POV: Soraya
For the first time in weeks, the fortress feels almost gentle. Not safe—Ashra is never safe—but less sharp, as if the halls have put down their weapons for a day. Maybe it’s because I’m keeping my head down, or because Raevan is avoiding me so thoroughly that not even shadows touch us at the same time. Our argument, our kiss, our collapse into heat—it sits between us like a live ember neither of us dares approach.
So I cling to neutrality. And neutrality, apparently, means chores.
Vienne drags me into the kitchens at dawn. “If you’re awake enough to brood,” she says, “you’re awake enough to chop roots.”
The Ashra kitchens are loud, hot, and somehow comforting. Pots clang, steam rises, cooks shout instructions over the roar of fire. The scent of roasted grains mixes with desert herbs. Vienne ties an apron around my waist and hands me a knife.
“Cut these,” she says. “Thin slices. Try not to lose a finger.”
“You’re very encouraging.”
“I try.”
I settle into the rhythm—slice, scoop, breathe. No one asks about the bounty. No one whispers about Raevan. They barely look at me except to give instructions.
A gray-haired cook shoves a bowl toward me. “More peppers.”
I nod, grateful for the anonymity.
Vienne works beside me, humming off-key. “See?” she says. “You’re useful.”
“Chopping vegetables isn’t exactly a heroic contribution.”
“In Ashra kitchens, it is. One wrong pepper seed and half the fortress goes blind.”
I choke on a laugh. “Comforting.”
When our shift ends, Vienne pulls me out into the courtyard. Warriors train in the sand ring; the clang of metal and shouts of exertion fill the air.
“You’re helping here too,” she says.
“What?”
“Weapons cleaning. Basic maintenance.”
She hands me a cloth and a curved blade. The metal feels heavy in my palms, but familiar somehow—like something my wolf remembers even if I don’t.
We sit under a shaded arch as warriors hand us blades one by one. Some glance at me curiously; most simply nod and move on. No insults. No fear.
It’s… new.
“You’re quiet,” Vienne observes.
“I’m trying not to overthink.”
She snorts. “Soraya, you were born to overthink.”
She’s not wrong.
I scrub the blade carefully. “The fortress feels different today.”
“It is,” she says. “New routines make people relax. And seeing you work helps. They don’t trust what they can’t understand. But you chopping roots? Cleaning steel? That makes you real.”
“Shouldn’t I be offended?”
“No. You should be relieved.”
She takes the cleaned blade from me and slides it into a rack. “People respect effort here. Even small things. Especially small things. Anyone can swing a weapon. Not everyone does the quiet work.”
We finish the pile. Sweat beads at my temple. My arms ache pleasantly.
Vienne stretches. “Come on. There’s something else.”
She leads me to the roof walkway. Sunset bleeds across the desert—gold, red, soft violet. The wind carries coolness from the dunes. Ashra stretches below us, alive with movement and sound.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” she says. “This place is a monster, but it’s ours.”
I trace the horizon with my eyes, letting the calm settle. “Do you ever wish you lived somewhere quiet?”
“Gods, no,” Vienne says. “I’d die of boredom. I like noise. People. Mess. Life.”
“I don’t know what I like,” I admit softly.
“You will,” she says. “You’re still learning.”
We sit beside each other, legs dangling over the stone edge. She bumps her shoulder against mine. “You know,” she says, “you’re not as fragile as you think.”
“I feel fragile.”
“That’s different.”
Her voice softens. “I’ve seen girls come into Ashra shaking from exile, from war, from betrayal. Some shrivel. Some turn bitter. You’re doing neither. You’re working. Breathing. Trying. That matters.”
The wind pulls my hair across my face. I tuck it behind my ear. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m about to make you practice knife-throws.”
I groan. “Vienne—”
“Quiet. You’ll thank me when someone tries to stab you in a hallway.”
I blink. “…someone is going to stab me in a hallway?”
“Well,” she says, “statistically, it’s likely.”
I laugh—really laugh—for the first time since entering Ashra.
She grins. “There it is. I’ve been trying to get that out of you since the market disaster.”
“I thought you were just dragging me around to keep me from falling apart.”
“That too,” she says lightly. “But mostly, I like you.”
I blink at her. “You… like me?”
“Obviously. You’re prickly and stubborn and terrible at knives. My kind of person.”
Warmth blooms in my chest—unexpected, steady, strange. A real friend. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity.
Just… friendship.
I exhale slowly, letting it settle. “Then I like you too.”
“Excellent,” she says. “Now let’s go eat before the cooks poison us out of spite.”
I follow her down the stairs, the fortress humming around us. Warriors laugh in the corridors. Lanterns flicker in the twilight breeze. Something gentle stirs in my chest.
For the first time since Saren… I don’t feel alone.