Without hesitation, he pushed it ajar and stepped inside.
The chamber was warm, lit by the glow of a fire in the hearth and the soft gleam of candles. The scent of lavender hung faintly in the air.
His eyes scanned the chamber quickly until they found her—Cleora—seated before her dressing table.
She had changed out of her formal garnts into a softer gown of pale silk, one that caught the light like water. Her long hair, usually bound in intricate pins and ornants, now cascaded in waves over her shoulders, free and untad. Her delicate hands moved with care as she unclasped the jewelry from her ears and neck, setting each piece down upon the polished wood.
He moved toward her, slowly, until he stood behind her chair.
Cleora’s eyes caught his in the mirror, and at once her lips curved into a small smile.
"Oh, you are here," she said softly, her voice both surprised and pleased.
But then her brows knit. "Wait... how are you here? Where is Raelyn?"
Jolthar’s frown deepened, his jaw tightening.
"What did you say? You want Raelyn? You don’t want here?"
Cleora turned slightly in her seat, hurriedly shaking her head. "No, no—it’s not like that. Raelyn told —"
"That idiot," Jolthar cut her off, his voice low and edged with frustration. "He told you were too busy to see ."
She sighed, her expression torn between apology and practicality.
"I am busy, Jolthar. There are papers I must go over, matters of trade and the barony. You know this."
He leaned down a fraction, his eyes burning with the weight of his restraint.
"Cleora... I’m burning inside, can’t you see?" His voice was raw, not with anger but with an aching need she could no longer ignore.
Instead of yielding, she tilted her head and gave him a teasing smile, her tone playful, as though delighting in his tornt.
"Oh? Burning, are you? Then perhaps you ought to douse yourself in snow from the courtyard."
Jolthar blinked at her words, the heat in his chest flickering into sothing else—half annoyance, half amusent.
"Snow?" he scoffed, leaning down closer to her ear, his voice rough with impatience. "Cleora, if I step out into that cold, I’ll freeze to stone. And you’ll be the one to bla when they carve into a statue for the square."
Cleora laughed softly, the sound teasing and lodic, yet she didn’t turn to face him. Instead, she fiddled with the clasp of her necklace, deliberately keeping her eyes on her reflection in the mirror. "Better a statue than a wildfire that burns down everything around him. Don’t think I don’t see it—the way you’ve been smoldering these past days. Even now, you can hardly stand still."
His hand shot out, catching hers before she could remove the last piece of jewelry. The mirror reflected his dark gaze, fierce and unyielding. "That’s because you keep feeding the fire, darling Cleora. One smile from you, one word—and I’m lost."
Her lips curved into a mischievous smile, her cheeks faintly flushed, though her tone stayed playful. "Lost, are you? Then perhaps it’s best you remain so... as long as you don’t set my chamber ablaze."
Jolthar growled low in his throat, the sound rumbling like a storm ready to break, and lowered his head until his lips nearly brushed her ear. "Then stop tempting , woman... or I swear, I’ll show you just how much of a blaze I truly am."
Jolthar understood that she was clearly playing with him, so he decided to leave.
His chest clenched with disappointnt, and he drew himself back, straightening as if to leave. His hand twitched toward the door, and he turned from her, his face a mask of cold resolve.
But then—her hand shot out, swift, fingers curling around his wrist before he could step away.
"Wait," she said, her voice softer now, stripped of playfulness.
"I was just teasing."
"Well, I’m not in the mood."
"All right, all right," she got up and turned to him.
"Why such a hurry, my dearest darling lover?" she said.
Jolthar groaned.
"How did the work go today?" she asked, moving to help him out of his heavy winter cloak.
Instead of answering imdiately, Jolthar reached into his belt and drew out the dagger he had finished that afternoon.
He presented it to her with both hands, like an offering to a queen.
"I made this for you," he said simply.
"Every leader should have a weapon they can trust, sothing made specifically for their hand."
Cleora took the dagger reverently, imdiately noting how perfectly it fit her grip. The weight was exactly right for her strength, and the blade caught the firelight like captured starshine.
"It’s beautiful," she whispered, then looked up at him with eyes that held more than gratitude.
"But you’re the most precious thing you’ve ever given ."
Jolthar leaned in to give her a kiss, but she stopped him, pressing her fingers to his lips, "Wait."
Frowning, he asked, "What?"
"You sll."
"So."
"You need to bathe."
"I don’t have the patience."
"Let take care of that."
The air was thick with the scent of sweat and tal. The day’s work in the smithy had left him weary, his muscular fra coated in a fine layer of gri.
Cleora stood before him; her eyes, as dark as the night, held a warmth that could lt the coldest of hearts.
She said, her voice a sultry whisper, "It’s ti to wash away the day’s toils."
Her hands reaching out to unbutton his tunic. The touch of her fingers on his skin sent a shiver down his spine, a promise of the night to co.
Cleora led him to the bath, the steam from the hot water already filling the air.
She undressed him slowly, her gaze moved all over his body and her gaze lingered on his abdon a little longer and then quickly drawn to the rising hard mber, a small smile playing on her lips.
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