The storm had turned into a whiteout.
Kaelen kicked open the door of the abandoned trapper's hut, the wood splintering under his boot. He ducked inside, shielding Vespera's body from the biting wind, and laid her gently on the single, dust-covered cot in the corner.
It was freezing inside, but Vespera was burning.
She was unconscious, her head lolling back against the rough wool blanket. Her skin wasn't just warm now; it was radiating heat like a forge. Steam rose from her wet hair, curling into the frigid air.
"Stay with me, Vespera," Kaelen commanded, his voice tight with panic.
He had seen men die of fever before, but this was different. This was magic recoil. The Second Wind had burned through her energy reserves and was now consuming her life force to sustain the heat.
She groaned, a pained, delirious sound. Her hands clawed at her throat. "Too tight... burning..."
"I know," Kaelen said, dropping to his knees beside the cot. "I'm going to get it off. Hold still."
Her armor—the legendary black steel of the Phoenix—was now a prison. The metal was conducting the heat, cooking her inside her own protection.
Kaelen's fingers fumbled with the straps of her breastplate. The metal was hot to the touch, stinging his fingertips. He unbuckled the gorget at her neck, then the pauldrons. He worked with frantic efficiency, tossing the heavy steel pieces onto the wooden floor with a series of loud clatters.
Next came the chainmail. He had to lift her dead weight to slide it off.
When he finally stripped her down to her linen under-tunic, Kaelen stopped. His breath hitched.
He had seen the scars on her face and neck, but he hadn't seen this.
The silver lines of the Ember Blood were everywhere. They webbed across her collarbones, spiraled down her arms, and traced complex patterns over her ribs. In the dim light, they pulsed with a faint, rhythmic light, synchronized with her heartbeat.
She wasn't just a warrior. She was a living artifact.
"Beautiful," he whispered, the word escaping him before he could stop it.
Vespera arched her back, gasping. "Water... Kaelen..."
He snapped out of his trance. "Right. Water."
He grabbed an iron pot from the hearth, scooped it full of snow from the doorway, and brought it back. He didn't have time to melt it properly. He dipped a rag into the slush and pressed it against her forehead.
Hiss.
The water evaporated instantly upon touching her skin.
"Gods, you're burning up," Kaelen muttered.
He worked tirelessly for the next hour. He packed snow against her neck, her wrists, and her ankles—the cooling points. He ignored the numbness in his own hands. Every time the snow melted, he replaced it.
Slowly, the terrifying heat began to recede. The frantic drumming of her heart slowed to a steady, strong rhythm. The glow of the silver scars dimmed.
Kaelen slumped back against the wall of the hut, exhausted. He watched her chest rise and fall.
For the first time, he saw her not as the General who barked orders, or the Legend who saved armies. He saw a woman. Her face, relaxed in sleep, looked softer. There were fine lines around her eyes—signs of laughter and worry that she usually hid behind a mask of command.
He felt a strange twisting in his gut. A protective instinct that was sharper and deeper than anything he had felt for a lover before.
"You are a fool," he whispered to himself. "She is the High Commander. You are a Captain from the slums."
Vespera stirred. Her eyelashes fluttered, then opened.
Her green eyes were clear again. The haze of the fever was gone. She looked at the wooden ceiling, then turned her head slowly to look at him.
"Kaelen?" Her voice was a rasp.
"I'm here," he said instantly, leaning forward. "We're in a hunter's shack near the ridge. You crashed. Badly."
Vespera tried to sit up, but her arms trembled. She collapsed back onto the pillow, frustration tightening her jaw.
"The enemy?" she asked.
"Dead. Buried under half a mountain," Kaelen assured her. He dipped a wooden cup into the melted snow water and held it to her lips. "Drink."
She drank greedily, her hand coming up to cover his to steady the cup. Her skin was still warm, but pleasant now—human.
"Thank you," she said, lowering the cup. She looked down at herself, realizing she was stripped to her thin tunic. She looked at the pile of armor on the floor, then back at him.
There was no shame in her eyes. Only assessment.
"You saw the markings," she stated. It wasn't a question.
"I did," Kaelen admitted. He didn't look away. "The Ember Blood. I thought it was just a story soldiers told to scare recruits."
"It comes with a price," Vespera murmured, tracing one of the silver lines on her arm. "Power always does. The more I use it, the more it burns away."
"You shouldn't have used it for me," Kaelen said, his voice rough. "I'm expendable. You are the General."
Vespera's eyes locked onto his. The intensity in them stole the air from his lungs.
"You are my sword, Kaelen," she said firmly. "A warrior does not let her sword break. And..." She hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability. "I am tired of burying good men."
The air in the small hut shifted. It became heavy, charged with the same electricity that had been there in the mud of the training yard. But this was quieter. More dangerous.
Kaelen reached out. He couldn't help himself. He brushed a stray lock of damp red hair away from her forehead. His knuckles grazed her skin.
"I'm not a good man, Vespera," he said low. "I'm arrogant. I'm reckless. I'm a wolf, remember?"
Vespera didn't pull away. She leaned into his touch, just a fraction of an inch.
"Wolves can be loyal," she whispered. "If they find the right Alpha."
Kaelen froze. The implication hung between them.
Then, Vespera closed her eyes, the exhaustion claiming her again. "Sleep, Captain. We ride at dawn. And... leave the armor. I can't wear it yet."
"I'll keep watch," Kaelen promised.
He didn't sleep that night. He sat by the fire, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, knowing that he was already in far too deep.