Page 109 of The Bound Blood
Auron is already there. Of course he is. He seems the type that would be early to things, even if they are things he was volunteered for.
He stands perfectly still, hands tucked into his coat pockets, breath ghosting faintly in the cold. His white-blond hair glows in the dim light—almost silver, almost snow—and the faint breeze teases a few strands loose. He looks like he belongs to this season, sculpted out of the cold itself.
When he turns at the sound of my approach, a slow, knowing smile curves his mouth.
“You’re punctual,” he says, voice smooth and unbothered despite the chill. “I wasn’t sure if I’d have to retrieve you.”
“I don’t need retrieving,” I counter, crossing my arms to conserve warmth.
“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “you need…watching.”
I bristle, even as a little puff of cold escapes my mouth on the exhale. “If you’re trying to be charming, don’t.”
He tilts his head, amused. “You assume I try. It’s effortless.”
The temperature drops another degree, our breath mingling in white trails as we fall into step beside each other. The ground crunches beneath our boots where the frost has already hardened. The scent of winter hangs between the pines.
The path grows darker as the sun slips fully behind the horizon. Lantern crystals flicker awake one by one, their glow faint and strained.
And Auron’s voice cuts through the cold.
“You’re afraid of me.”
“I’m cautious,” I say, adjusting my scarf. “That’s different. And you haven’t given me any reason to trust you.”
Auron hums in acknowledgment. “Smart.”
The forest around us is quiet, the kind of hush that only happens when the season is turning, when creatures burrow deeper and shadows stretch longer.
Minutes pass in silence before he speaks again, and something in him has shifted—softened.
“I wasn’t always this way,” he says.
I blink. “This way… how?”
He hesitates. That alone tells me this is real.
“Cold. Controlled.” He exhales slowly. “Alone.”
It’s strange hearing that from someone who moves through the world like it belongs to him. I try to picture a younger Auron—open, bright, untouched by whatever made him this hardened.
I fail. Completely.
“I can’t imagine it,” I admit.
He gives a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s the point. No one can anymore. I’m exactly what I was crafted to be.”
We reach a lantern post. The crystal flickers weakly.
“Auron,” I say gently, “why tell me this?”
His steps slow.
“Because you look at me like you don’t already have me figured out,” he says quietly. “Everyone else sees what they expect. You don’t.”
My stomach dips.
“I’m not trying to figure you out,” I say softly. “I’m just?—”
