Veiled Eyes

Chapter 13

Honesty – noun: the quality of being honest.

Kael carved into the deer with practiced precision, his knife gliding cleanly through muscle and sinew. Each movement was efficient, deliberate—like he’d done it a hundred times before. The meat hissed the moment it hit the pan, the rich scent filling the den, curling through the air until it sat heavy in my lungs. My stomach twisted, aching with sudden, sharp hunger. I hadn’t realized just how empty I was until now.

He glanced at me once—brief, unreadable—before flipping the strips with a flick of his wrist. “You eat first,” he said. Not an offer. An order.

“I can wait,” I replied, though my voice lacked conviction. The smell was maddening.

His eyes lifted to mine, steady and sharp, as if weighing my stubbornness. Then, without a word, he tore off a strip of meat, speared it on the tip of his knife, and held it out between us.

I hesitated, heat prickling the back of my neck. There was something oddly personal about it—taking food from someone’s hand, someone I barely trusted. His gaze didn’t waver. The fire popped between us.

Hunger won. Slowly, I leaned forward, teeth catching the edge of the meat, careful not to brush the blade—or his fingers. The warmth of it spread over my tongue, rich and gamey, and I realized I’d closed my eyes without meaning to. When I opened them again, Kael was still watching me, something unreadable in the depths of his expression before he turned back to the pan.

The flavor was wild and earthy, rich in a way I’d never tasted before—nothing like the sterile, packaged Haven rations. It was… real.

“Better?” Kael asked, his tone dry, but his eyes holding the faintest flicker of something softer.

I nodded, chewing slowly. “Better.”

He cut another strip for himself, eating without hurry, leaning back against the wall as the firelight painted his face in warm gold and deep shadow. For a time, we didn’t speak. The fire popped and hissed softly, the air thick with the scent of cooked meat and woodsmoke.

And though the edges of fear and doubt still pressed at my thoughts, the heat, the food, and the quiet steadiness of his presence dulled their bite—at least for tonight.

When the meat was gone and the pan scraped clean, Kael set it aside and leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. The fire had burned low, the glow pulling the shadows up along the walls until they seemed to close in around us. His gaze flicked to me, sharp but not unkind.

“You’re different,” he said, the words more observation than question.

They landed heavier than I expected. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Finally, he looked at me, his gaze steady, almost dissecting. “I’ve met tower soldiers before. Every last one of them the same—mindless, marching to whatever orders they’re fed. But you…” His eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing whether or not to say more. “You think for yourself.”

I scoffed, leaning back slightly. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

His mouth curved—just barely—but it wasn’t exactly a smile. “Depends. Sometimes people who think for themselves survive longer. Sometimes…” His gaze flicked away, toward the shadows dancing against the wall. “…they just make themselves bigger targets.”

I couldn’t tell if that was admiration or a warning. Maybe it was both.

“How long have you been on your own?” I asked, tilting my head. “Because your people skills are lacking.”

His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking there. For a heartbeat, I thought he wouldn’t answer at all. Then, quietly, almost as if the words cost him, he said, “A long time.”

Something in the way he said it—flat, but heavy—told me that “a long time” wasn’t just about years. It was about losses.

The firelight caught in his eyes when he finally looked at me, and for a moment, neither of us moved. There was no shift in his expression, no softening—but the silence between us stretched, thick with something unspoken. My chest tightened under the weight of it.

And then, just as quickly, he looked away, picking up his knife and twisting it between his fingers with casual precision. I wondered if it was a habit—something he did when thinking about things he didn’t like. As if holding a blade could defend him from thoughts that cut too close.

I didn’t look away this time. “And what about you? You live out here alone, but you still risked yourself to save me. Why?”

His hand stilled on the blade, the motion freezing mid-turn. The firelight slid over its surface, and for the first time, I noticed the metal’s pale gleam. Silver. My stomach tightened. Pure silver wasn’t just rare—it was precious, almost sacred. In Haven, they whispered it was the only thing that could kill a Harrowed.

If Kael carried it… he hadn’t found it by accident.

“Because letting you die would’ve made me no better than them,” he said, and the words pulled my attention to him like a hook.

The fire popped sharply between us, loud in the stillness, and I realized it was the first piece of himself he’d given me willingly. Somehow, that meant more than any rescue.

I shifted on the bedroll, turning to face him fully. “You keep saying you hate Haven… but you never say why.”

His gaze flicked to me, sharp and brief, before returning to the flames. “Because that story isn’t for you.”

“Not for me, or not for me yet?” I pressed.

That earned me a small, humorless huff of breath—almost a laugh, but stripped of anything warm. “Careful, Thea. You keep pushing, you’ll find answers you won’t like.”

“Maybe I’d rather know the ugly truth than keep walking blind,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

His gaze locked on mine, sharp and unblinking, pinning me in place until I forgot to breathe. Then, without a word, he looked away and tossed another log onto the fire. The sap hissed and popped, filling the silence like static.

He stared into the flames for a long moment, jaw shifting like he was weighing something. “If you knew what I…” He trailed off, shaking his head once, sharply, like cutting a thought before it could take shape. “It doesn’t matter.”

The words hung between us, heavy as stone, and the fire’s glow suddenly felt colder.

I studied him in the flickering light—the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his hand flexed once against his knee like he was restless but refusing to move. Whatever thought he’d strangled before it reached his tongue was still there, just behind his eyes, burning like an ember he refused to fan.

I cleared my throat, forcing a lighter tone. “You’re going to cut your finger if you keep fidgeting with the blade like that.”

He didn’t look at me, but his grip shifted, and then—deliberately—he drove the knife into the packed dirt beside him. “It’s fine,” he said, voice flat. Too flat.

I bit the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to push again. The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable—it was the kind that had edges, sharp enough to cut if you stepped wrong.

Still, when he finally glanced at me again, just for a second, I thought I saw something in his eyes. Not anger. Not even mistrust. Just… weight. The kind of weight that comes from carrying something too big for one person alone.

And then it was gone, shuttered away like it had never been there at all.

“Get some rest,” he said finally, his tone flat again. “We’ve got ground to cover tomorrow.”

I wanted to argue. To demand more. But something in the set of his shoulders told me I wouldn’t get another word out of him tonight.

So I lay back on the bedroll, the firelight dancing against the cave ceiling. I told myself I wasn’t disappointed. That I didn’t care if he kept his secrets.

I shifted on the bedroll, stretching my sore leg, when the muscle seized hard enough to make me suck in a sharp breath.

Kael’s head turned immediately. “What?”

“Nothing,” I lied, waving it off. “Just a cramp.”

Before I could protest, he moved over, crouching in front of me. His hands were warm when they wrapped around my thigh, fingers pressing with firm, practiced care.

I stiffened. “What are you—”

“Relax,” he muttered, working the knot out with slow, sure motions. “You’ll tear it worse if you keep sitting like you’re made of glass.”

I wanted to tell him I didn’t need help, but the ache was already easing, chased away by the steady pressure of his hands. The firelight caught in his hair, softening the hard planes of his face, making him look almost… human.

When he finally let go, he reached for the fur blanket and draped it over my lap without meeting my eyes.

The gesture was casual—too casual—as if he hadn’t just brushed past every invisible wall he kept between us. But I saw it anyway, that flicker of quiet, unspoken care he didn’t want me to notice.

When he finally let go, he reached for the fur blanket and draped it over my lap without meeting my eyes.

The gesture was casual—too casual—as if he hadn’t just stepped over every invisible wall he kept between us. But I saw it anyway, that flicker of quiet, unspoken care he didn’t want me to notice.

“Kael…” I murmured, the name slipping out before I could decide what I meant to follow it with.

His gaze lifted to mine, slow and deliberate. The firelight painted shadows across his face, catching the hard line of his jaw and the depth in his eyes. The rest of the world fell away until there was only him—his steady breath, his closeness, the faint scrape of his knuckles as they brushed the blanket where it covered my knee.

He leaned in, just enough that the space between us tightened into something fragile and breathless. My heart hammered. His eyes dropped to my mouth—lingering there for a beat too long—before flicking back up to meet mine.

The moment stretched thin, trembling on the edge of something inevitable. I could almost feel the press of his lips—

But then, as if something pulled him back, he broke the stare, moving away to settle across the den again. The air between us felt different—charged, restless—like the kiss had almost happened, and we’d both chosen not to speak of it.

Sleep found me soon after he settled back onto the ground by the wall of the den. But even as my eyes closed, the echo of that almost-moment lingered, warm and dangerous in my chest.