The Anchor

(Paige’s POV)

Time stops.

A flickering glow wraps around his face, half light, half shadow. Around him, tiny specks swirl fast, like angry sparks given wings. He looks nothing like someone who has it together. Tangled strands of dark hair stick out every which way - as though he clawed his way through thickets without care. A smear runs along one high cheekbone; could be mud, might be something darker. Apart from the missing formal jacket, he wears only a once-white shirt - now stained dull grey - sleeves pushed past the elbows. Taut muscles run along his forearms, knuckles pale under tight fists hanging stiff at his hips.

One moment he seems born of fury, every line of him carved by wrath. Then - suddenly - he stands like a quiet promise, light breaking through smoke.

That look - gray as a coming storm - pins me in place. Not just anger there, though. Anger enough to burn the sky, sharp in the back of my throat. Underneath? Something shaky. Broken. Like he’s seen this exact second before, always helpless, always late. Fear doesn’t suit him. Yet here it is.

“Paige.”

It's just my name he speaks. Yet inside that single sound, whole worlds unfold. Hidden truths slip through. Promises form without vows.

Breathing slows, then Beatrice moves. Fingers slip away from my face. Up she pulls herself, tugging fabric into place like that might hide what just happened down here among the damp stones. "Duke Wingknight," out comes the name calm, too calm. A pause hangs before she adds, though it hardly needs saying, he wasn’t expected - "this meeting catches me off guard. As for her," a glance sideways, "visions took hold. My role? Simple presence."

“Silence.”

The noise never rises. From his throat it comes, rough and quiet. Echoes do not form. Instead, silence swallows every note, broken solely by water falling drop after drop. She stands unseen by him. On me rests his stare, heavy like stone, moving slow, measuring each part. Over my thin body it moves, across the wet fabric clinging to me, then lingers where her hand left its trace - pale but present - on my face. The sound comes sharp: his teeth pressing hard, a tension building beneath the quiet of his clenched jaw.

Then he moves.

Not running. Just closing in fast, each step deliberate, like something hunting. Not pushing Beatrice - just moving where she stands, leaving her to react. Either fall back or get hit by motion. She jerks away instead, breath catching loud, surprised more than hurt.

Down he goes, right there in front of me, dropping to one knee on the slick rock without a sound. Face level now, close enough to see the shadows carved beneath his eyes. Light from the torch - Alex holds it, figures standing behind him like statues - dances over his skin. His lips form a thin, bloodless slash. Stillness settles, heavy as stone.

Close, his presence hits harder. Tired eyes, anger, grime - they don’t weaken him. They do the opposite. He feels alive, raw. Not carved stone. Flesh and bone forged in fight. That smell pushes past the damp air - sharp with sweat, thick with old leather, laced by the steady warmth of sandalwood. Dizziness rises as I breathe it in.

Fingers rise, slow, unsteady. Near my cheek they pause, shaking like leaves in wind. Contact does not happen. Waiting hangs thick. Maybe he thinks I am smoke. Maybe one breath would scatter me.

Here you are, I say softly. Not asking. Just thanking the sky.

Looking into my face, his gaze won’t let go. He asks if I was harmed, voice breaking like it matters more than anything else right now.

Something presses inside my neck, stops words. A small movement shifts my head sideways. It means nothing much at all.

Down goes his stare, landing on my mouth before snapping up to meet my eyes again. That look - it crackles like current through steel. Not worry alone. Something deeper. A raw hold, ancient and sharp, turns my insides to water.

Fingers come to rest at last. One cradles my cheek, slow circles drawn by his thumb where Beatrice left her mark - soft, softer than breath. Heat blooms under that touch, sharp next to my chill. The second hand finds its way beneath my hair, strands caught between his knuckles, damp and tangled. Stillness holds us. This isn’t about love. Like roots pulling soil together, his grip holds me close - bound not by choice but gravity. He acts as though I might drift away without that weight.

Home’s where I’ll bring you, he states, words scraping low through the quiet dampness.

The weight returns - the moment I speak, dread pulls me under again.

“Was a lie,” he cuts in, his eyes flashing. “A forgery. A trap. And I walked right into it by letting that viper near you.” The glance he shoots over his shoulder at Beatrice is murderous. “That ends now.”

(Noah’s POV)

That look - her there, slumped on ice-cold rock, pale light hitting the bruise along her shoulder - it cracks open something deep. Fear stripped clean through reason days ago. Stone walls lie shattered now. Bones were split under my hands. Vows whispered into shadow still hold true.

Here she is at last. Breathing. Still herself inside, even if her frame has shrunk and her gaze carries weight. Then again, light finds a way through cracks.

Shivering, she feels colder than winter air. A jolt runs through me when our fingers meet. My hands want to tear down walls instead of holding her close. Heat builds behind my ribs at the thought of warming her. Fur would help shield her from the cold that clings now.

That note she brought up cuts deep. Believing her was what she expected. Letting go - that’s what she assumed would happen. The fault lies with me. A stronghold I made, yet left the entrance to her feelings unwatched.

That comes afterward. Right now, it’s just taking what’s left. Revenge follows close behind.

I rise, bringing her along. Her balance wavers, shaky at best. Instinct takes over - I lower slightly, loop an arm beneath her legs, draw her close to my chest. Lighter than expected, she feels almost fragile. Anger surges again, sudden and sharp. A breath escapes her; fingers tighten around the stained fabric of my shirt.

“I am able to walk,” she says, her voice low and shaky.

No. That single sound holds everything. Feeling her in my arms matters more than speech. Proof comes not in words but in closeness. Head tucked near my collarbone, she quiets - just a soft exhale slipping out. Warmth spreads where her breathing meets the fabric of my shirt. This fit, this fullness, almost brings me down.

Spinning around, clutching what I value most, I meet the one who built all this pain.

Beatrice has backed against the curved stone wall. Her composure is back, a brittle mask. “You don’t understand what you’re interfering with, Duke. This is bigger than your fleeting infatuation. She is a key to - ”

“You are a scribbler of fantasies who tortured a woman under my protection,” I say, my voice deadly calm. “There is nothing bigger than that. Alex.”

Alex moves ahead, steel in hand. Though gentle by nature, his gaze turns sharp.

“Take her to the capital. To the King’s justice. Use the evidence we found at her townhouse. The journals. The charts. Explain it all.” My gaze bores into Beatrice. “Let my brother see the madness he allowed to flourish at his court. Let him deal with his ‘editor.’”

Beatrice’s face pales. “You found my archive?”

“We located your hiding place,” Alex says, voice tight. Her words hang heavy. On either side, two figures shift into position near her.

“You cannot do this,” she screams, her voice cracking like broken glass. The story - its endless loops - is unraveling because of you. Everything is starting to fall apart

That feels right, I think. Walking away from her shouting, I hold Paige tight against me while climbing the steps.

Out in the cold room, her voice trails behind, bouncing off frozen walls. Not stable at all - he shifts too much, she screams - it spoils the plan. The tale breaks if she stays, louder each time she shouts it - everything cracks apart

What happened before stays behind me.

(Paige’s POV)

Fog curls around flickering flames, figures shift like shadows without edges. Soldiers loyal to Noah move through the space, taking positions, watching every path out. Vivian Sumall stands gripped by armed pairs, jaw tight, eyes burning with fear she won’t let escape. That moment when running stops - that time has arrived.

Carried without pause, Noah moves fast toward a bigger wagon - built stronger than the last. Not once does he release me. Inside, he takes a seat, my body still held close, resting where he sits. The cushion gives under our weight, soft beneath us both.

The door closes. Inside, just the sway of the wagon, the steady beat of hooves - him beside me.

That hard plane of his chest against me. Beneath my ear, his heartbeat keeps time without hurry. His smell - warm, alive - cuts through the cool dark, sharp with effort.

Still silent. My back feels the steady rub of one palm, methodical, like coaxing warmth into something stiff with cold. The second hand stays fixed where it started, gripping gently just above the shoulders. On my scalp, his jaw settles without sound.

A weight fills the quiet, heavy with words never spoken. Inside it, seven days of worry mix with wanting.

A small turn inside his hold lets me see his face. Not looking back, he keeps his eyes shut, thick black lashes resting on pale skin. Anger used to live in those features, now drained out, replaced by something heavier than tired.

You're here, I say softly once more.

Awake now, his eyes have changed. Not icy anymore. Instead, they move like water under stormlight. I see myself reflected there, caught in something deep. The weight of what he feels hits without warning.

“I will always come for you,” he says, each word a vow carved in stone. “You are mine to protect. Not because of a deal. Because you are mine.”

Holding still, he lets his head dip down. My skin feels the soft press of his forehead meeting mine. Warm air shifts between us, breaths weaving together. Close - so close - the gap at our mouths hums with unspoken tension.

My voice trembles, barely more than breath on his lips. Belief in that note - that slips out before I can stop it.

“I believed you were gone,” he answers, his voice thick. “And that was a world I refused to live in.”

Now he moves closer. The gap shrinks between them.

This time the kiss does not soften. It takes without asking. Proof, perhaps. An answer built from days filled with fear and wanting. Hot breath, urgent lips - he gives without waiting, so I give back just as unsteady, just as relieved. Into the worn fabric of his shirt my hands tighten, gripping like gravity depends on it. Flavors rise - dark air, quiet strength, something familiar that feels like walls around me.

Breathing hard, I feel his forehead meet mine again after he pulls back. His eyes stay shut.

“Never do that again,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “Never leave me. Even if you think you must. Fight me. Scream at me. But do not walk into the dark alone.”

My voice trembles but stays firm, like frost holding tight to glass. Regret settles between us, quiet, heavy. The air feels thinner after saying it

He shakes his head, his nose brushing mine. “The apology is mine. I failed you. I will spend every day ensuring I never do again.”

Fog slips past the wheels, dragging the old horror behind. Yet close against his chest, where breath mingles and warmth holds firm, fear finds no room. Morning waits ahead, pale and unknown.

The rope stays tight. Shelter arrives when wind calms.

I sit here now, inside these walls again.