She would have scoffed were she sure he could see it through the mist still hiding most of her frame. He must take her for a fool. No man took rejection well. She had learned that lesson a long time ago and then over and over again. She knew better today. No man under the sky would leave her alone after she rejected him. They never had. They never would.
Still, she allowed him to approach, every inch of her taut like a bowstring, cursing herself for staying, but unable to just leave. A part of her yearned for the comfort of another, the other dreaded it. Beneath her human skin, the beast rumbled quietly. She did not shy away, even as the man, Ferenir, slowly lifted the lid of that suspicious little box.
Ira watched his every motion. The box could contain anything. Poison. A trap. A curse. One of those notorious hex-bombs the Piltovians prided themselves for⌠It would not be the first time someone had tried to use those on her.
There were a thousand different things she expected â until her gaze fell on the⌠cookies?
Breath left her lungs in a huff that might have counted as laughter. An uneasy sound. An uncertain one. The box hovered within her reach, accompanied by a cheeky grin and soft voice, and the promise of no poison or nasty surprises. It would be so easy to believe him. Her younger self would have. But⌠could she?
Slowly, quietly, Ira inched closer.
âAn unusual good for a blacksmith, wouldnât you say?â, she whispered, eyeing the man with a slightly tilted head. âAnd freshly made as well? In this environment? Or at the place where you spent the last night? I do wonder where you came from, Ferenir Neskan.â
She plucked one of the baked goods from the box.
âThank youâ, she murmured and retreated, putting space between herself and him.
The cookie smelled divine, she would give him that. She would not go as far as sniffing it. A lady never would. If it did contain poison, she would know soon enough. Without breaking eye contact, she took a bite.
She might as well have eaten coal. There was nothing but the taste of ash on her tongue, but she had expected that already. She had lost her sense of taste a long time ago. Another painfully human thing entirely lost to her. Ira chewed slowly, then swallowed.
âExquisiteâ, she told him, putting a hint of warmth in her voice to mask the lie. She swallowed the rest of the cookie and wiped the crumbs from her lip with the tip of a clawed finger.
Food had lost all of its appeal with the loss of taste. More often than not she forgot to eat entirely. Only when her body grew too weak from malnourishment, could she force herself to. And yet she reached out for another one of the cookies, murmuring another quiet thanks.
It was not about the cookie, of course. She did not need that. It was about this man, Ferenir, treating her like a human being with this oh so small gesture of kindness. It was about the way he held himself so carefully in her presence, so mindful of anything that could set her off.
It was enough to make the human inside of her act.
âI do hope your work as a blacksmith matches your baking skills, Ferenirâ, Ira said, holding the cookie between two of her fingers. âAnd I hope you are prepared for a steep climb.â
She nodded up at the mountain peaks above them. She might curse herself later for her foolishness. For now, she was curious what other surprises this man might offer.
