Daivad had built his house on one of the tallest trees he could find, higher in the branches than was probably reasonable. It would have been nearly impossible without the help of Ben’s nature magic—instead of cutting wood, they’d mostly only had to reshape the branches that were already there. 

He kicked off his boots on the front landing, and as soon as he passed through the curtain of vines that covered his entryway, he felt something inside him settle. Daivad had never been one for material possessions, so his house was bare except for the essentials—even if he hadn’t had the eyes of a monster that let him see what darkness tried to hide, he would have a hard time finding something to trip over here. He crossed to his bedroom, which had the most extravagant thing in his house, a wooden bedframe to keep his simple mattress off the floor. Daivad sat at the foot of the bed, propped his elbows on his knees, rubbed his rough hands over his face, and tried to think. 

There were no doors in the house and no window coverings, only curtains of vines or fabric, so a breeze passed easily through the room. He took a deep breath, tasting all of the scents of the forest on the wind. This house, hidden from all Lushale and even from the rest of the camp, yet still completely open to the world, was one of only two places Daivad had ever felt truly at peace. He wondered, not for the first time, if this was what it was to be home. Sometimes he thought so. But other times, when he’d been sitting in this peace for too long, he thought something was missing.

That was usually when he got the itch. And next thing he knew, he would be standing before a smoldering work camp with a few dozen half-starved, newly-freed workers staring at him, waiting for direction. Then he’d return home with dozens of new mouths to feed, cursing himself and swearing he’d never do it again. And the cycle began anew.

You feed me the story that you do this out of boredom, but it tastes like sweet shit, Daivad.

Mother damn her. She didn’t know anything about him. He didn’t give a fuck what Aran was up to, or what happened to Lushale. All he wanted was to be left alone. 

Then why do you keep going out and reminding the queen you exist? The thought came in her voice, accompanied by a mental image of those eyes blinking up at him. 

He shoved the thought away, frustrated with himself for allowing her to worm her way into his home, into his head. He fell back onto his bed, suddenly exhausted.

But she gave him no peace. You know, she said, you’re going to have to decide what to do with me eventually.

“I can do that in the morning,” he mumbled.

To his surprise, she settled, went quiet, but stayed hidden in the shadows of his room. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, the creak of one of the bridges leading to his house jerked him back to consciousness. A growl boiled out of him—everyone knew better than to approach his house. Almost everyone.

The next breeze carried Lenna’s scent into the room. Annoyed, he met her on the front landing, lifting aside the vines and leaning against the entryway. He said nothing, just stared at her. She’d shed the cloak she’d worn into Urden, and she’d changed from the form-fitting pants and tight top she usually wore, trading them for what looked to be little more than a thin nightgown. Her long, red hair spilled over her shoulders. She looked so much softer, more feminine than usual.

If Daivad wasn’t so annoyed, he might have appreciated it. He just stared at her, waiting for an explanation.

“Forgive me, sir.” She bowed her head, demure. He’d never seen her act like this. “I noticed the weight that girl put on your shoulders tonight. I thought perhaps I could,” she glanced up at him without lifting her face, “help ease your tension.”

Her scent was heady and thick with excitement, pumped out by a racing heartbeat. 

“By waking me?” 

“I can give greater comfort than sleep.”

Mistaking his silence for encouragement, Lenna dropped one shoulder, letting her gown slip down past it so the only thing hiding her breast was the waterfall of red hair. She stepped toward him and stretched the fingers of one hand toward his chest.

“Stop.”

She obeyed, but didn’t retract her hand, fingers inches from his skin. 

“I’ve told you not to come up here,” he said, and it was true. But the number of times he’d sent her away was nearly matched by the number of times he hadn't. And the more he let her in, the more frequent her visits became. He only had himself to blame for that. 

“Let me take care of you,” she said. “You’ll sleep far better.”

She closed those last few inches, fingertips brushing his chest. He smacked her hand away, harder than he’d intended, any guilt he’d felt for using her in the past instantly replaced by irritation at her dismissal of his boundary. 

“Leave,” he growled and retreated into his house, leaving only a swinging sheet of vines behind him. 

Lenna watched the vines until they stilled, until she heard the creak of Daivad’s bed as he fell back into it, her gown still hanging off one shoulder. Finally, she turned and glanced down toward the edge of camp, where she knew that little blonde shit sat in the pen, probably wearing a smug smile, thinking she had Daivad wrapped tightly around her finger. 

Lenna jerked her gown back over her shoulder and strode quickly down the twisting branch that had been formed into a bridge. 

If the bitch thought Lenna was going to let that happen, she was dead wrong.