The northern wind snapped around the campfire, spiraling ash into the starlight. A half-moon glowed pale behind ragged clouds.
Firelight danced across Yara's face, casting restless shadows that mirrored her thoughts. The cold had settled deep in her bones. She stared into the flames, hands cupped around her mug, mind churning.
Finally, she broke the silence. "So… what exactly is happening back there?"
Rolen, lounging against a fallen log, feigned sleep, lips twitching at the insinuation. Then he chuckled, low and smooth. "I knew you'd be curious."
She flinched but stayed silent, waiting.
He sat up, reached for his wine skin, swirled it once before answering: "Your fa—the chief—he wasn't surprised. He wasn't surprised you'd run off and mated with... whatever magical thing suited you. Said you were always destined to disgrace them."
