Thalor didn't flinch at the threat of death. He didn't even look at Fenric's flexed muscles or the way Noah's shadow loomed large over the dry earth.
Instead, he kept his gaze locked on mine, searching for the unspoken question in my eyes. He saw the flicker of uncertainty there, the ghost of my past where trust was a currency I could never afford.
Slowly, with a grace that felt like a sinking ship finding the sandy floor, he lowered himself to his knees.
The movement was deliberate. He didn't just kneel; he surrendered. He reached out and took my right foot—the one carrying the fresh, pulsing mark of the indigo tail—and cradled it in his palms. The contrast was stark: my dusty foot against his shimmering, pearl-slick skin.
"I told him to stop doing that," I whispered, my voice barely audible. But I didn't pull away. This wasn't the 'icky' tradition from the ridge; this was a foundation being poured in blood and soul.
