Lara held his gaze a moment longer, the firelight leaping between them, painting his face in restless gold and shadow.
The man from his vision.
Alaric's voice always carried that quiet certainty when he truly believed in someone. She had seen it before—when he roused weary soldiers who had no reason to follow him, when he strode into enemy territory with no blade in his hand and no armor on his back. But faith was a dangerous thing. Lara had learned long ago that loyalty could curdle overnight, becoming sharper than any dagger.
Her fingers grazed the rough rim of the woven tray, splinters biting at her skin. What if Angus turns? What if his loyalty is a weapon, hidden until the moment it can strike? She did not want to picture Alaric with a blade buried between his shoulders—but the image came to her anyway, vivid and certain, as if it had already happened. The world was never as generous as Alaric imagined.
