The sun hung low over snow-covered fields, painting the thatched roofs and rolling hills in hues of amber.
Right now, Jaenor and Valara were in her home. She brought him directly to her house, under the gaze of everyone in the village. She wasn’t the type of woman who was afraid of rumours.
Jaenor took his seat in the hall. The house was big pared to his. It had a long hall, supported by thick wooden beams, with rooms on either side of the hall.
But Jaenor’s focus soon found Valara and her tall figure.
The flickering light of a lantern cast her features in sharp relief—high cheekbones, dark hair streaked with silver, and eyes that held a wisdom both gentle and unyielding.
Valara was a figure of authority, a chieftess in all but name, her counsel sought by the Women’s Circle and the Village Council alike.
Tonight, she wore a simple wool dress, its deep green clinging to her form, and a shawl embroidered with wildflowers draped over her shoulders.
Valara, while busy with her work at the table, asked, "So, what were you doing while my daughter seemed to be occupied with another man?"
"I was watching her," Jaenor said, "thinking."
"Thinking’s dangerous for a man like you," Valara replied, stepping closer. Her gaze was piercing, as if she could see the storm brewing in his soul.
"You look like you could use a drink and a fire to warm those bones."
"Alright."
Valara’s presence was steady and grounding, and the chill of the night urged him to be with her.
The house smelled of herbs and fresh bread, the air warm from a crackling hearth.
Valara moved, her skirts swishing as she retrieved a pigskin from a shelf. She uncorked it, took a long swallow, and sighed, her lips curving into a satisfied smile.
"Strong stuff," she said, her voice a low purr.
She held the pigskin out to Jaenor, her eyes glinting with something playful, daring. "Care to try, little Jaenor?"
Jaenor took the pigskin, their fingers brushing for a moment.
The contact sent a jolt through him, unexpected and electric. The mature charm of Valara was working on Jaenor, and he was feeling the tightness in his pants. She was like a vixen in velvet, full of fire.
He raised the skin to his lips, the liquor burning down his throat—spiced, potent, with a kick like a mule.
Arghh!
He coughed, then, emboldened by her raised eyebrow, took two more gulps. The warmth spread through his chest, loosening the knots of his thoughts.
Valara laughed, a rich, unguarded sound. "Light, boy, you’ve got a stomach for it! Most would be on their knees after that."
"Maybe I’m not most," Jaenor said, his voice steadier than he felt. The liquor buzzed in his veins, and Valara’s laughter, her nearness, stirred something he hadn’t felt in months.
Valara’s expression softened, but her eyes held a spark of something else—curiosity, perhaps, or desire. She stepped closer, her shawl slipping slightly to reveal the curve of her shoulder.
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