A Different Fire

(Paige’s POV)

Back in the city as leaves fall, it's as if stepping into a different life. Behind lies the North - sharp, unyielding, real - now giving way to the murkier rhythms of the heartland. Most days on the road, Lysander rests, his frame quietly mending from what he faced, absorbing it piece by piece. A stillness marks him now, not fear, but watchfulness, deeper than before. That old dread has lifted; something firm sits where it once pressed.

Footsteps slow when we reach the citadel's gate. Noah waits there - still, dressed in dark fabric that drinks the light, feet planted like he belongs to the ground itself. His arms are locked behind him, spine straight, a pose meant to say control. Closer now, the mask slips just enough: eyelids flicker too fast. A twitch rides along his jawline. Stillness holds, but not quite.

When the carriage door swings open, he loses hold. Suddenly everything slips through his fingers.

A shape appears before me, fingers stretching out, dragging me into a grip so tight it knocks breath loose. His head dips, pressing hard into the hollow where shoulder meets throat - there, a tremor rolls from his core, shaking every inch. Weeks of waiting collapse without sound. Pulse pounds on pulse, skin pressed to skin, arms coiled like ropes holding fast against some unseen pull.

I stay close, breath soft by his ear. My voice drops low - just a murmur between us. Warmth from crying touches his neck. Words come slow: we made it through. Nothing else matters now

Back he eases, palms lifting to cradle my cheeks, searching each line of my face like it’s something he needs to learn again. My tears vanish under slow sweeps of his thumbs, while a wet shimmer lingers in his stare. Lysander stands there now, having crawled free behind me, frozen in silence, eyes stretched open.

Down on one knee, Noah sits in the dirt of the yard. Not a touch, not yet. His eyes move across the boy's face slowly, studying every shift like reading lines left behind by time.

Lysander speaks up, his small tone firm. "Papa," he says.

Lysander steps forward when Noah spreads his arms wide. The man's voice heavy, almost too full to speak. His son fits beneath his chin without a word. Eyes shut tight, one large palm rests gently on the back of that young head. Relief seeps through him as he murmurs it was enough. Word reached him - the mountain feels settled now

Lysander presses close, voice soft by his ear. A vow given, he whispers there.

“I know. And a Wingknight’s promise is forever.” Noah pulls back, holding him at arm’s length. “You look taller.”

Lysander speaks - his voice full of truth - and suddenly Noah lets go, smiling like he forgot how. The change hits hard. All the tension drains, leaving only brightness across his features, sharp and clear. I recognize the lurch inside my chest right away; it dips just like before.

Later that evening, once Lysander has drifted off - following hours of soft tales about glowing cores and tangled strands - the old fortress begins to hum with something familiar. Ours. Warmth fills our room as flames leap behind iron grates, painting wobbly shapes across cold rock.

From the north comes a golden drink, smooth and uncommon. Noah fills two cups without speaking. One he passes my way, skin meeting mine just for an instant. Sitting on chairs feels wrong somehow. Down we go instead, into piles of heavy pelts near the fire. Side by side, close enough to feel warmth through cloth.

“Tell me everything,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “Not the report. The truth.”

That is what happens. He hears about the climb, how dread filled me when Lysander vanished into shadow, the endless moments after. What follows comes slow - how something in the earth changed once our boy stepped out. Then there is this: my voice breaks as I speak of his decision, not to remain, yet to fit. To care for it.

Staring at the fire, Noah takes a slow sip. After my last word, quiet holds him - deep, unbroken. Minutes pass before he moves.

“He’s better than I was at his age,” he says finally. “I would have seen it as a command. A duty to be seized or a cage to rage against. He saw a partnership.” He turns his head to look at me. “That’s your doing.”

“It’s our doing,” I correct softly. “He has your courage. Your sense of honor.”

Love's what we gave him, Noah tells me, like it settles everything. His glass rests on the table now, no longer held. Facing me straight, he lets the flames paint warmth across sharp cheekbones, golden flecks alive in his stare. Time apart etched something deeper behind his look. I felt your absence, he admits, bare but heavy. Cold sheets every night since you left. This place felt empty. Without you around to show me what it all meant, everything slowed down

The raw honesty in his voice is a more potent aphrodisiac than any whispered sweet nothing. I set my own glass down. “I missed the sound of your breathing in the dark,” I confess, my own voice dropping to a whisper. “I missed the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching. As if I’m the answer to a question you stopped asking long ago.”

Darkness fills his eyes. Out comes his hand, fingertips brushing along my jaw, sliding lower toward my neck. Light as a whisper, that touch - yet it ignites something underneath. Just two words: You are

Into the quiet, his closeness begins - no rush, only patience shaping each moment. Not hunger, but care returns in the way his mouth meets mine. Warmth spreads where we touch, flavored by wind, smoke, by something deeper I can’t name. Fingers tangle in dark strands as I draw him near without speaking. Around us, shadows flicker, dim beside the glow that holds just our two bodies. Skin remembers pressure, learns it again - the shift of weight when he shifts backward, guiding me down. Fur brushes bare arms while breath slows, steady, sure.

I settle onto his lap, fabric spilling sideways like folded waves. His mouth leaves mine, breath uneven, gaze locked on me with a sharp glow. Up here, I hold the height, yet it is his stillness that tightens something low in my chest.

“I need you, Noah,” I breathe, my hands working at the fastenings of his tunic. “Not the Lord Protector. Not the Duke. Just you.”

A sound rises from his throat, low and rough. When you say it like that, I can’t help but believe. Together we slide the shirt off, slow, caught in the moment. His palms find my sides next, drawing me close without a word between us. Skin remembers skin even when cloth stays in place. All of it - the marks, the wrong turns, the shaky inhales - lands in your hands now

Something about how he speaks undoes me completely. This time when our lips meet, it goes slower, heavier, his tongue meeting mine like they’ve done this before. Fingers tracing paths they know by heart - over the rise of his shoulders, along the rough lines etched into skin, feeling muscle move beneath as his palms press low on my hips. Movement begins, subtle but sure, bodies swaying closer; fabric still between us yet heat builds just the same, hinting at what waits ahead.

Hands tug at fabric, lips still locked, urgency mixed with reverence. Only warmth separates us now - skin, flickering light, breath. He lowers me down, pelts soft beneath, then settles above, heavy in the best way.

His voice cracks like old wood. There I stand, caught in the doorway's frame. He waits, just there, breath held between words.

Staring back at me, his look holds the kid who stacked bricks high. Then comes the grown one, pulling those blocks apart piece by piece. There’s safety there. Passion too. A dad. All of him - mine.

Home he glides, seamless, shattering. Out we gasp, together, one breath at the end. Beyond bodies, it runs. Threaded through years apart, pulled taut by obligation - now knotted again. Arrival, finally, not of place but of skin.

Now he shifts, a steady pulse beneath me like waves wearing down stone. Not fast - never that - but heavy with something older than words. Every push forward feels meant, every shift of his body brushing mine like pages turning. I hook my ankles at the small of his back, drawing him in without asking, which makes him catch breath mid-motion. Sound spills out before he can stop it.

His voice cracks like splintering wood. Paige… gods… he whispers, pressing close, warmth spilling down my skin.

Over me he moves, slow, steady. My back lifts off the sheets, drawn upward by something deeper than touch. Each breath carries his name before it even leaves my mouth. Again, again - three times like a rhythm beneath skin. Not just said, but felt where we meet, pulse meeting pulse.

His head rises, eyes blazing like stormlight. Not just love - something deeper pulses in his voice: you are home. Then his lips find mine, fierce and unyielding, while everything outside fractures into shards. A surge overtakes me, blinding, electric, tearing through bone and breath. Almost at once, he breaks too, shuddering against me, warmth flooding where we’re joined.

Afterward, limbs still knotted together, breath slowing, his fingers drift across my spine. A log splits inside the hearth. Quiet holds the fortress now.

Midnight settles between us when he whispers, something feels off. His words tangle in my hair, soft at first. Then his tone shifts. It sharpens. The weight behind it changes. A different presence leans through. Not warmth now - awareness. Watchful. Close.

I stiffen slightly. “What do you mean?”

After you left. Trouble arrived. Different kind this time. Not the old Purists with their leaflets. This is smoother. Harder to spot. He takes a breath. It's Lord Protector Eamon. Fresh-faced, eager, liked by crowds. Just came back from a so-called diplomatic trip south. Back they sailed, his vessels heavy with silk, with spice - alongside something quieter: a fresh sort of hope. That idea has a name now, one he speaks like a chant: ‘Wisterian Destiny.’ Growth hums behind it. A different kind of fame follows

Seems fine at first glance. Maybe even kind of admirable. Yet how he holds himself says something else entirely. So I wait, quiet, needing more

“And the spice they brought back… they call it Sun-Dust. It’s… not like pepper or saffron. It’s addictive. A pinch on the tongue brings euphoria, energy. Then a crash. Then a need for more.” His voice is grim. “It’s spreading through the lower city like a pleasant plague. The guilds are concerned. The physicians are baffled. And Eamon controls the entire supply.”

A coldness spreads through me, unrelated to the temperature here. Not soldiers outside demanding entry - this runs deeper. Poison slipped into the water supply. Fire that begins within, then consumes everything it touches.

“He’s using it,” I say, the pieces clicking. “To buy loyalty. To create dependence. To build a power base that isn’t reliant on titles or land, but on pleasure and need.”

Noah nods, his jaw tight. “He’s hosting a grand revel tomorrow night. To ‘share the fruits of his voyage’ with the court. Everyone will be there. Including us.”

He turns to face me, his expression grave in the dying light. “The King is gone. The Charter is young. And now there’s a man offering the kingdom a dream dusted in gold and Sun-Dust. A dream that requires no hard work, no shared responsibility. Just… consumption.”

There it is again. That looming test ahead. This time, not about staying alive - more about what kind of world we’re shaping together. Fighting isn’t done with blades here - it takes place inside wants. Inside cravings.

I reach out, touch his face. “Then we go to the revel. And we see this new fire for ourselves.”

His fingers close around mine, lips brush my skin. A word follows, soft but sure. Together

Stillness settles while I close my eyes against his chest, the heat of us tangled together now touched by something sharp, unseen. Mountains we’ve climbed, horrors we’ve met - none quite like this quiet dread.

Here comes the pull of something tempting.