The fire is down to a thin mouth of coals when Nikolai’s breathing changes.

  Not louder. Not faster.

  Just a subtle change in his breathing that was enough to show that he was aware of something.

  Maya doesn’t turn right away. She lets her eyes keep the treeline while her senses reach outward — wind, resin, saltless dark. The sound of feet scuffing pine needles somewhere behind the cedars. Not a stumble. A choice.

  Nikolai’s hand shifts beneath the blanket, palm hovering near steel.

  Maya lifts two fingers, low. Wait.

  A shape steps into the edge of the firelight and stops as soon as it touches the glow, like the light itself is a line he won’t cross without permission.

  Coal-dark hair, loose at the nape. Broad shoulders under a sleeveless wrap. The same light brown eyes she’d felt on her mouth earlier, now level and steady, watching her hands first — empty — then her face.

  He holds a bundle out in both palms to show it isn’t a weapon.

  A pelt. Thin, clean. Fox, maybe. The fur catches the firelight in dull copper. Under it, wrapped in cloth, the sharp sweet smell of dried fruit and something smoky.

  He keeps his voice low, carrying it to her without forcing it into her space.

  “Our leader told us that you would be camping here,” he says. Not accusing. Not too friendly. Just factual. “He said you wouldn’t come back down tonight.”

  Maya continue to stare at the man, while Nikolai held his silence.

  He didn’t speak.

  He didn’t need to.

  The young warrior’s gaze flicks once, acknowledging the Batin without challenging him, then returns to Maya. He doesn’t step closer.

  “Tea’s strong tonight,” he adds, like he’s offering any extra reason to be standing in front of them. “And the wind’s colder than it looks.”

  Maya’s rules tighten behind her sternum.

  Don’t flare. Don’t beg. Don’t trust.

  — at least in this instance, for now.

  She keeps her posture still. Lets him see she isn’t afraid, but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of appearing relaxed either.

  “What do you want?” she asks.

  The question is crisp, not hostile.

  His mouth twitches — almost a smile, but he doesn’t let it bloom. He glances down at the pelt again, as if reminding everyone why he came.

  “Leader said you paid fair, and we had extra” he says. “And you didn’t make trouble.”

  Maya doesn’t respond. She can’t afford to accept praise like it’s a hook.

  He continues anyway, the way people do when they’ve decided the gesture matters.

  “This is for the night,” he says. “Pelt. Food.” He lifts the cloth corner just enough for her to smell dried fig and salted meat. “So you don’t have to come down again before dawn.”

  A gift.

  Maybe a test.

  Nikolai shifts a fraction — silent refusal to allow any closeness without her say.

  Maya studies the young warrior’s hands. No tremor. No greed in the fingertips. He isn’t reaching for her.

  He’s placing something at the edge of her reach and letting her decide whether to take it.

  That — is not how most men approach what they want.

  Her body notices before her mind approves. A small heat, low and sharp, like the first mouthful of spiced tea after cold water behind her breasts.

  Annoying.

  She doesn’t move for a beat, just to see if he’ll fill the silence with pressure.

  And he doesn’t.

  He waits. Patient as a rider waiting for a horse to accept food from a new owner.

  Maya reaches out and takes the bundle — not quickly, not cautiously. A clean motion.

  The pelt is warmer than she expects. Still holding some of the day. She lays it beside her without exposing her ribs or turning her back.

  “Thank your leader,” she says.

  “I will.”

  He should have left and stopped talking by then.

  But he doesn’t.

  Not because he’s pushing. But because he’s deciding whether there’s a safe way to speak one more sentence.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  His eyes lift again. Light brown, catching the firelight. They land on her face, then flick down to the place her under-shirt hides the ribbon, as if he can feel it there the way she does.

  Maya’s fingers tighten on her own knee.

  He notices.

  And he doesn’t comment on it.

  Instead he asks, soft, and careful.

  “You always keep first watch?”

  “No, I just have trouble sleeping sometimes. I’m a very light sleeper,” Maya replies.

  “Good.” He pauses, then adds, “Bad for dreams.”

  The words are too accurate.

  “I hope we get to see you stay for a few more nights before you leave.”

  Nights. That particular word caught Maya’s attention more than it should have.

  Unless she was just already overthinking.

  Maya’s gaze sharpens.

  For the first time, something in her expression shifts from guarded neutrality to a clean edge of interest she doesn’t fully authorize.

  Yet.

  His own breath changes, just slightly — like he felt it too.

  Sparks. Brief.

  Dangerous.

  Nikolai’s presence behind her is a silent warning — remember what you are.

  Master.

  Maya keeps her voice even.

  “What’s your name?” she asks before she can decide she shouldn’t.

  The young warrior hesitates like the question costs him something personal, then answers anyway.

  “Sael.”

  The name sits in the air between them.

  Short. Hard. Easy to call.

  Easy to remember.

  “And yours?”

  Maya should lie.

  She should.

  Names are hooks.

  But she’s tired of being nothing but a set of rules.

  “Maya,” she says, and hates the relief that follows the sound — small, private, human.

  Sael nods once, as if committing it to memory without making a show of it. He doesn’t ask where she’s from. Doesn’t ask why she’s here. Doesn’t ask why the big silent man calls her Master.

  He looks at the treeline instead, listening.

  A horse nickers down in the ravine. A wheel creaks as someone shifts a cart. Camp life turning over.

  Sael steps back, already withdrawing.

  “Rest,” he says. “Our tribe doesn’t come across other fair trades often, so we hope that you accept and understand our generosity.”

  “What is your tribe?” Maya asks, maybe slightly more curious than she would like to be.

  Sael pauses before he answers — careful of saying anything that may break the small peace that hangs around the plains at the moment.

  “My tribe do not hold any names or titles. We are just one of the nomad tribes of West Halia.”

  He smiles.

  Then, almost as an afterthought, he adds,

  “If you hear bells—” and stops himself.

  His jaw tightens, like he realized he’d strayed forwards further than he should have at something that he didn’t fully understand. His fingers tighten once on his own wrist.

  Maya’s throat goes dry anyway. And Nikolai’s shoulders shift a slight fraction from where they were.

  “There won’t be bells,” she says.

  Sael’s eyes return to her face — measuring again, but softer now. Not hungry.

  Just…aware.

  He inclines his head to Nikolai, a warrior’s acknowledgment of another blade.

  Then he turns and melts back into the cedars, footsteps careful enough that the forest barely admits he existed.

  Silence settles in his wake, interrupted only by the wind skating over needle and branch.

  Maya stares at the spot he disappeared into for a moment too long. Her chest feels tight with something that she recognises, but does not want to think about for any longer.

  She drags the pelt closer and lays it over Nikolai’s blanket without touching him — practical, nothing else.

  Nikolai’s voice comes low behind her.

  “Was that necessary?”

  Maya keeps her eyes on the dark.

  “No.”

  “Then why allow it?”

  Because he didn’t push.

  Because he waited.

  Because for a heartbeat, the heat she felt wasn’t crimson — and for once — she felt normal.

  Maya doesn’t say any of that.

  She only answers,

  “Because I did.”

  Nikolai is quiet, accepting that as the only explanation he’ll get.

  Maya lays back on her bedroll, an arm on her forehead as she stares at the sky where the stars glittered in random specks and the leaves of the cedar tree interrupted half the view.

  “Go get some rest,” she says. “It’s been a long day, and we won’t need a watch. Nomads shouldn’t interfere. But stay alert.”

  Nikolai could argue about staying up to keep watch.

  But he only murmurs again,

  “As you command, Master,” softly enough that it was only between them two, and not to be heard by the trees right by them.

  Master.

  A title she keeps buried most days because it paints a target on her forehead.

  Tonight it feels like weight and warmth at the same time.

  The wind continues to skim over the cedar crowns and pulls more of the smell of resin into her nose. The basin below them continue to brim with life and movement, although just not as lively. Signalling to Maya and her Batin that it was getting late.

  Dawn, she repeats to herself.

  Stay. Rest.

  And then the river, but at a distance.

  Then south. In silence.

  Don’t be seen.

  No bells.

  Never again under a bell.

  The ribbon under her tunic sits like a brand. Warm where her skin is warm..

  She presses her palm there once, then lets it drop to the hilt at her thigh.

  Present.

  Nikolai’s breathing returns to being slow and even behind her.

  Trust.

  Or duty.

  Or both.

  The night thickens.

  The wind skates.

  And Maya watches it do both with eyes that struggle to stay open.