Hunter sat with a twig in hand, idly stirring the ashes of a long dead fire. There had been no flame here since the night he met Dahlia, when they sat and talked. He remembered the way her face turned soft in the glow of the embers of that fire, and how her eyes lit up with wonder at the shimmering of the moonstone. He wondered if he had spoiled his whole plan for the sword by chasing after a chance to see her face, her eyes, light up that way again. He could have given her the goblin loot and gone straight back to Chekwe, but no, he had to stay for supper. For molasses tea under the moonlight. For a kiss so fleeting, so dreamlike, he doubted its reality.
I stayed for a kiss, and came back for betrayal, he thought bitterly. And for Tennea’s outlandish claim. A daughter? After all these ye
