The tavern smelled of pine smoke and honey-wine, its rafters low, its hearth warm. Yet all Serelis of Moonspire felt was the heat of him—the Timberlord.

He sat in shadow, a mountain of muscle draped in furs and scars, hands like hewn stone resting on the table as though he could break it with a careless twitch. The villagers feared him, whispering of his temper and his strength. But Serelis saw something more—a storm chained behind amber eyes, a storm that longed to break free.

The elf lingered by the fire, pale and radiant in silks that shimmered with every flick of light, his smile a dangerous invitation. He laughed lightly at a farmer’s joke, fingers brushing another man’s arm just long enough to be noticed. And oh, the way the Timberlord’s jaw clenched, the way his broad shoulders shifted—jealousy radiated from him like heat from a forge.

Serelis’s heart thrummed like a plucked lute string. He should not tease such a beast. He should not crave the rough weight of those calloused hands, the velvet scrape of that deep, rumbling voice. And yet—he raised his cup, let wine slip across his lips in a slow, deliberate sip, and met the ogre’s stare across the firelight.

The Timberlord stood. The bench groaned. The tavern hushed.

And Serelis knew, with every fiber of his moon-blessed body, that tonight—”

“he would either be ravaged or worshiped,” Aelorian muttered under his breath, smirking as he let the music of clinking mugs, laughter, and low conversation wash over him like an unfamiliar tide. 

The air was thick with warmth and the scent of roasting meat, and every flicker of lantern light made the polished wood gleam like a treasure. He could taste the sweet tang of ale and the faint bite of smoke lingering in the corners of the room, and for the first time in too long, he could breathe.

A man in red robes with a shock of silver-blonde hair sat at a table too close, and a memory scraped at the edge of Aelorian’s mind. The fabric of his robes was a rich, heavy silk embroidered with gold thread that caught the lantern light. Seredane. 

He knew it was a ridiculous thought. Seredane wouldn’t waste time dragging him from a tavern when he could send his men to do it for him. And yet… the sharp angles of the man’s jaw, the impossible precision of his posture, the tilt of his lips, reminded him of the suffocating perfection demanded of every word, every gesture. Aelorian felt it now like a cold shadow brushing over his shoulder, a ghost of the man who had nearly stolen his life and hunted him still.

Hawke slid into the seat across from him. Her presence steadying in contrast to the storm spiraling in Aelorian’s mind. She slid a mug of something suspiciously brown and foamy across the table. “Here,” she said, “Drink. The priest’s men seized alcohol, so the villagers have taken it upon themselves to brew their own concoction. Consider it rebellion in liquid form.”

Aelorian’s eyes lit up, silver gleaming with mischief. “Rebellion in a mug?” he whispered, voice dramatic and delighted. He picked up the mug, sniffing it cautiously as if it were a dangerous perfume. “Will this make me even more spectacularly charming?”

Hawke raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Depends on how much you drink. Makes even a priest look like a fool.”

The elf’s gaze swept the tavern as she spoke, catching faces lined with fatigue and hope, and he felt a thrill he hadn’t expected: power that didn’t belong to Seredane, warmth that didn’t demand perfection, laughter that wasn’t measured and stolen. He let out a soft, unrestrained laugh, feeling it mingle with the clink of mugs, the low chatter, the hum of life thriving despite fear.

In the corner, Thorne had finally lowered himself onto the sturdiest bench the innkeeper could muster—little more than an oak table shoved against the wall, its legs groaning in protest. He sat like a mountain among mortals, arms folded across his chest, eyes sharp and unyielding as they tracked the red-robed man across the tavern. 

Aelorian’s lips curved in satisfaction. Yes. It was all falling into place. The Timberlord and the Moon-Blessed, sparks ready to fly—just like page forty-seven of Tempted by the Timberlord, where the brooding ogre smoldered in silence until the elf’s beauty unraveled him piece by piece—

“You’re doing it again.”

Hawke’s voice cut through the fantasy like a knife, dry and amused. She leaned against the bar, one eyebrow arched, tankard in hand.

Aelorian blinked, affronted. “Doing what?”

“Making heart eyes at the ogre.” She jerked her chin at Thorne.

“I was not—” Aelorian began, voice pitching high with indignation.

But when he dared a glance back toward Thorne, the ogre’s gaze was already on him. Heavy. Unreadable. For a heartbeat too long, the world shrank to the silence between them, the weight of being seen. Lori’s breath caught, his indignation wilting into something dangerously soft. He turned back sharply, nearly burying his face in his mug, ears burning bright enough to rival the lanterns.

Hawke chuckled into her mug, eyes glittering. “Stars, the stories never mentioned you’d flush like a debutante when someone caught you staring.”

Aelorian gasped, hand flying to his chest as though struck. “Flush? I am radiant, thank you. And besides, moonlight does strange things with one’s complexion. It’s hardly my fault if your mortal eyes mistake it for embarrassment.”

Hawke just grinned. “Moonflower,” she murmured. “Prettiest one I’ve ever seen—especially when it’s turning pink.”

Aelorian scoffed, tossing his hair over his shoulder with enough flair to nearly swat Hawke in the face. “Moonflower. Ridiculous. Flowers wilt. I am more akin to a star—eternal, radiant, untouchable.”

“Mm,” Hawke hummed, and her grin faded. She tapped her fingers against the table, slow and steady, watching the ale cling to the rim of her glass. “You know, this is one of the last villages standing around here. Brasshollow, Thistledown, Stonefen– all gutted. People fled for the east or the mountains. The royal army seized the harvests as tithes first. Then the wells, rationed water to those who praised his flame. People started whispering about how he’d locked the moon away, stolen our light.”

Lori’s silver eyes flicked to the tavern’s warm glow, then back to Hawke. He swirled the foam in his mug, hiding the sharp edge in his voice behind a sigh. “I am not a beacon for anyone,” he said, a little too loudly, a little too fiercely. “No one should look up to me. People shouldn’t have to wait and hope for a moonflower or a star or whatever I’m supposed to be. They should be able to fight their own battles.”

Hawke leaned back slightly, arms crossed, studying him. “Maybe,” she said softly, “but sometimes even the strongest need someone to spark the courage they forgot they had.”

Aelorian pushed his mug forward, fingers curling around the handle as though it could anchor his swirling thoughts. “Enough about me,” he said, voice still a little sharp with lingering pride. “You’ve been talking about villages and stolen grain…but you—what exactly do you do? Tell me, oh mysterious savior of the people. Do you sneak around at night? Swing from rooftops? Leave bread and water in the dead of night?”

Hawke laughed, the sound light and easy, though there was steel beneath it. “Rooftops? Not often. But yes, I sneak, I watch, I steal from Seredane’s supply trains when chance arises. Sometimes I smuggle families to safety, sometimes I leave a crate of bread on a doorstep, like a gift from the moon itself.”

Aelorian blinked, eyes widening with the tiniest spark of awe. “A moon thief. You mean to tell me while I’ve been flouncing and flaring about, worried about appearances and stars, you’ve been skulking in the shadows feeding villages and saving lives? And you do this entirely alone?”

“Not always,” Hawke said, and for a moment, Aelorian thought he saw a look of wistfulness cross her expression. “Sometimes there are helpers. People who risk themselves for others. But those are far and few between. This work is dangerous. You can’t get too close to anyone. You can’t make connections like normal people do. It’s…lonely.”

Lori’s chest tightened. For all his flair and silvered theatrics, imagining Hawke slipping through danger, night after night, saving lives…it made him feel exposed, restless, and just a little envious of all that freedom. He masked it quickly, letting his gaze drift lazily across the tavern once more, as though boredom had claimed him. A flirtatious tilt of his lips, a practiced brush of hair over one shoulder—little sparks tossed into the air, daring someone to catch them.

Tempted by the Timberlord, indeed. Let the jealous brute stew.

And stew he did. A flicker of movement snagged Lori’s attention—Thorne in his corner, a mountain of silence and shadows. Broad shoulders drawn taut, massive hands flexing against the bench as though the wood itself might splinter. The sight made Aelorian’s smirk curve sharper, sweeter.

Hawke noticed too. She hid her grin behind a tankard, eyes darting between Lori’s theatrical flourishes and the ogre’s gathering storm. “You’re going to get yourself flattened,” she murmured.

“That’s the plan, darling,” Lori replied, tossing his hair back and letting laughter spill brighter than before. He brushed his fingers over the arm of a passing farmhand with curly blonde hair, purring about the man’s “rugged country charm.” The farmhand blushed crimson to his ears.

A low rumble carried from the corner—Thorne’s growl, unmistakable even under the tavern din.

Hawke tipped her mug lazily, her eyes sparkling like she’d paid for front-row seats. “And I suppose the plan ends with your jealous brute putting you through a wall,” she said, unimpressed. “Romance novels always leave out the part where the plaster dust gets in your hair.”

Lori only leaned harder into the game, his laughter tinkling like silver bells over the ruckus of the tavern. He praised the intricate braids of a giggling barmaid, his voice spun of velvet and moonlight, then bestowed a dazzling smile upon the old fiddler with one tooth—“Such nimble fingers, sir, you must break hearts as easily as you break strings.”

Every gesture, every glance, was borrowed from a dozen secret indulgences read beneath silken pillows in the dead of night. Aelorian knew he was performing, yes—but secretly, he loved it. The thrill, the audience, the tempestuous presence of a covetous ogre just out of reach.

From his corner, Thorne’s presence swelled, filling the tavern like storm clouds before a break. Aelorian could feel it pressing against him, heavy, suffocating, thrilling. Each laugh from his pretty little lips was a spark flung straight into the ogre’s inferno of silence.

But the moment cracked when a drunkard tumbled too close to the bar and leaned over Hawke, crooked teeth flashing. “Oi,” he barked, swaying as he half-stumbled on his feet. His eyes raked over her, glassy and mean. “I know you. You’re that one—one o’ them girls that ain’t really a girl.”

The air snapped taut. A few nearby patrons glanced over, tension prickling like static before a storm.

Hawke stiffened. Tankard half-raised, her eyes flicked toward the man—broad, drunk, swaying with the loose arrogance of someone who’d decided cruelty was a sport. The people nearest him went quiet, some with startled looks, others with the coward’s instinct to pretend they hadn’t heard.

Lori froze mid-flourish, fingers still poised on the braids of the barmaid, laughter caught sharp in his throat.

The man sneered, emboldened by the silence. “I knew there was something off about you. Dressing like that, swaggering like you own the place. “Bet you can’t even swing a sword—what’re you, some kind of—”

He didn’t finish.

Thorne rose from his corner.

It wasn’t fast, not like lightning—but it was inevitable. The air shifted as he moved, the bench groaning beneath him. 

The ogre pushed past chairs, each step across the tavern a drumbeat of inevitability. Conversation stuttered and died around him, mugs lowering, gazes snapping to the mountain of a man cutting a path through the tables.

When he finally stopped at the drunk’s side, casting a shadow that swallowed the man whole. His voice was low, gravel rumbling like distant thunder.

“You speak again,” Thorne said, “and I’ll make sure you can’t use that tongue for anything but chewing dirt.”

The drunk froze, face blanching, words dying in his throat. Thorne’s glare lingered only a moment longer before he straightened, turning away without fanfare.

But instead of returning to his corner, he crossed the room—slow, deliberate—and stopped right behind Aelorian, close enough that he could feel the heat of his presence on the back of his neck.

“You,” the ogre said, voice a low growl, meant for the elf alone. “Enough games.”

The air between them snapped taut. Aelorian tilted his chin, forcing a smirk that wobbled at the edges. “Games? Stars, ogre, if you can’t tell the difference between artful charm and reckless play, then that’s hardly my fault—”

Thorne’s hand closed around his wrist. Not rough, not cruel—just decisive. His grip burned through the silk, and the room fell away as he hauled Aelorian upright. The elf sputtered, half-indignation, half-thrill, as the ogre steered him through the tavern with grim purpose. Chairs scraped. Patrons murmured. Hawke just raised her mug and muttered, “About time.”

By the time they reached the narrow hall upstairs, Aelorian was half-tripping over his own boots, dragged along like a cat on a leash.

“Release me at once!” he hissed, voice pitching high. “I’ll have you know this is abduction!”

Thorne kicked open a door, shoved him inside, and shut it with a thud that shook the hinges.

For a heartbeat, silence. Only the flicker of lamplight, the thunder of Aelorian’s own pulse in his ears.

Then Thorne turned on him, amber eyes blazing.

For a fleeting moment, Aelorian’s mind danced back to the pages of Tempted by the Timberlord, to stars, daring, and moonlit mischief. “No man, no ogre, could resist the pull of Serelis’s moonlight charm…” The words teased the edges of his panic, a flirtatious shield against the storm.

Aelorian’s lips parted, smirk faltering. He could feel the storm of desire and anger coiling around him, tightening like a noose—and suddenly, it hit him. He was utterly, completely, irrevocably doomed. Not in some fanciful, storybook way, but in the entirely terrifying, impossible, every-nerve-on-fire way that only happened when you were facing a force of nature in the form of a jealous ogre.

His last coherent thought before panic and lust tangled too tightly to separate was, "Oh stars, I am so fucked."