To be loved was, he had once heard, to be known. Or so the words went—slurred and half-lamented from the lips of a bard who had long since lost his muse. There had been a time when Thallan believed it. He had felt it, however briefly. But time, as it often does, reshaped truths.

To be known was not always a blessing. The wrong eyes could turn familiarity into a weapon.

Thallan was seventeen when he first met her. His limbs ached as he dismounted, muscles sore from hours of drilling beneath the sun. One hand slid over the worn leather of the saddle; the other brushed gently along the steed’s muzzle, a quiet gesture of thanks. He had ridden since the third bell and trained until the ninth. And though his body protested, his mind remained sharp—ever hungry, ever learning.

He was quick to grasp the rhythm of combat. Quicker still when steel was in his hand. It was in his blood, or what remained of it. The Quinrel line was not purely elven—no line was, not anymore—but theirs ran closer to the ancient ones than most.

That closeness was both gift and curse.

There lingered a deep-rooted prejudice toward elves and those who resembled them, a bitter remnant of a history humans had half-forgotten and wholly rewritten. Perhaps that was why Sir Riordan had made his training all the more punishing—an unspoken effort to break what could not be erased.

Humans had once shared elven blood. But time had stripped away the traces, and what remained in Thallan set him apart: the pointed ears, predatory instincts, the affinity for fire that simmered just beneath the skin. These were not traits easily forgiven. And yet they bartered for boys like him—barely thirteen and already sworn to sword and oath, purchased like fine-bred horses for the promise of servitude.

Land was the price. A title, the reward.

The Quinrel name had never shied from the bargain. Their lands, Eilador, lay northeast of Tirnovia’s capital, nestled between the mountain spines. With it came a title: Baron. The highest honor a near-elven line could be granted. Never more. Often less.

So it was only natural—expected, even—that Thallan, like his father and his father before him, arrived at Caerwyn at thirteen. The capital of Tirnovia, a place of marble towers and shadowed eyes. The Quinrels had risen from sellswords to landed lords, but reputation did not soften prejudice. No rank could blunt the whisper of monster.

It was that same elven blood, that sharpened instinct, which caught the sound—a faint exhale of frustration, half-muttered, from the shadowed end of the stables. The impatient clatter of hooves striking stone followed, as if even the beast waited for something as well.

He latched the stall door behind him with a soft click of wood against wood, the steed snorting once before settling into the hay. The stable was hushed now—lamplight low, the scent of musk and leather thick in the air. This wing was used by squires, and the hour was late. No one should have remained.

And yet, the back stall stood slightly ajar.

Thallan moved toward it with the instinctive caution that came from years of being watched. His steps were soundless on the stone. Inside, a figure moved with quiet intent—a young woman, her hands smoothing a linen over the horse’s back. The reins had been affixed, but the saddle lay nearby, abandoned in haste.

He leaned his forearm against the wooden frame, watching in silence. She was cloaked, hood drawn, though not well enough to conceal the sweep of a gown beneath. No peasant dressed in such fabric. And no servant dared this kind of recklessness.

She lifted her leg, awkwardly attempting to mount. Her hand gripped the horse’s mane, her balance already shifting.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Thallan said, voice low and even.

She gasped, startled. Her foot slipped. She pitched forward—and he moved without thought, catching her mid-fall. Her body landed against his chest, the scent of lavender and dust clinging to her cloak. She steadied herself quickly, palms pressing against him to reclaim distance.

“You startled me,” she muttered, brushing the wrinkles from her dress with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

Strands of dark hair had fallen loose from beneath her hood, curling along the edges of a face both beautiful and unmistakably annoyed. Her brows, finely arched, drew together as hazel eyes raked over him with unearned scrutiny.

“Are you going to stand there gawking, or are you going to assist me, stableboy?”

Thallan’s head tilted slightly, his brows rising in disbelief. Of course. Not a whisper of thanks—only command and assumption. Like most nobles in Caerwyn, she lacked manners but made up for it with an abundance of audacity.

He exhaled slowly, letting a hint of amusement curl through his voice. “Assist you with what? I’d be doing both you and the poor creature a disservice if I helped you mount him in your current state.”

He stepped forward, fingers brushing the linen with practiced ease. Lifting it, he draped it neatly over the gate. “Firstly,” he said, tone dry, “if you insist on riding bareback, you’ll need more momentum to mount—or you’ll land flat on your backside. Though I admit, watching you try to dismount later might’ve been entertaining for those around.”

Her eyes widened at the sheer audacity of his tone.

“Secondly,” he continued, hand gliding along the horse’s back to rest above the wither, “you see this? Too high. If you rode him bareback, you’d be risking far more than bruised pride.”

He retrieved the saddle with ease and stepped out, placing it deliberately on the rack rather than returning it to the horse.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Put the saddle on him.” She gestured imperiously, as though she still believed she had some claim over the situation. “I can have you reprimanded for disobeying.”

Thallan smiled, slow and almost sympathetic. “Mm. But I’m not a stableboy.” He looked past her, toward the horse. “And that’s not your horse… is it?”

Her lips thinned, the silence between them stretching, broken only by the idle shuffle of hooves and the breath of horses in their stalls.

“I take it you’re a squire,” she said at last, tone clipped but composed. “My brother is a knight. Sir Riordan—you’ve heard of him, I’m sure.”

Thallan’s expression shifted before he could stop it. A flicker. Barely a breath—but she caught it.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, the faintest curve of satisfaction tugging at her lips. Her boots echoed softly on the stone as she crossed to the saddle, fingers trailing along its worn leather before curling beneath the girth.

“Affix this to the horse,” she commanded, lifting it, “or I’ll tell my brother—”

“Tell him what?” Thallan’s arms folded across his chest, the edge in his voice calm, deliberate. “That you were attempting to steal a horse from the royal stables? That you were alone, after curfew, without chaperone? That you were in the company of his own squire?”

She stilled. The saddle met the rack once more with a dull thud.

“Well played,” she murmured, a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth, dry and unbothered. “I’m Katerina. And you must be Thallan—the elven squire he speaks so fondly of.”

Thallan let out a short, skeptical laugh. “Fondly?”

“No,” she admitted, straightening. “But I suspect you already knew that.”

“Naturally.” His gaze followed her as she moved to close the gate behind her. “Your brother’s not subtle about his distaste.”

“It’s jealousy, you know,” she said simply.

He blinked. “Jealousy?” The word left him somewhere between a laugh and disbelief.

“All of them,” she replied. “Your blood gives you an edge. You don’t hide it. You thrive with it. If they had what you have, they’d use it too. But they don’t. So they scorn it instead.”

She intrigued him. Not for the way she carried—he was used to curiosity masked as charm—but for the sharpness in her words, the unflinching ease with which she wielded them. Still, he didn’t trust it. Humans always wanted something.

“So, Thallan,” she said, voice softening into something almost playful, “can I assume this night will stay between us? I’ll keep quiet about your lack of chivalry toward a lady in distress, and you’ll forget I was ever here.”

And there it was. The angle. She was trying to charm him into silence—and he would be lying if he said it wasn’t working.

His smile, wry and knowing, matched hers. “We have an agreement, Lady Katerina.”

He stepped aside, granting her passage, and she swept past him like dusk through the doorway—graceful and unrepentant.