The morning sun beat down on Cedarcrest's cobblestone streets as Mikhail and Anora approached Thorgar's forge. Though they'd escaped the guards without further incident, tension clung to them like an unwelcome shadow. Mikhail's hand remained protectively near Anora's shoulder, his spear gripped firmly in his other hand, ready for whatever new conflict might await them.
The familiar scent of coal smoke and hot metal grew stronger as they neared their destination, but something felt different—the rhythm of hammers striking anvils was absent, replaced by raised voices that echoed through the usually industrious space. Mikhail paused at the threshold, instinctively positioning himself between Anora and whatever trouble lurked within.
What they found was Thorgar, standing his ground against a mountain of a man whose very presence seemed to fill the forge. Fredrick, the human blacksmith, loomed over the dwarf like an ancient oak over a sapling, his massive frame silhouetted against the forge's flames. His weathered face had been hardened into granite from years of working his forge and nurturing grudges, deep lines carved around eyes that smoldered with barely contained fury.
Behind him lurked Erik, his once handsome face now a grotesque landscape of purple, black, and blue. Swollen flesh distorted his features, his lips split and crusted with dried blood. One eye was swollen completely shut, but the other—Mikhail noted with a chill—burned with malevolent intent.
The moment froze as their eyes met across the forge. Recognition dawned simultaneously, hatred blazing between them like molten metal spilled from a crucible. Erik's one good eye narrowed, a calculating malice evident in its depths as his gaze shifted between Mikhail and Anora. It wasn't just anger Mikhail saw there—it was something darker, more deliberate. The look of a man planning retribution.
Anora shrank back slightly at Erik's glare, her small form half-hidden behind Mikhail as her hand moved instinctively to the knife at her belt. The heat from the forge couldn't mask the cold fear that crept along her spine at the naked hatred directed their way.
Fredrick's massive head swiveled toward them, his thick beard barely concealing the snarl that transformed his face. His meaty fingers, adorned with guild rings that caught the forge light, jabbed in their direction.
"Your apprentice!" he boomed, his voice thundering through the forge like an avalanche through a mountain pass. " Nearly beat my boy to death! And all over some filthy greenskin! I demand that you fire him and give him over to the authorities!"
The air in the forge seemed to thicken, smoke and tension intermingling until it was difficult to breathe. Mikhail tightened his grip on his spear, muscles tensing in anticipation, but Thorgar merely smirked, his arms crossed over his barrel chest.
"I'll do no such thing," the dwarf replied, his gravelly voice carrying the weight of mountain stone. "This is my forge, Fredrick. I'll run it as I please." His dark eyes glinted with defiance beneath bushy brows. "Besides, from what I hear, your boy deserved it."
Fredrick's face flushed crimson, the color spreading down his thick neck into the collar of his fine tunic. The veins at his temples bulged dangerously, throbbing with each furious heartbeat.
"Watch it, dwarf!" he spat, taking a menacing step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath his substantial weight.
"Or what, Fredrick?" Thorgar stood to his full height, which wasn't much taller than Anora, but the gesture carried unmistakable authority. The iron rings in his beard clinked softly as he tilted his chin up to meet the human's glare. "You gonna pummel me? Ban! I've fought cavern drakes twice the size of you."
The dwarf thrust one thick finger upward at Fredrick's chest, unintimidated by the human's looming presence. "You forget yourself, Fredrick. We're not in your precious human districts now. This is the Artisan's Quarter, and here, your name doesn't carry the weight you think it does."
Mikhail stepped fully into the forge, drawing all eyes to his battered face, a testament to last night's violence. The bruises that marked his features were badges of both victory and defiance, matching those that disfigured Erik's countenance.
"Master Thorgar," he said, his voice steady despite the electric tension in the air. "I apologize for being late."
"Bah!" Thorgar waved away the apology without taking his eyes off Fredrick. "You're right on time, lad. Fredrick here was just leaving." The emphasis on the last word carried clear dismissal.
Fredrick's massive hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening with suppressed violence. For a moment, it seemed he might strike the dwarf, consequences be damned. Instead, his gaze shifted to Mikhail, hatred and contempt warring in his expression.
"This isn't over," he promised, each word dripping with venom. "The council will hear about this. There are laws in Cedarcrest against harboring dangerous elements." His eyes flicked dismissively toward Anora. "And against allowing animals to carry weapons."
Mikhail stepped forward, fury blooming hot in his chest, but Thorgar's hand shot out, pressing against his apprentice's chest with surprising strength.
"Easy, lad," the dwarf cautioned, though his own dark eyes blazed with anger at Fredrick's words. "Don't give him what he wants."
Behind Fredrick, Erik's damaged face twisted into something that might have been a smile if not for the swollen, discolored flesh. His gaze remained locked on Anora, calculating and cold, his hand absently rubbing the bruised flesh of his throat where Mikhail's fingers had nearly choked the life from him. The gesture wasn't unconscious, it was deliberate, a silent promise of retribution.
"Come, Erik," Fredrick commanded, placing a protective hand on his son's shoulder. "We've wasted enough time with these... people." The pause before the last word made it clear he considered the term generous.
As they turned to leave, Erik's gaze lingered, his one good eye communicating wordlessly with Mikhail: This isn't finished. I'll be seeing you again. And her.
The message was clear as mountain spring water, whatever hatred had sparked between them at the festival had crystallized into something more dangerous. This wasn't impulsive rage anymore, but something calculated and patient, a promise of violence delayed rather than abandoned.
Fredrick paused at the threshold, his massive frame blocking the morning light. "Mark my words, dwarf. There will be consequences." With that final threat hanging in the air like forge smoke, he ushered his son outside, their heavy footsteps gradually fading into the background noise of Cedarcrest's bustling streets.
The forge fell into silence, broken only by the soft crackling of coals in the hearth and the distant sounds of the town beyond its walls. Thorgar released a long, steady breath, his shoulders dropping slightly as tension drained from his stocky frame.
"Damnit boy," Thorgar growled, turning to Mikhail with exasperation etched across his weathered features. "You just had to kick a hornets' nest, didn't ya?"
Mikhail bristled at the statement, his shoulders squaring defensively. "He started it, Thorgar. I'll not have anyone harm Anora." He felt Anora press closer into him as he spoke, her small form seeking reassurance in his nearness.
Thorgar raised his hand in a calming manner, the iron rings in his beard clinking softly with the movement. "Easy, Mikhail. I understand. Any man would protect the one he loves." His dark eyes flicked to the silver spear in Mikhail's hand, something like grudging approval flickering in their depths. "I'm just glad you didn't have that spear with ya, or you would really have killed the boy."
Mikhail smirked, about to launch into the full tale of the previous night's events, but Thorgar held up his hand, stopping the words before they could form.
"Eliath told me what happened this morning," the dwarf said, his voice gentler now but no less firm. "You were in the right, my boy, that is until you let your anger take control."
The words struck Mikhail like hammer blows, precise and painful. He lowered his head, feeling a rush of embarrassment at the memory of being atop Erik, hands around the man's throat, consumed by a rage so pure it had felt like fire in his veins. The image of Erik's purpling face, eyes bulging with terror, flashed before him with uncomfortable clarity.
Anora stepped from behind him, her orange eyes flashing with sudden defiance. "He didn't do anything wrong," she insisted, her small voice carrying surprising strength in the forge's cavernous space. "That human, Erik, wanted to kill me and would have if Mikhail hadn't done something."
Thorgar shook his head, the rings in his beard catching the forge light like captured stars. "Be that as it may, Anora, Mikhail took it too far." The dwarf's voice carried the weight of centuries of wisdom, each word deliberate and measured. "It's one thing to kill in self-defense or in defense of others, but your boyfriend here lost his temper and tried to kill a man out of rage. That kind of killing taints the soul."
Mikhail opened his mouth to argue, but Thorgar cut him off, his face flushing crimson beneath his beard. "No, boy! You'll not argue with me about this." The dwarf's voice rose, echoing off the stone walls like thunder in a mountain cavern. "I don't know how things are done in your village, but here ya can't just go about killing folk. Especially well-connected ones."
Thorgar's words hung in the air between them, heavy with truth that couldn't be denied. Mikhail stared at the dwarf for a moment, a flash of defensive anger crossing his face before ebbing away like tide-water receding from shore. He took a deep breath, the familiar scents of the forge, hot metal, coal smoke, leather filling his lungs and calming his mind.
"You're right, Master Thorgar," he admitted, the words coming easier than he'd expected. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. But you didn't see the look in his eyes when he threatened to carve Anora's eyes out." He raised his left hand, palm upward as if presenting evidence only he could see. "I've always been a level-headed person, but when I heard his threat, I snapped. I've never felt that kind of rage before. It was like I couldn't stop my hands even if I had wanted to."
He lowered his hand, and immediately Anora's smaller one slipped into it, her green fingers intertwining with his sun-darkened ones. The gentle pressure of her touch anchored him, drawing his gaze downward. She smiled up at him, her orange eyes reflecting the forge fire like captured sunrise, and something in his chest loosened, a knot of tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.
"I'm happy that you realize that," Thorgar said, his gruff voice softening slightly. The frown lines around his eyes eased, replaced by something that might have been approval. "Now, how about we get started for the day?"
His dark eyes drifted back to Mikhail's silver spear, something like professional curiosity kindling in their depths. "Never seen a spear like that before," he remarked, his thick fingers twitching slightly at his sides. "May I?"
Mikhail smiled and nodded, extending the weapon. "Of course."
Thorgar took the spear with reverent hands, twisting it carefully to catch the light from the forge. His skilled fingers traced the shaft, tested the balance, examined the leather handholds with the experienced eye of a master craftsman. "Exceptional," he muttered, turning the weapon over to study it from every angle.
The dwarf's broad fingers moved to the spear's head, where polished metal gleamed with an almost unnatural brightness. "What metal is this forged from?" he asked, looking up at Mikhail with undisguised interest.
"My father called it meteor steel," Mikhail answered, pride evident in his voice.
"Ya don't say," Thorgar's bushy eyebrows rose toward his hairline. "Who forged this weapon? Your father?"
Mikhail nodded. "Yes sir."
Thorgar stepped back from them, the spear suddenly coming alive in his hands as he moved into an open space within the forge. Without warning, the dwarf launched into a series of movements that transformed the static weapon into a blur of deadly precision.
The spear danced through the air in Thorgar's skilled grasp, a sweeping low thrust that would have hamstrung an opponent, followed by a lightning-quick recovery and upward strike that would pierce through a foe's throat. He moved with unexpected grace for one so stocky, his feet pivoting in the traditional dwarven mountain-stance that kept him rooted to the ground even as the spear whirled like a silver cyclone.
He demonstrated the dwarven shield-break maneuver, a powerful downward strike designed to splinter wooden shields, followed by the viper-strike, where the spear twisted in his hands to attack from an unexpected angle. The weapon hummed through the air, its polished surface catching firelight in hypnotic arcs as Thorgar executed the thousand-year defense, a series of circular parries that could deflect multiple attackers at once, developed in the ancient halls of Khazad-Durum when dwarves fought against overwhelming goblin hordes.
Finally, he finished with the mountain-strike, a devastating overhead thrust that combined the dwarf's low center of gravity with their natural strength, channeling the entire body's power through the spear's perfect point.
Mikhail and Anora stood transfixed, their expressions mirroring each other's awe. The deadly ballet had lasted only seconds, but revealed depths to the forge master they hadn't suspected.
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"I didn't know you could move like that," Mikhail said, genuine admiration coloring his voice.
Thorgar chuckled and handed the spear back to Mikhail, his dark eyes twinkling with satisfaction at their surprise. "There's a lot you don't know about me, my boy." He slapped his broad hands together, a sharp sound that signaled transition back to the business at hand. "Come now, we have an order of horseshoes to fill."
The three of them walked into the forge proper, leaving the confrontation with Fredrick and Erik behind like smoke dissipating into the morning air. Anora settled onto her usual bench near the wall, its worn wooden surface polished smooth by countless hours of prior occupation. From this vantage point, she could observe without being in the way, tucked safely into the periphery of the busy workspace.
Thorgar and Mikhail fell into their practiced rhythm, moving around each other with the fluid coordination of dancers who had memorized their steps. The forge roared to life as Thorgar stoked the coals, sending cascades of orange sparks spiraling toward the soot-blackened ceiling. Heat rolled through the space in palpable waves, making the air shimmer and dance before Anora's eyes.
Soon the familiar music of the forge filled the air, metal striking metal, the hiss of hot steel meeting water, the rhythmic pumping of bellows that sent the flames surging higher. Mikhail's blue tunic clung to his back as sweat began to soak through the fabric, his muscles flexing with each powerful strike of his hammer. The iron stock glowed orange-red beneath his careful attention, gradually taking the curved shape of a horseshoe under his practiced blows.
While her eyes followed their movements, Anora's mind drifted like smoke through the events of the past day. The festival's wonder and joy, so quickly shattered by violence. The blue silk dress, now torn and stained, awaiting Madam Evylin's tender restoration. The way Mikhail had transformed before her eyes, his usual gentleness giving way to something primal and terrifying as his hands had closed around Erik's throat.
Her fingers absently traced the worn wooden handle of her knife, once Rawl's weapon, now her protection. With deliberate movements, she drew it from its sheath, the blade catching fragments of forge light as she turned it over in her small green hands. The weapon was beautiful in its utility, a perfect instrument of death.
Erik's face floated before her mind's eye, not the battered, swollen mess she had seen today, but as he had appeared at the festival, his features twisted with malice as he promised to carve her eyes from her skull. A shudder ran through her slender frame, rippling from her shoulders down to the clawed tips of her bare toes. The hatred in his one good eye had transcended simple disgust or prejudice; it had been something deeper, more personal. Something that promised retribution beyond mere words.
Her orange eyes flashed with the memory of driving this very knife into Rawl's side, the sickening resistance of flesh giving way beneath the blade, the hot gush of blood over her fingers. She remembered how her stomach had clenched afterward, how she had retched into the underbrush once the immediate danger had passed. Even necessary killing had left her hollow, scraped out like an empty gourd.
The memory of the hot spring emerged like a counterbalance to the darkness, crystal clear water embracing her, carrying away the blood and, somehow, a portion of her guilt. The cleansing had been more than physical; it had washed away something inside her as well, allowing her to breathe without the weight of what she had done pressing down upon her chest.
Her gaze returned to Mikhail, watching as he plunged another glowing horseshoe into the quenching barrel. Steam billowed around him like morning mist, momentarily obscuring his features before dissipating into the forge's rafters. He moved with purpose and confidence, comfortable in this world of fire and iron. When he had killed the slave traders, there had been no hesitation, no retching afterward, just the calm efficiency of a man doing what was necessary.
The certainty crystallized in her mind, clear and sharp as the blade in her hands. She would ask Mikhail to teach her the spear, to show her how to keep enemies at a distance where their size advantage mattered less. She needed to learn how to defend herself against larger foes like Fredrick and Erik, how to turn their bulk and strength against them.
But most importantly, she needed to learn how to kill without feeling broken afterward, to acquire that calm certainty she had witnessed in Mikhail, that separation between the act and the self that allowed him to do what was needed without carrying the weight of it forever. Perhaps it was possible to nurture that coldness, to cultivate it like a protective garden around her heart.
Anora slid the knife back into its sheath with newfound resolution. She would become more than just someone to be protected, she would become a protector herself. The path forward was clear now, illuminated by the forge's dancing flames and the silent promise of steel.
After several hours of work, Thorgar quenched the last of the horseshoes and examined it with a critical eye. Satisfaction spread across his weathered features as he turned to Mikhail.
"Damn fine work, my boy," he declared, the iron rings in his beard catching the forge light as he nodded. "That's it for the day. How about you two take the afternoon to yourselves."
Mikhail smiled, fatigue and contentment mingling in his expression as he offered his thanks. He grabbed his spear from where it rested against the wall, its silver tip gleaming even in the dim light of the forge, and made to leave. Thorgar's voice stopped him before he could reach the door.
"Wait," the dwarf called, crossing the forge with surprisingly light steps for one so stocky. He pressed several silver coins into Mikhail's palm, the metal still warm from the forge master's pocket. "That's for the week. Go buy your lass something sweet." His eyes twinkled with mischief as he glanced at Anora. "Or knowing her kind, maybe some meat."
Anora perked up visibly at the mention of meat, her pointed ears twitching forward with interest. A grin spread across her face, revealing her sharp teeth as she nodded vigorously. The sight drew a rich chuckle from Thorgar.
"Keep him outta trouble for the rest of the day," he instructed her, the command softened by the warmth in his gravelly voice.
"I will," she promised, her orange eyes bright with determination.
"I hope so," Thorgar replied, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. "Don't need him beating on folks again."
Mikhail opened his mouth to protest, but Thorgar raised a calloused hand, cutting him off before he could speak.
"I understand why ya did it. I don't fault ya for it," the dwarf assured him. "That said, you're making dangerous enemies, my boy." His expression grew serious, the deep lines around his eyes deepening further, before softening into something more humorous. "Though if I have to admit it, it'd done me heart good to see that boy put into his place. Now get outta here, ya two. Go enjoy the rest of your day."
Mikhail and Anora bid Thorgar goodbye, but as Mikhail turned to step through the doorway into the street beyond, he felt Thorgar's strong grip on his arm, pulling him down to the dwarf's level. Surprise flickered across Mikhail's face.
"What's wrong?" he asked, confusion evident in his tone.
Thorgar's voice dropped to a whisper, his breath carrying the scent of forge fire and the bitter herbs dwarves chewed to keep their teeth strong. "Keep an eye on your lass. Fredrick hasn't gotten to where he is in this town through good means. You can be sure that he will try something, especially his boy Erik. You roughed him up good and embarrassed him. I can promise you he will try something when you least expect it."
The warning sent a chill down Mikhail's spine despite the forge's lingering heat. He nodded his thanks, promising to keep his eyes open, the weight of Thorgar's concerns settling across his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
Once back out on the street, a harsh cry pierced the afternoon quiet. Mikhail looked up to see a crow perched atop a building across from Thorgar's forge, its obsidian eyes seemingly fixed on him and Anora. There was something oddly deliberate about its posture, as if it were watching them with more than animal intelligence. After a moment, Mikhail shrugged off the strange sensation, chalking it up to the day's tensions.
The streets of Cedarcrest appeared strangely deserted in the mid-afternoon lull, the usual bustle subsided as workers took refuge from the day's heat. Shadows stretched longer now, cooling the cobblestones that had baked in the morning sun. As they walked back toward the Inn, Mikhail glanced down at Anora, noting the thoughtful expression that had settled on her delicate features.
"So, what would you like to do for the rest of the day?" he asked, his voice gentle with affection.
Anora remained silent for a moment, clearly considering something of importance. Her small green fingers twisted together in a gesture he had come to recognize as nervous contemplation. Mikhail stopped, turning to face her fully.
"It's okay," he encouraged. "I want to know."
Her orange eyes met his, uncertainty and hope mingling in their depths. "Can we go for a ride again?" she asked, her voice carrying a note of wistfulness.
A smile spread across Mikhail's face, warmth blooming in his chest at her request. "Sure," he replied, a slight blush coloring his cheeks as memories of their last ride and what had followed flooded back. "Going for a ride on Bakule would be nice after the last twenty-four hours."
Anora jumped happily, her small form animated with sudden joy, copper curls bouncing with the movement. Then she stilled, her expression growing more serious as she pointed at his spear.
"Also. Can you teach me how to use that?"
Mikhail looked at his spear, then back at her, surprise evident in his features. "Sure. But it might be too long for you to wield properly." His brow furrowed slightly in curiosity. "Why do you want to know how to use it?"
Anora fell quiet again, her gaze dropping to the cobblestones beneath their feet. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a vulnerability that made his heart ache. "To help keep people further away from you."
The simple honesty of her answer caught him off guard. Mikhail stared at her for a long moment, processing her words and the depth of caring behind them. Not to protect herself, but him, her first thought was for his safety. Something warm and profound unfurled in his chest, spreading outward like ripples in still water.
"Okay," he said, a smile softening his features. "I'll teach you how to use it. But it's going to take a while to learn."
Anora's face lit up with a smile that rivaled the afternoon sun. She threw her arms around him in a tight hug before they resumed their journey toward the Inn, her step noticeably lighter than before.
On the way back they stopped at a small wooden stall at the intersection of two cobblestone streets, smoke rising in lazy spirals from a charcoal grill where chunks of seasoned meat sizzled on iron spits. The aroma was intoxicating, rich with herbs and salt, promising satisfaction to even the most demanding appetite.
Anora's nostrils flared, her pointed ears perking forward as she unconsciously slowed her pace. Mikhail noticed her reaction and smiled, feeling the weight of Thorgar's silver coins in his pocket.
"Hungry?" he asked, already knowing the answer from the way her orange eyes tracked a skewer as the vendor turned it over the glowing coals.
Anora nodded eagerly, her gaze never leaving the cooking meat. "It smells amazing," she breathed.
The vendor, a stocky man with impressive forearms and a face creased by years of outdoor work, glanced up as they approached. A flicker of surprise crossed his features at the sight of Anora, but to his credit, his professional smile barely faltered.
"What'll it be?" he asked, gesturing to his wares with a long-handled fork. "Got venison, wild boar, and rabbit today. Fresh from the hunters this morning."
"Two of each," Mikhail decided, pulling silver coins from his pocket. The metal gleamed in the afternoon sun as he placed them in the vendor's callused palm.
The man's eyebrows rose slightly at the generous order, but he set to work at once, selecting the best pieces from the grill. The meat hissed and sputtered as he turned each skewer one final time before sliding them onto a square of oiled parchment.
"Here you are," he said, handing the fragrant bundle to Mikhail. "Careful now, they're hot."
Mikhail passed the first skewer, venison, its edges charred to perfection, to Anora. Her small green fingers accepted it with almost reverent care, her sharp teeth gleaming as she took her first bite. The sound of pure pleasure that escaped her made Mikhail laugh, the day's tensions momentarily forgotten as they stood in the afternoon light, savoring this simple joy together.
The vendor watched them with curious eyes as they sampled each type of meat, his initial wariness giving way to something like professional satisfaction at their obvious enjoyment. By the time they had finished half their feast, deciding to save the rest for later, his expression had softened into genuine warmth.
"Come back anytime," he called as they continued their journey toward the Inn, the remaining skewers wrapped carefully for later enjoyment. "Good meat for good folk."
The Axe and Fiddle stood quiet and subdued in the afternoon lull. The common room lay mostly empty, the loggers and lumberjacks not yet finished with their day's labor. Empty save for a familiar-looking old woman sitting alone in the back corner, her weathered hands wrapped around a mug of something steaming.
As Mikhail and Anora crossed the room toward the stairs, a strange sense of recognition washed over him. He couldn't place where he knew her from, yet something about her presence felt significant, like a half-remembered dream. Just before ascending the stairs, he glanced back, meeting the woman's ancient gaze.
She offered a curt smile followed by a knowing nod, as if confirming something only the two of them understood. Mikhail returned the gesture automatically before following Anora up the worn wooden steps to their room, the encounter leaving him with an unexplainable sense of reassurance.
Once in their room, Anora immediately stepped over to the shelf where the riding leggings from Madam Evylin lay carefully folded. The exquisite fabric gleamed in the afternoon light filtering through their small window as she picked them up with reverent hands. She began to pull them on, mimicking what she had seen Mikhail do with his trousers, her orange dress catching in the waistband as she struggled to avoid snagging the delicate material with her clawed toes.
Meanwhile, Mikhail moved to the washbasin near the bed, splashing cool water on his face to remove the forge's soot and grime. The simple act felt luxurious after hours of heat and exertion. As he dried his face with a rough cloth, a small scream of surprise followed by a loud thump broke the room's tranquility.
Tossing the cloth aside, he turned to find Anora sprawled on the floor, legs tangled in the half-donned leggings, her face a perfect mixture of frustration and embarrassment. Laughter bubbled up from his chest before he could stop it.
"Boy, I can tell that you've never worn trousers before," he teased, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
Anora shot him an irritated look, her pointed ears flattening slightly in annoyance. The expression only made his smile widen, though he quickly controlled himself.
"Okay, hang on and I'll help you," he offered, crossing to where she sat in an undignified heap.
He helped her to her feet, allowing her to brace herself against him as he coached her through the proper way to don the leggings. His hands were gentle as he guided the fabric over her legs, his touch respectful despite their intimacy. Once she had pulled them up over her rump, he stepped back to examine the result.
"Show me by turning around," he instructed.
Anora stared at him, confusion evident in her orange eyes. Mikhail laughed again, which earned him another irritated look and a light punch to his arm. Still chuckling, he apologized and demonstrated with an exaggerated spin.
"My sister would do this whenever she got a new dress," he explained, completing his twirl with a flourish that drew a delighted giggle from Anora.
Encouraged, she mirrored his movement, spinning slowly to display how the leggings fit her form. The elven-crafted fabric hugged her curves perfectly, accentuating the subtle changes in her figure that recent month or more of proper nutrition had brought about. No longer was she the half-starved creature he had rescued from the mountain pass; she had blossomed into a vision of beauty that took his breath away.
When she completed her turn, Mikhail stepped close, leaning down to place a gentle kiss on her lips. "You are beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.
A deep green blush spread across her cheeks, her freckles seeming to darken against the verdant backdrop. She ducked her head slightly, still unused to such open admiration despite their growing intimacy.
"Come on," Mikhail said, taking her hand in his. "Let's go for a ride."
Together they left the room, but Mikhail paused mid-step, a sudden realization striking him. "Wait," he muttered, turning back to stomp into their chamber. He emerged moments later with his silver spear in hand, its presence a testament to Thorgar's warning and his own growing caution.
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