The Primordial Flame

Discussing dreams

"Four months ago," Vane mutters, his voice cracking on the truth. He doesn't pull away, he leans his weight into my cold palm, his breath shuddering out as he closes his eyes for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.

"Give or take an hour."

Arden quietly crouches down beside the chair, setting the steaming wooden bowl of stew and a thick slab of buttered crust onto a low stool right within my reach, his gaze soft and patient.

"Eat first, little tiger," Vane whispers, finally lifting his head with a faint, crooked smirk that trembles at the edges. "Then you can salt my food all you want."

"I’ll eat when you get some sleep, you silly squirrel," I say softly, leaning my forehead against his and giving his hollow cheek a firm, affectionate pat.

Vane groans, letting his head drop against the edge of my knees with a theatrical sigh that belongs to our old life before the iron vault.

"You are impossible," Vane grumbles into the thick wool of my blanket, though the sharp, desperate edge that held his shoulders rigid all evening finally begins to unspool. He stays right there on the floorboards, crossing his arms over the seat of my chair to rest his chin, blinking through heavy, bloodshot eyes like a guard dog refusing to leave his post.

"An absolute menace. If you don't pick up that wooden spoon in the next ten seconds, Ame, I will personally feed you like an ornery infant."

Bram lets out a low, gravelly chuckle from behind my chair, his large hand coming down to rest on Vane’s scruff, giving the lieutenant's neck a firm, steady squeeze.

"Both of you stop bickering," Bram rumbles, his deep voice wrapping around the quiet hearth like a warm blanket. He leans down, his dark eyes meeting mine with absolute, tender authority.

"Vane sleeps right here by the fire where he can keep his eye on you, and you finish that stew, little tiger. Deal?"

Arden gently nudges the steaming bowl forward, placing the polished wooden spoon directly into my cold, trembling fingers, his gaze soft and patient.

Looking between the three of them, the iron commander who carried me out of hell, the brother who refused to stop looking, and the man quietly carrying a lifetime of remorse, the knot of terror in my chest loosens just enough to let me take a full, steady breath.

With shaky hands, I dip the spoon into the warm broth, letting the rich scent of herbs and roasted beef fill the air, and take my first real bite of freedom.

Bram drags a heavy oak chair across the floorboards, pulling it right alongside mine until the armrests brush. He leans in close, his broad chest casting a protective shadow against the flickering hearth, his heat washing over my cold frame.

His dark eyes soften as he watches me take slow, careful spoonfuls of the warm broth. He reaches out, his large, calloused fingers gently tucking a stray auburn curl behind my ear, his thumb lingering on the soft curve of my cheek.

"Tell me, sweetheart," Bram rumbles in a low, gravelly whisper meant only for me, his voice thick with quiet vulnerability. "Did you dream of me?"

The spoon pauses halfway to the wooden bowl. I slowly lift my gaze from the stew, looking directly into his dark, bloodshot eyes.

There is no mockery in my expression. No teasing guard up, no deflection, no shame. My face shows only pure, stripped down honesty, the kind forged in pitch black silence where truth is the only thing left to cling to.

"Every second, Bram," I whisper softly, my paper-thin voice carrying the absolute weight of those four agonizing months. "How do you think I made it four months?"

Bram’s breath catches in his throat. The raw, unfiltered truth of the words hits him straight in the chest, stealing every ounce of air from his lungs.

A quiet, shuddering exhale leaves his lips, and for a long moment, the formidable commander of the Blackhand can do nothing but stare at me with a reverence so profound it makes my chest ache. His jaw tightens, fighting back the fierce sting of tears behind his eyes, before he reaches out and covers my small, trembling hand on the table with his own.

He lifts my knuckles to his mouth, pressing a slow, fervent kiss against my skin, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Then I’m never leaving your sight again," Bram vows in a rough, broken rasp against my fingers. "Every waking second, Ame. I’m right here."

"Lies, Bram! She only dreamt of me," Vane cuts in, suddenly propping his chin in his hands from where he sits on the rug. He puffs out his chest with an exaggerated, theatrical swagger, a roguish smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

For the first time in four agonising months, the hollow ghost of a broken soldier vanishes, and the infuriating, razor-sharp scoundrel we all know comes roaring back to life.

"Admit it, Ame," Vane teases, his grey eyes flashing with familiar, reckless mischief. "You spent all four months in that hole weeping for my dashing good looks, my superior knife skills, and the radiant sunshine of my company. The big guy here was merely a footnote."

Bram doesn't even look away from me. Without missing a beat, he lazily reaches out his heavy, leather clad boot and gives Vane’s shoulder a solid, unceremonious shove, sending the lieutenant tumbling sideways onto the wolfskin rug with a soft grunt.

"Keep dreaming, kid," Bram rumbles, though the rough gravel of his voice carries a deep, quiet chuckle. The brutal, suffocating tension that has choked this guild for a hundred and twenty days finally splinters, washing away into the heat of the fire.

Even Arden, sitting quietly across the hearth carving a piece of pine, lets out a breathless, genuine laugh that crinkles the tired corners of his eyes.

Vane dramatically sprawls across the floorboards as if mortally wounded, throwing an arm over his forehead. "Treacherous dogs, the lot of you. I bleed for this family, and what do I get? Kicked by a bear and slandered by a squirrel."

I let out another soft, breathy laugh warm and real this time, as I bring the spoon back to my lips. For the first time since the heavy vault door slammed shut four months ago, the stone walls inside my chest begin to crumble, replaced by the crackle of wood, the smell of savoury broth, and the loud, chaotic safety of the men who tore down a kingdom to bring me home.

"You’re the squirrel, Vane. I’m the tiger," I counter, brandishing my dripping wooden spoon directly at his nose like a miniature blade.

Vane scrambles up onto his elbows from the wolfskin rug, dusting pine splinters off his sleeve. A wicked, prodding grin spreads across his face as he tilts his head, latching onto the challenge like a hound on a scent.

"Oh yeah?" Vane drawls, wagging a finger in the air. "Tell me then, little tiger. You dreamed of giving me a hard time, but what was our dear commander doing in your dreams?"

He shoots a theatrical glance up at Bram, waggling his eyebrows with shamelessly exaggerated curiosity.

Bram’s jaw sets, though the faint twitch at the corner of his lips gives away his amusement. He leans his elbows on his knees, deliberately hovering close to me, his dark eyes fixed on my face as if daring me to speak.

A low, breathy chuckle leaves my chest, fragile but bubbling up from somewhere delightfully defiant. I catch Bram’s gaze, letting my heavy eyelids lower just a fraction before delivering a slow, conspiratorial wink.

"You really don't want to know," I purr with a soft smirk, deliberately dipping my spoon back into the broth.

Vane dramatically clamps both hands over his ears, tumbling backward onto the rug with an appalled groan. "Gods above! Never mind! Strike it from the record! My innocent ears didn't need that mental imagery, you wicked girl!"

A deep, rumbling laugh rolls out from the center of Bram’s broad chest, vibrating the heavy chair between us. He doesn't look away from me for even a second. The heat in his dark eyes flares, hot, reverent, and possessive enough to banish every speck of cold stone left in my blood.

He slowly reaches over, his thumb gently smoothing over the corner of my lips where the tease still lingers.

"Is that so, sweetheart?" Bram rumbles in a low, gravelly rasp meant only for my ears, his mouth curving into a slow, devastating smirk.

"Guess you'll have to remind me in detail later."

Across the hearth, Arden lowers his whittling knife, shaking his head with a quiet, genuine smile as the room finally feels like home again.