Chapter 15: The Simple Touch
850 Words
The scent wove through the battlefield like a living thing—taunting, luring, impossibly patient.
Sofia followed.
She didn’t remember when she’d started running. Only that she couldn’t stop.
The world around her was teeth and claws, metal and screams—but none of it touched her. Not really. She moved through the c*****e like something untouchable, every breath pulled forward by the scent that had lodged itself in her lungs like a prayer.
Copal.
Marigold.
The ache of something older than language.
It dragged her like gravity, pulled her across shattered earth and broken bodies. Past fallen wolves and snarling warriors. Through smoke so thick it stuck to her skin like ash.
But she never stopped.
Her name didn’t matter. Her duty didn’t matter. Not in this moment.
Only the scent.
Only the bond.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew she had crossed the line—had stepped beyond the reach of her pack, past their defenses, into enemy ground. But her feet didn’t falter.
The wind shifted.
She inhaled sharply—and it was there. Stronger now. Closer.
Like thunder before the strike. Like the seconds before the world split open.
And then, through the smoke—
She saw them.
Six figures standing in the heart of it all. Unmoving. Unafraid.
Five warriors.
And one at their center.
Sofia stopped breathing.
The scent poured off him like heat, like divinity, like blood promised at an altar.
His skin was sun-warmed bronze, stretched over muscle carved by war and wilderness. His shoulders were broad and bare beneath layers of intricate beadwork and cloth dyed in the deep reds and jungle golds of the southern tribes. Around his neck, a ceremonial collar gleamed—heavy with turquoise and deep green jade. His face was unreadable, half-painted in the markings of blood and power. And behind him—
A crown of feathers, rising like flames.
But his eyes—
Goddess, his eyes.
Dark as obsidian. Piercing. Ancient.
They didn’t just see her—they unmade her.
Her body moved before her mind caught up. She stepped forward.
But the five warriors moved first.
A blur of motion.
One swung—she ducked low. Another reached—she twisted, spinning out of reach. A blade came down hard, but she kicked off a thigh and flipped clean over the warrior, landing silent as breath behind them.
They were fast.
But she was faster.
She didn’t fight like a wolf.
She moved like a shadow given form.
Like a prayer sharpened to a blade.
It wasn’t just instinct—it was legacy.
Every lesson Metz had drilled into her. Every whisper of wind, every shift of weight. Her surroundings moved with her, and she glided through it like she belonged to it.
And then—she was there.
Right in front of him.
The air changed.
He raised his arm to strike.
Fast. Precise.
But she caught him.
Her hand wrapped around his wrist, bare skin to bare skin.
And the world cracked.
It was like lightning slicing through her spine. A jolt so fierce it ripped the breath from her lungs. Her knees nearly buckled as heat flared through her chest and throat and face. Her skin prickled, burned. Her vision blurred at the edges—not from pain, but from too much sensation.
He froze.
Their eyes locked.
And everything else fell away.
The battlefield. The screams. The scent of blood.
Gone.
He looked at her like he was drowning.
Like he was seeing the sun for the first time.
Sofia gripped his wrist tighter, her heart pounding so loud she thought it might shake the earth. The bond. It had clicked into place so fast, so violently, she felt shattered by it.
He opened his mouth. Said nothing.
And still—she felt it.
The gravity of him. The tether pulling at the center of her.
He was hers.
And she—she was his.
She’d expected power. Maybe even beauty.
But not this.
Not someone so impossibly alive he stole the war right out of the sky.
She stumbled back a step, breath stuttering.
He didn’t let go.
To him, the girl was small—barely reached his shoulder—but her presence struck like a war drum to the chest.
Her skin, warm against his wrist, branded him.
The moment their eyes met, something ancient inside him screamed.
And then—her scent.
He staggered.
It wasn't possible.
It was everything.
Morning dew on stone.
The hush before dawn.
The sunlight after rain.
She smelled of rainbows and crushed sunflowers.
Of memory and longing.
Of something soft and golden and unforgivable.
It slammed into him like guilt.
Like grace.
He had never been brought to his knees in battle. Never lost his breath.
Until now.
Until her.
They both stood frozen—surrounded by chaos and fire and the bones of war.
And yet, all she could feel was him.
Still gripping her wrist.
Still not breathing.
The bond pulsed between them.
Bright. Searing.
Unstoppable.
Somewhere, steel clashed against bone.
But neither of them blinked.
- Writer
