When they reached the cave again, they looked as if they’d gone ten rounds with the forest and lost. 

Aelorian’s face was blotchy with bee stings, one eye nearly swollen shut, his elegant cheekbones puffed and shining red. His skirts were shredded, clotted with nettles, clinging damply to his legs like laundry abandoned in a storm. Every third, limping step earned a pitiful whimper, followed by a sniff as though he were mourning the loss of his own beauty.

Thorne wasn’t much better. His usually stoic face was swollen around the jaw and ears, lips puffed like someone had socked him mid-sneeze. His injured shoulder hung crooked in the makeshift sling Aelorian had fashioned from strips of silk, insult layered on top of sting.

“I look like a pastry someone left in the sun!” Aelorian moaned, depositing himself dramatically onto a rock as though the world should take note of his suffering.

“You always look like a pastry left out in the sun,” Thorne grumbled and slowly sank to the floor with a pained groan. 

Aelorian tried to glare, but with one half-closed and the other twitching from nettle burn, his eyes wouldn’t cooperate, and the elf looked about as intimidating as a kitten batting at a feather. “You’re not exactly dripping with raw sex appeal either, you glorified boulder.”

Thorne snorted–an unfortunate, congested sound, given the swelling–and winced as the movement pulled at his shoulder. 

“Sit still,” Aelorian muttered, already shuffling over to dab at Thorne’s temple with the remains of his skirt. “You’ve got dirt and twigs everywhere.”

“Probably because I rolled down a godsdamned thorny ravine saving your ass.” Thorne huffed and flinched when the cloth grazed a sting near his ear. “Gods above, elf!” He growled, jerking away, “Your bedside manner is shit!”

Aelorian rolled his one functioning eye and kept gently dabbing at the grime on Thorne’s face, his hands far softer than his words. “Oh, please, I’m sure you’ve had battle wounds far worse than a few stings. Stop being such a baby.”

Thorne glowered. Which also might have been more intimidating if his face weren’t puffed up like a dumpling and his hair full of nettle seeds. “I’ve taken spears to the gut that hurt less than this,” he growled, shifting with another wince.

“And yet you were nearly undone by an elf, a mob of angry bees, and gravity,” Aelorian murmured dryly, brushing a tender hand over Thorne’s brow. His voice softened as he peered closer, studying the deep purple blooming beneath the ogre’s skin, the shallow cut across his temple, and the unnatural slant of his shoulder. “This shoulder’s out of socket.”

Thorne scowled, eyes hooded. “Noticed.”

“I need to set it.”

“Like fucking hell you will,” Thorne’s voice was gravel and thunder. He jerked away, stubborn as stone. “Touch me and I’ll make you into elf pie.”

Aelorian’s fingers ghosted along his collarbone, assessing the damage, cool against heat. “You want to keep using this arm, don’t you?”

“I’m left-handed.” Thorne glowered.

“Does it look like I care?” Aelorian shot back, sharp as a blade honed too fine. Their eyes locked–two predators wielding different weapons, neither blinking. “You’ll lose the arm.”

“Fine,” he rasped. “Make it fast.”

Aelorian’s lips twitched, not quite with amusement, but with something sharper and harder to name. Focus, maybe. Or spite. He was good at that. He moved behind Thorne with the slow, deliberate grace of a priest preparing a sacrament, robes brushing thigh, hair trailing behind like a battered royal train. Every motion was careful and patient, a quiet ceremony.

His hands hovered over Thorne’s swollen shoulder, feeling for the cleanest leverage point. Magic tingled faintly at his fingertips–enough to coax muscles into surrender, and to calm the fire of nerves bracing for pain.

“This is going to hurt,” Aelorian murmured, voice soft but edged with authority. 

Thorne grunted, lips jutting into a petulant pout. “Well, if it’s anything like your bedside manners...”

Aelorian’s hand steadied, fingertips pressing just so, tracing the angles of muscle and bone, memorizing the curve and tension of Thorne’s broad, solid frame. “On the count of three—”

“You’d better not—FUCKING HELL!”

Snap. Pop. A low, tortured roar tore from Thorne’s throat, every syllable a mix of pain and rage, reverberating through the cave. Aelorian tightened his hold instantly, arms wrapping around Thorne’s trembling form to keep him upright. Warm, solid, unyielding, yet quivering beneath Aelorian’s fingers in involuntary surrender.

Thorne’s forehead pressed against his knees, damp hair hanging heavy, his whole chest heaving. He reeked of sweat, leather, and that damned forest musk. Aelorian told himself it was vile. He told himself it was choking him. And yet his treacherous lungs kept dragging it in, over and over, like an elf starved for air. 

“There,” he whispered, voice low, intimate, brushing over the sound of Thorne’s ragged breathing. “It’s all done now.”

Thorne didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, hunched and panting, fists clenched. His skin was clammy, and his jaw trembled from the adrenaline letdown. “You lied,” he rasped, voice rough and low. “That was before three.”

Aelorian gave a tiny, utterly unapologetic snort, hand still braced on Thorne’s shoulder. “You’re too damn big to flinch. You’d have tossed me into the wall.”

Thorne made a deep, wounded grumble in his throat but didn’t push him away. After a few more moments, when his breathing began to even out, Aelorian shifted to sit beside him, magic glowing faintly in his palms. “Hulking idiot,” The elf murmured, “You could’ve snapped your spine falling down that ravine.”

“You’re welcome,” Thorne muttered, “For not letting you get skewered on the way down.”

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t have fallen if you hadn’t grabbed my hair!” Aelorian snapped, voice sharp as the stings still simmering across his scalp.

“I was falling, and it was there. You’re like thirty-percent hair!” Thorne snarked back, each word clipped, teeth clenched. “Besides, whose bright idea was it to poke a damn beehive the size of a horse’s backside?” He jabbed a thick finger at Aelorian, but immediately flinched, curling it back around his shoulder, wincing at the ache.

Aelorian gasped, one hand flying to his mouth. “Are you blaming me for the whole incident?”

“Damn right I am,” Thorne snapped, eyes wild, puffed face twisting into something between anger and exasperation. “If I wasn’t breathing down your neck all the time, you’d already be someone’s week-long feast! I told you not to wander off! You act like you’ve never been outside a day in your life, elf!”

“That’s because I haven’t!” Aelorian shouted, his one eye blazing, the other swollen shut. His fists clenched like he was trying to squeeze the world into submission.

Thorne froze mid-glower, mouth half-open, caught by the raw, jagged honesty cutting through Aelorian’s theatrical shriek. The cave felt impossibly small, air thick with dust, nettles, and the lingering smoke of their failed campfire.

Aelorian’s voice dropped, brittle and trembling just under the surface. “I’ve never been outside, not like this. Not like—” He gestured vaguely toward the forest beyond the cave, toward the vast, messy, alive world that had swallowed them both. “--with dirt, bees, cliffs and…you.” His hand fell to his lap, lingering in the air like a fragile flag of surrender. “I wasn’t allowed.”

Thorne blinked, chest tightening, the edges of anger softening. “What do you mean, you weren’t allowed?”

Aelorian let out a laugh, bitter and sharp, the sound like cracking glass. “I grew up in a gilded cage. Velvet cushions, spell-locked gates. Tutors dictating every breath, gardens with walls so high they didn’t show the other side. All I could do was read about adventures, messy little people with freckles and bad tempers. I dreamed of running away.” His voice caught briefly, a thorn in the throat, before he pressed on. “Turns out…it’s nothing like I imagined.”

Thorne finally exhaled, slow and deep. “Well,” he said, voice low, “You picked a hell of a way to start an adventure.”

Aelorian gave a sharp little laugh, wet around the edges. “Not exactly how I pictured this going. You know, in the stories I read, the adventuring partner wasn’t covered in nettle rash and yelling at the hero every third minute.”

“Was he prettier than me?” Thorne asked, tone dry.

Aelorian gave him a long, flat look with his one puffed eye. “He didn’t snore like an avalanche, if that’s what you mean.”

Thorne barked a laugh despite himself, then winced and cradled his shoulder again. The movement brought the tension back to Aelorian’s expression like a string being pulled. He shifted closer once more. “Let me see it again,” he said, “I’ll dull the pain with a spell.”

Thorne nodded, his silence holding something new–trust.

Aelorian reached over, glowing fingers already coaxing light from his palm, the spell whispering warm and soft along Thorne’s collarbone. 

“Didn’t know elves could do magic,” Thorne murmured, golden eyes catching the glow of Aelorian’s skin. The reflection burned brighter in his gaze, as if the light were being swallowed whole by the furnace inside him. “Thought you lot were more of the tree-humping sort.”

Aelorian’s lips twitched, brittle as glass, balanced between irritation and incredulity. “Common elves can’t wield magic,” he said softly, though his tone carried a blade’s edge. His gaze stayed fixed on the broad plane of Thorne’s bruised shoulder rather than risk his eyes. “Only the Moonborne can heal, can weave spells from light and shadow. And of those, I’m the last we know of. That’s why Seredane wanted me. Not out of love, but to claim me. To chain my power. To breed a dynasty of light he could stamp his mark on.”

He hesitated, throat tightening, before the poison spilled. “I was born for him, Thorne. Do you understand? From the moment I drew breath, the priests whispered it. The Sun’s Consort. The Moon’s Offering. Every lesson, every ritual, every silken robe—shaped to fit his hand like a glove. I was sculpted for his bed, his bloodline. My life carved to serve as his shadow.”

The words hit like flint striking steel.

Thorne’s jaw worked, a muscle ticking hard, but it wasn’t just fury. His gaze dragged over Aelorian—bruises blooming like constellations across pale skin, wrists raw and bitten from shackles, the smile sharp as a blade yet trembling at the edges. All that silken silver, all that sarcasm, armor spun too thin. Fragile. Exquisite. Made to be claimed–and gods, the thought of Seredane laying a hand on him, branding him as his, was enough to make Thorne’s blood burn hotter than any fire. 

His chest rose with a breath that came out rough and dangerous. And his golden eyes locked, unblinking. “Guess no one owns you now,” Thorne said, voice low, iron-clad.

Aelorian’s hands continued their quiet dance over the lingering magic, letting it soothe without revealing too much. “No,” he whispered finally, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Now I belong to myself.”

“Good,” Thorne rasped. “No one’s got you in a cage anymore. You’re too damn sharp to waste on some gilded perch, posing like a decoration. You deserve someone better than that, elf. Someone who’ll let you see the world. Maybe…” His voice wavered just slightly, almost gentle. “Maybe even have a couple of kids.”

Aelorian froze. Then his lips curled, eyes gleaming like silver coins. “Children? Did you just say "children with me?”

Thorne’s entire body jolted like he’d been struck. “I didn’t–! I didn’t mean with you!” he stammered, choking on the words. His voice pitched somewhere between a growl and a plea. “Gods above, elf!”

But Aelorian only leaned in, tilting his head, eyes wide and falsely innocent. “Oh, but you did. You painted it so vividly, Thorne! Me barefoot in some meadow, little moonspawn tugging at my robes, and you looming over us with your big, enormous shoulders.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees, each word a needle slipped beneath Thorne’s tough skin. “Do you sing them lullabies, too? Or just terrify them into sleep with that scowl of yours?”

Thorne’s hands twitched like he didn’t know whether to cover his face or grab the elf and shake him. His jaw clenched hard enough to crack bone, and the growl that ripped out of him was low and feral, more beast than man, or ogre. “Shut your mouth, elf, before—”

Aelorian’s laugh cut sharp and bright, the sound of glass breaking under moonlight. He leaned in further, enough that Thorne could feel the heat of his breath, his voice dripping to a whisper that curled tight around the ogre’s ear. 

“Before you what, ogre?”

Thorne’s gaze dropped, slow and heavy, eyes molten. It was a look that hollowed him out, a look that seemed to reach inside and touch the filth Lori tried so hard to hide. As if the ogre could smell it—the want bleeding from every ragged inhale, the hunger tangled like briars in his chest.

And then… he turned away.

Exasperation practically dripping from his voice, the ogre’s words fell like a hammer. “That’s it. I’m leaving. Going to look for the bag of food I dropped down the ravine. Try not to lick glowing rocks, impale yourself on swamp roots, or get mauled by squirrels while I’m gone.”

Aelorian froze.

“You’re leaving me? Alone? In the wilderness?” He shrieked, clutching his skirts like a widow caught in a tempest, one puffy eye glinting with terror. “I have a sprained ankle, a tragic backstory, and a destiny to be dramatically endangered!”

“You have one puffy eye, a flair for melodrama, and a knack for getting yourself in trouble,” Thorne muttered, already limping out of the cave and toward the trees, one massive shoulder brushing aside branches like they were nothing.

“I could get mauled!” Aelorian trailed him to the edge of the clearing, voice high and quivering.

“Good!” Thorne barked, though the edge of his voice cracked with something like suppressed laughter. “Maybe then I’ll finally get some peace and quiet!”

“What if a bear tries to mount my supple, ethereal body while you’re gone!?”

A strangled choking sound erupted from the trees. Then Thorne’s rumbling laughter rolled down like a boulder. “Bear’d have to be out of his godsdamned mind to mount you! And even then… I’d pay to see it!”

Aelorian scowled, deeply offended. “You take that back, you mountain-born pile of sarcasm!”

But Thorne was already stomping into the woods, still laughing and muttering loud enough to be heard: “Gods above, that elf’s gonna drive me into an early grave. Need a damn vacation.”

Aelorian’s gaze lingered on the retreating figure, pulse spiking, chest tightening, every step leaving a phantom weight behind. His mind betrayed him, flicking to forbidden places: Thorne dragging him into his lap, rough hands gripping pale skin, golden eyes molten, and that growl that promised heat, ownership, and chaos all at once.

He shivered, part indignation, part want, and whispered to the shadows, “Damn you, ogre…”