Aelorian stiffened at the stranger’s words, outrage and terror coiling sharply in his chest. “Bride?” His voice pitched brittle, high, like spun glass snapping. “Do I look like some parcel to be delivered?”

“Parcel, bride, prince,” she purred, swinging from the branch with effortless grace, as if gravity were merely a suggestion. “Labels, darling. So precious.”

Thorne’s massive hand clamped on Aelorian’s shoulder, rough and unyielding, yanking him half a step back with a sharp yelp. His growl rolled up from deep in his chest, low and dangerous, shaking the damp air around them. “Come down,” he barked. “Or I’ll tear that tree out from under you!”

The woman laughed—wild, fractured, like wind through broken glass—echoing off mud and mist. Then, as if gravity itself feared her, she dropped in a coiled roll, springing to her feet with the grace of a predator. Rapier glittered in her hand, a silver fang poised to bite.

“No theatrics, brute,” she said, voice silk over steel. Her eyes found Aelorian’s, sharp as hooks, glinting with hunger and amusement. She prowled closer, boots silent against the soaked earth. “The Ivory Rose. His Royal Highness, Prince Aelorian Ithrienel himself,” she whispered, letting the words curl around him like smoke. “The little moon prince who burned the sun priest at the altar…” Her smile widened, feral, teeth catching the dim light. “Silver tongue, silver eyes—gods above, you’re a portrait come to life. I can see why Seredane wanted to lock you up and throw away the key.”

Aelorian’s chest hitched. He wanted to step back—no, to flee—but every nerve hummed, taut with the thrill of her audacity. She leaned closer with predator patience, the scent of wet earth, storm, and fire tangling around him. And he could not look away.

“The stories rarely do me justice,” he muttered, voice tight.

Thorne stepped between them like a wall, the ground seeming to shift with the weight of him. His snarl rumbled low, tusks flashing in the shadows. “You’ll keep your distance, Hood.”

“Or what?” The woman tilted her head, sly and taunting. “You’ll growl louder? Maybe stomp your foot like an overgrown toddler?”

The ogre’s hand twitched at his side, fingers curling tight.

Aelorian leaned sideways from behind him, silver gaze luminous, catching the woman’s in a way that made the air spark. “You know of me,” he said softly, “But I don’t yet know you.”

The woman’s smile deepened, utterly feral and indulgent. She gave a little bow, mocking yet elegant, rapier sweeping in flourish. “Hawke,” she purred. “Hero, thief, menace—take your pick. I steal from tyrants, swindle the cruel, and keep my boots clean in the swamp while I do it.”

Aelorian’s fingers lingered, light but deliberate, against the thick line of Thorne’s arm as if to remind him not to lunge. “A thief who names herself a hero,” he mused, “That is bold.”

“Bold keeps me alive,” Hawke shot back, grin glinting. She prowled nearer, blade still at ease, eyes never leaving his. “And heroes—well, we make our own titles, don’t we?”

“You’re no hero,” Thorne cut in, voice a low snarl. “Heroes don’t hide in trees and play with blades.”

Hawke laughed, hands on her hips. “So, this is the legendary beast Seredane kept caged for fifty years. All brawn, no finesse, or so they say.” Her gaze flicked to him, sly and merciless. “Tell me, ogre—do you ever get tired of looming? Or is that your whole personality?”

Thorne took a single, dangerous step forward. “How about I teach you the truth?” he growled, shadow falling over her willowy form. 

Hawke only tilted her head, eyes bright as coins. “You really are magnificent when you glower. Like a storm cloud with fists.” She winked at Aelorian, stepping sidelong, circling like a fox. “But tell me, Moon Prince…has the brute pulled up those skirts and fucked you in the thicket yet?”

Thorne’s snarl rolled from his chest like distant thunder, deep and vibrating, as his massive hands flexed, knuckles whitening. “What the fuck did you just say?” he bellowed, stepping forward, mud squelching under the force of his weight.

Hawke exhaled lazily, tilting her head as if examining the absurdity of the moment. “No need to get huffy, ogre,” she said lightly, voice smooth and wicked, “I’m just curious. Heard enough squealing over the last two days to convince me otherwise.”

Thorne snapped. His massive arm swung in a wide, terrifying arc—enough to uproot a tree.

Aelorian’s scream cut through the swamp as he leapt forward, delicate hands pressing against Thorne’s chest, trembling and scandalized, trying to halt the storm. “Thorne! No!”

Hawke’s laugh rang out, wild and unrestrained, spinning effortlessly just out of reach of the swing. “Ohh, scandalized!” she teased, “The little moon prince is scandalized! I love it!”

Aelorian’s arms strained to hold Thorne back, but the ogre merely pushed him aside, fists swinging, each movement a threat of destruction. 

Hawke ducked under a swipe, blade flicking to catch Thorne’s shoulder, leaving a gleaming scratch that had him bellowing in anger. Another swing, another dodge. Aelorian darted after them, hands grabbing Thorne by his belt, trying to tug him back to no avail. 

Hawke darted sideways, rapier flicking, silver blade catching the dim light as she danced around Thorne’s swings with feline precision. Each movement was calculated chaos—enough to unbalance the ogre, enough to make Aelorian’s heart hammer in his chest.

Aelorian gasped, scrambling to press his slight frame against Thorne’s massive side, hands bracing as if his touch alone could tether the raging storm. “Stop! She isn’t worth blood!”

“Careful, moon prince,” Hawke purred, circling with the lazy prowl of a fox who owned the kill. Her rapier gleamed, eyes alight with wicked delight. “Or you’ll break yourself trying to leash your ogre.”

Thorne’s growl boiled low, rattling the sodden air, shaking droplets from the leaves above. His eyes burned, locked on the wiry shadow before him. He swung again, a titanic arc of muscle and fury, the swamp itself seeming to quake beneath his boots. 

Hawke dropped low, spine coiling with liquid precision, and rolled under the sweep. Her rapier flicked like a serpent’s fang, nicking the crease beneath the ogre’s knee. Metal kissed flesh—a shallow wound, barely a sting—but enough to stagger.

Thorne’s balance faltered, his massive frame dripping, mud splattering in violent spray as he staggered, breath ragged, steam curling from his shoulders. 

“Thorne!” Aelorian shouted, “Don’t—”

Hawke’s grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light. “Ahh! That’s more like it.” With a nimble leap, she thrust a boot into Thorne’s back, sending the mountain of muscle crashing forward onto one knee, mud soaking his massive boots.

Aelorian’s shriek tore through the swampy air. He lunged, wrapping himself around Thorne, pressing his body to the ogre’s side, fingers clutching mud-slicked shoulders as if he could hold the storm in place.

“No!” he shouted, voice raw, hands coming up to shield. “Don't hurt him!”

Hawke rolled aside, rapier flashing, then stilled. Head tilted, eyes narrowed, she drank in the sight: the delicate elf, mud-streaked and furious, body pressed against the ogre like a shield of flesh and fire. Every muscle in him was strung tight with resolve.

“You’d throw yourself in front of him?” she murmured, incredulous. “A monster? A mountain of fists and fury who once bit a god in the ass and ate five priests?”

“Nine,” Thorne rumbled darkly, not lifting his head. “It was nine.”

Aelorian’s chest rose and fell, slow, deliberate, silver gaze burning brighter than the swamp mist. His voice cut through the muck and silence, sharp and certain: “Yes. I would die before I let him fall.”

Hawke blinked, her rapier wavering just a fraction. The sharp grin faltered, replaced by something almost unreadable—squinting, as though trying to decide if he was mad or magnificent. “You’d actually protect him?” she whispered, awe and disbelief tangled like smoke in her throat. “An ogre? Why?”

Aelorian’s gaze didn’t waver. Every line of his small, tense body spoke of certainty, of intimate knowledge. “He is my guardian. My anchor,” he said, letting the words stretch into the mist. “He stood for me when the world would have devoured me. If death comes… it will take me first.”

Thorne’s knee pressed into the mud, fists braced, immense and immovable. “Elf…” he huffed, the low rumble vibrating the ground. But Aelorian remained. Arms locked around those broad shoulders, chest pressed firm against the storm, heart steady even as his body trembled.

The world narrowed to two points of focus: the heat of Thorne’s body, solid and grounding—and the vow burning bright in Aelorian’s blood. No blade, no storm, no feral marauder could shake him from this bond. Every nerve screamed it, a scandal and a declaration both: he would stand here, prince and shield, trembling or not, defiant or not, and die if he must—to protect the beast who had yet to fail him.

Hawke’s grin broke slowly, teeth flashing in the dim, misted light, incredulous but delighted. “Well…” she murmured, voice low, almost reverent, “I did not expect that.” She sheathed her rapier with a flourish, stepping back. “You passed my test, boys. Given that, if you want to survive the rest of this swamp, I can show you the way out and to the village on the outskirts. Follow me… and try not to get yourselves killed before we get there.”

Aelorian finally loosened his grip, hands sliding off Thorne’s shoulders with deliberate care, like releasing something that might buck the moment it was free. His face was still pink, though his chin tilted with imperious defiance, silver eyes cutting upward. “Try not to make me look like a desperate fool next time,” he muttered, brushing muck from his sleeve as though that explained away the way he’d clung to him.

Thorne snorted, massive shoulders rolling. “Didn’t need to hang on me like a tick, elf.”

“Tick?” Aelorian’s head snapped, hair falling into his eyes. “You’re lucky I didn’t let her skewer you just to teach you some humility.”

“Lucky, huh.” Thorne’s eyes narrowed. “Seemed to me you were ready to throw yourself in front of the blade just to save my lowly hide.”

“That,” Aelorian snapped, voice tightening as he straightened his tunic, “was strategy.”

“Looked like panic.”

“Looked like loyalty,” Hawke called from the bushes. 

“Nobody asked you!” Thorne snapped, and then his massive hand engulfed Aelorian’s smaller one as he hauled him upright, mud sucking at the elf’s boots with a wet slurp. For a breath too long, he didn’t let go.

Aelorian yanked at the ogre’s grip. “Don’t manhandle me like some fragile maiden. I can take care of myself.”

Thorne didn’t flinch. His hand stayed locked, immovable as bedrock, dragging Aelorian into the furnace of his body. Then, with a low, resonant rumble that shook the mist itself, he shifted—chests colliding. Well, he was taller than Aelorian, so face to stomach—close enough that the growl in Thorne’s lungs reverberated against his cheek.

“Listen,” Thorne said, gravel rolling, voice threaded with warning, “don’t you ever fucking throw yourself in front of me again. That was stupid. Could have gotten yourself killed."

Aelorian’s eyes ignited. “Unhand me, ogre. I’m not a child, I can—”

“Can what?” Thorne’s tusks bared as his snarl cut sharply between them. “Flail into danger? Offer your throat to whatever’s waiting? I don’t have time to drag you out of death’s jaws every time your sparkly little brain takes a holiday.” His thumb pressed harder against the fine bones of Aelorian’s wrist, claiming. “Every time I think you’ve learned, you prove me wrong. Every. Single. Time.”

Aelorian’s chest puffed, jaw tight, heat crawling up his neck, blooming along his cheekbones. “Are you always this overbearing and condescending?”

The ogre’s growl dropped lower, dangerous, vibrating through the humid air. “Do you always enjoy being this irritating?”

Aelorian’s breath caught, tangled in the weight of him, the rough scrape of vest against silk, the solid press of muscle that made his pulse hammer. His fingers itched to curl against the strength he couldn’t resist, but he kept them at his sides, rigid with stubborn pride.

“Yes…” His voice came low, sharp as a blade but trembling beneath the current running wild through him. Every rumble of Thorne’s chest, every flick of tusk and heat of breath pressed too close, made his blood buzz, made his heartbeat thrum like drums in his ears. “I like it.”

Thorne's eyes widened slowly.

The elf's lips pursed, gaze darting to avoid his stare. “Seeing you grumpy. Growling. Frustrated—like this.” He swallowed hard, the ache of wanting something he couldn’t quite name tangling with his indignation, and for a moment, he wondered if he would ever recover from the dizzying pull of being this close, this pressed, this alive.

Thorne exhaled through his teeth. “You’re testing me, elf,” he rumbled. “Careful. One wrong move and you won’t like the consequences.”

Aelorian’s chest rose fast, breath hitching, the heat of the swamp mixing with the heat of Thorne pressing him from all sides. He tilted his head, the top of his head grazing the ogre’s jawline. “Maybe I want to test you,” he whispered, pulse spiking, lips barely parting. “Maybe I enjoy it.”

Thorne’s eyes were molten, raking over him with that low, smoldering intensity that made Aelorian’s chest tighten. “You don’t know what you’re begging for,” he murmured, voice vibrating through the air—and through Aelorian.

Aelorian’s pulse throbbed high in his throat. “Then show me,” he whispered, breath catching, silver eyes daring, sharp with defiance but betraying the rapid beat of his heart. "Make me beg properly, ogre."

Thorne leaned in slowly, a predator and a warning all in one, smoky breath brushing Aelorian’s lips, so close the elf could almost taste him. The press of his body, the sheer strength under the creak of leather, made Aelorian’s mind spin. He imagined—just for a heartbeat—how an ogre would kiss, and it made his pulse hammer, heat coiling low in his stomach.

Aelorian tilted his head, lips parting just slightly, a whisper of anticipation mingling with stubborn pride. “I’m not afraid of you,” he murmured, though his throat felt tight, pulse quick, every nerve alight.

Thorne’s growl rumbled low, teasing and dangerous, vibrating straight through him. “You should be," he said, voice rough, grumpy, and magnetic, the tension between them taut enough to crack. “Stubborn, reckless… insufferably bold. Lucky for you, I’m in a good mood—or you’d be flat on your back right now."

Aelorian clenched his jaw as the ogre shifted, beginning to step away, trying to shove down the thrill twisting through him. Every muscle in his body screamed that he was flirting with fire, that Thorne's patience had limits—but even as he flared with defiance, every inch of him remained tethered to the irritable, molten beast. The scent, the heat—the memory of it—pulled at him, cruel and irresistible, and for the briefest moment, he wondered if he could ever resist.