made love that night, it wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t quiet either.

It was desperate and slow and achingly gentle. Like he was trying to memorize me. Like he needed me carved into his soul before the morning came.

His forehead rested against mine when it was over, breath uneven, hand tangled with mine.

Neither of us spoke for a long time.

There was nothing left to say.

And still, I held on.

I let him hold every part of me. Every ruined, stubborn, battle-worn inch. Not because I trusted the future,but because in that moment, for the first time in a long time, I believed in the present.

And I believed in him.