Chapter 3 - Where the City Meets the Trees

The tavern had quieted somewhat after the commotion, its patrons returning gradually to their meals and murmured conversation. The hearth crackled gently in the corner, casting its amber light across polished wood and pale stone. Ayda, now fast asleep, had been settled on a bench beneath the bay window, wrapped securely in Elarion’s cloak. Her small frame rose and fell with the soft rhythm of dreams, a faint flush of colour returned to her cheeks.

Elarion sat beside her, watchful and still. One hand rested near her shoulder, while the other moved with careful tenderness through her hair, fingers smoothing down the braids someone had hastily attempted to redo. His eyes, pale green and far too tired, lingered on the child’s face with quiet relief.

He did not notice Iris until she was standing beside him.

“I brought you something,” she said gently.

He looked up, surprised, as she set two small cups on the table between them. The steam rising from them carried a light floral scent. Not strong, but soothing. Something to calm the nerves and settle the breath.

“It’s a rose-elder blend,” she explained, taking the chair opposite him without waiting for permission. “The barkeep said it helps with shock.”

Elarion regarded the drink as though uncertain whether it was for him. Eventually, he picked up the cup and gave a small nod of thanks.

Iris glanced down at Ayda. “She’s sleeping peacefully,” she said, her voice warm. “Is she your sister?”

Elarion shook his head. “Not by blood,” he replied quietly. “But she’s part of my pack.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Your pack?” Iris echoed, curiosity threading through her words.

Elarion looked up at her fully then, meeting her gaze. “We’re Lythari.”

For a moment, she simply blinked. And then her entire face lit up like a lantern.

“You’re Lythari?” she asked, leaning in with delighted astonishment. “Truly? I’ve read about your people, but I’ve never actually met one.”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with polite puzzlement. “That surprises you.”

“Well, yes,” she said, laughing softly. “You’re quite rare. Or elusive, rather. Most people only know of you from old texts and travel accounts. There are a dozen rumours and stories, but no one seems to agree on what is fact and what is romanticism.”

Elarion was silent for a moment, unsure what to make of her enthusiasm. He was used to curiosity, but not the kind that felt like admiration rather than suspicion. Not the kind that came with wide eyes and genuine interest, instead of hushed voices and sideways glances.

“What kind of stories?” he asked finally.

“Oh, the usual,” she said with a wry smile, cupping her drink between her hands. “That Lythari live in the oldest parts of the forest. That you don’t speak to outsiders. That you travel only at night and can smell truth on a person. And something about silver-eyed wolves that vanish when you try to follow them.”

Elarion huffed a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. “Some of that is not far off.”

“I would love to hear what is true,” she said, her voice softening. “If you’re willing to share.”

He studied her face, the eager way her fingers tightened around the cup, the genuine spark in her expression. No one had ever asked him to speak of his people before. Certainly not with interest. Certainly not with kindness.

So he began.

He spoke of the pack, of the way Lythari raised their young together, of how bonds were measured not in blood but in trust and closeness. He explained the significance of shapeshifting, the way their wolf forms were not a trick or curse, but something spiritual and sacred. He described Selathryn without naming it, just enough to paint an image of deep trees and quiet water, of long-held traditions and the warmth of a fire shared by many hearts.

And Iris listened.

As time passed, she began to notice the shift in him. His voice, though still low, grew steadier, more open. The sharp edge that had clung to his posture earlier seemed to ease. His gaze softened. His expression, once unreadable, now held a quiet warmth. She caught the faintest trace of a smile on his lips as he spoke of his people, his stories touched by fondness and reverence. In that moment, she saw through the cool quiet he wore like armour and glimpsed something far more tender underneath.

He genuinely loved them. Whoever they were, wherever they were, she could tell he carried them in every word.

Time moved differently within that conversation. The tavern around them buzzed with idle talk and clinking glasses, but none of it reached the space between them. For a little while, the world narrowed to a bench by the window, a girl sleeping under a borrowed cloak, and two strangers learning each other through sips of warmth and stories never told.

It was not the kind of moment that needed grand declarations or dramatic shifts.

It was simply the beginning of something quiet.

And for Elarion Caithor, who had spent so long watching from the edges of the world, it felt like something close to being seen.

---

It was only when the candlelight in the tavern had dimmed and the windows revealed a sky strewn with stars that Iris glanced toward the darkened glass and sighed, soft and reluctant.

“I should return,” she said, setting her empty cup aside. “It’s far later than I realised.”

Elarion gave a quiet nod, his gaze settling once more on Ayda, still curled beneath his cloak on the window bench. She had not stirred once during their conversation, her sleep as deep and undisturbed as if she were nestled beneath the boughs of their grove.

Iris lingered for a moment, then asked gently, “Where will you stay tonight?”

Elarion looked up, as if the answer required no thought at all. “Once she wakes, we will find a quiet place outside the city. Somewhere with trees. We’ll rest there before heading home.”

Iris blinked. “You’re going to let her sleep outside?”

“She is Lythari,” he said. “She’s used to it.”

“Well,” she replied, tilting her head slightly, “so are deer, but I wouldn’t let one sleep in a hedge if I could help it.”

He blinked, taken aback. That comparison was new.

“She’s recovering,” Iris added, folding her arms. “And she’s still just a child. She needs a real rest, not a patch of dirt and damp grass.”

Elarion hesitated, but the silence left too much space for thought.

Was this... strange? he wondered. Uncivilised? Too rustic?

He had read enough about the outside world to understand that not everyone found the idea of sleeping beneath trees as comforting as he did, but still. Was it really so shocking? Or was his way of life more different from theirs than he had believed? The books had not said much about this sort of thing. Or maybe they had, and he had chosen not to notice.

And now here she was, this glowing, polished noblewoman with warm hands and prettier words than he knew what to do with, looking at him as though he had suggested Ayda sleep in a puddle.

Was this how people looked at country bumpkins? Gods, was he a bumpkin?

“I’m staying at an inn just around the corner,” Iris said then, breaking his thoughts with that same bright, gentle certainty. “Ayda can have the bed. You, of course, are welcome to sleep under a tree if it brings you peace.”

There was something entirely unbothered in her tone. Not mocking, but clearly making space for him to refuse if his pride insisted on it. It was kind, really. Thoughtful.

But also, she had a point.

He looked down at Ayda. Her breathing was steady, but her little fingers twitched now and then, and the flush in her cheeks had not fully returned. She would heal better with warmth and softness, not with bark and moss.

Still, the idea of stepping into whatever kind of inn a woman like Iris called modest made his shoulders tense. He had the distinct sense it would smell like perfume and starlight.

Also, she’s kinda cute. Wait. No. That was— beside the point. Anyway.

Without another word, he rose and gathered Ayda into his arms. She stirred slightly, murmured something close to his name, then went still again, her cheek resting against his shoulder.

Iris smiled like someone who had just won a quiet argument.

She turned, lantern in hand, and led the way out of the tavern, her stride light and confident across the cobbled street. The city had hushed now, though light still glimmered in the high windows.

Their destination was not far, but even from the street, Elarion could tell it was elegant. Carved balconies bloomed with enchanted ivy. The door glowed softly, touched by a ward that shimmered at its edges. This was not a place for travellers who slept beside rivers. This was a place where the sheets were ironed, and the water was warm and someone probably offered you fruit in the morning.

And so, the green-eyed man of the woods, wrapped in his worn cloak and carrying a sleeping child, followed the noble-born cleric into a world that smelled of lavender and polished wood.

All the while wondering what, exactly, he has gotten himself into.