Zarius Valtrane was a man built on a foundation of cold and calculated silence. In the North, survival didn't just require a sword, it required the ability to remain still while the world screamed around you. He had led armies through blizzards that turned blood to slush, and his heartbeat had always stayed even and controlled.
Until now.
Now, his heart was pounding out of rhythm, something wild and unfamiliar, and the only thing keeping him from losing control was the firm, grounding pressure of his own hands braced beside Cherion's head.
Beneath him, the healer had clearly lost all composure. Cherion was currently hiding behind a down-stuffed pillow like it was a fortress wall, his eyes darting everywhere, the tent seams, the oil lamp, the discarded satchel, anywhere but at Zarius. It was a fascinating sight. The man who had no problem talking back to him earlier was now a flustered, breathless disaster.
