Page 40 of Nansar
She reached for a small clay pot, and I watched, transfixed, as she dipped slender fingers into the herbal-smelling salve. When she turned back to me, there was something in her expression—a softness, a tenderness—that made my breath catch.
The moment her fingers touched my temple again, spreading the cool ointment across my skin, fire lanced through me. Not pain—something far more dangerous. It wasn't just the gentleness of her touch, though that alone was foreign enough to undo me. It was the care behind it, the concern shining in her eyes as she focused on tending to me with such devotion, as if I were something precious. Something worth saving.
My horns itched so badly I actually gave thought to chopping them off. Anything to distract from the way my heart hammered against my ribs, from the overwhelming urge to pull her closer and—
"There," she said softly, pulling back, and I had to bite down on a sound of protest. Her cheeks were flushed, and I wondered—hoped—she'd felt it too. That spark of somethingbetween us, that electric current that seemed to arc and crackle whenever we touched, growing stronger each time.
I cleared my throat, needing the distraction before I did something foolish. Chloe smiled, and the sight of it—shy and sweet and just for me—made my chest tighten. Her cheeks flushed a deeper pink. "The Welati brought food earlier. You should eat."
Fresh bread sat on a wooden platter, still warm with faint steam rising from the golden crust, alongside a clay pitcher of milk. Simple fare, but more than I'd expected from supposed savages. Chloe fetched the tray and brought it to the sleeping platform, settling beside me with an ease that felt both natural and terrifying. She broke off a piece of bread and handed it to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange—such an innocent touch, yet it sent heat spiraling through me all the same.
We ate in silence for a moment, the bread soft and surprisingly good. The milk was cool and fresh, nothing like the stale rations we'd survived on the past couple of days.
"This is good," Chloe said, surprise evident in her voice. "Really good."
I nodded, taking another bite, though I found myself watching her more than focusing on the food—the delicate way she ate, the small sound of pleasure she made at the taste, the way her lips curved in contentment. Everything about this situation contradicted what I thought I knew. The Welati weren't monsters. They were people who baked bread and tended wounds and offered shelter.
What else had I been wrong about?
The door swung open before we'd swallowed our last bites, and a young Welati female stepped inside. Colorful threads wove through her dark braids like captured sunlight, and though she couldn't have seen more than twenty cycles,something ancient flickered behind her eyes—a wariness that spoke of hard lessons learned young.
"The elder wishes to see you." Not a request. Her voice carried the weight of inevitability. "Come."
The look Chloe and I shared needed no words—equal parts trepidation and resignation. When I stood, my body staged an immediate rebellion. The room performed a sickening tilt, and only my palm slapping against the wall kept me upright. Pain lanced through my head with each breath, but I locked my jaw and forced air through my teeth until the world steadied.
Our guide led us into the heart of the village, and with each step, my preconceptions of the Welati dissipated.
This was no savage encampment. Sturdy buildings embraced a central fire pit in a protective circle, their timber walls fitted with the precision of master craftsmen, thatched roofs thick enough to laugh at winter storms. Smoke curled from stone chimneys in lazy spirals. Between the homes, children shrieked with laughter as they played some chasing game, their joy so pure and uncomplicated it made my chest ache. Gardens exploded with life beside nearly every dwelling—vegetables climbing trellises, herbs spilling over borders in fragrant abundance. This wasn't temporary. This was a home, built with care and meant to last generations.
Eyes tracked our passage. Welati paused mid-task—a woman with her hands deep in bread dough, a man mending a fishing net, an elder whittling by his doorstep—all watching with expressions that ranged from naked curiosity to barely concealed suspicion. I lifted my chin and let my hand find the small of Chloe's back. The touch was protective, possessive, and the rightness of it sang through my bones.
The longhouse at the village's far edge dominated everything around it. Weathered timber walls spoke of decades weathering storms, and smoke drifted from multiple roof ventslike the building itself was breathing. But it was the doorframe that stopped me cold.
Intricate carvings covered every inch—animals mid-leap, constellations mapped with stunning accuracy, geometric patterns that seemed to shift and flow in the flickering light. The artistry was breathtaking, each line deliberate, each symbol placed with purpose. This was the work of generations, of a people who valued beauty and meaning, who had stories worth preserving in wood and time. How had we ever called them savages?
Our guide pushed open the heavy door, and we stepped inside.
Lamplight and firelight competed for dominance in the dim interior, casting dancing shadows that made the carved walls seem alive. A fire pit ran the length of the space, its flames crackling and sending smoke spiraling toward vents in the high ceiling. The air was thick with burning pine and something sweeter—flowers, perhaps, or ceremonial herbs. Benches worn smooth by countless bodies lined the walls, and overhead, massive beams bore more of those mysterious symbols.
But my attention was drawn immediately to the far end of the building.
A long table stretched across the far end like a judgment seat, its dark surface polished by age and use. Around it sat twelve Welati elders, their faces maps of lived experience, hair—braided with beads and feathers—streaked with silver and white like winter frost. They wore ceremonial robes in earth tones that seemed to absorb the firelight: deep browns like rich soil, greens like forest shadows, reds like autumn leaves. Each sat with the quiet dignity of those who had earned their place through wisdom rather than force.
This was power. Real power. Not the kind that came from swords and threats, but from years and knowledge and the weight of tradition.
At the center sat an elderly female whose presence commanded the room like gravity itself. Her dark hair, woven with silver and strands of pulsing color that seemed to breathe with their own light, cascaded loose around her shoulders in defiance of the intricate braids worn by the others. Her face was a tapestry of wrinkles—each line a story, each crease a battle won—that somehow amplified her power rather than diminishing it. When her eyes—sharp and dark as obsidian shards—locked onto mine, my skin prickled with the uncomfortable sensation of being truly seen, stripped bare of pretense.
The elder gestured to a space directly before the table with a movement so economical it bordered on regal. We moved forward, and I became acutely aware of Chloe's presence beside me—her shoulder nearly brushing mine, her chin lifted in that stubborn way that made my chest tighten with something dangerously close to pride.
"I hope you ate and rested well," the elder said. Her voice was a paradox—surprisingly strong for someone of her apparent age, yet smooth as river stones, carrying through the chamber with the kind of authority that didn't need volume to command attention.
"We did. Thank you for your hospitality," I replied, carefully measuring my tone to convey respect without subservience.
Her gaze swept over me, lingering on my temple where the wound still throbbed. "And your injury? How does it fare?"
"It's fine," I said too quickly, straightening my posture in an instinctive attempt to project strength. The last thing I needed was to appear weak before this council.
The elder's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a predator noting the lie of wounded prey, but she didn't press. Instead, she leaned back in her chair with deliberate slowness, fingers steepling before her in a gesture that somehow felt like a trap closing. "You are not like the others who have invaded our territory. They all carried a certain... stench about them. Death and deception." She paused, letting the words settle like stones in still water. "You carry something different. I would know your story. The truth of it."
