It was clear Marcus hadn't softened in the slightest; he spent the entire day riding a good ten meters ahead of them, refusing even to glance back. Leonie could hardly wait to dismount and finally speak to him, but her plans collapsed quickly—when evening fell, Marcus didn't stop with them at all.
"Where is he going?" she asked, worry tightening her voice as she watched the man grow smaller in the distance.
"We'll reach the others tomorrow," Dorian replied. "He's riding ahead to inform them of the situation."
Leonie didn't quite understand when the two men had agreed on this, but the explanation calmed her somewhat. What comforted her much less was the fact that she'd now be left alone with Dorian.
Trying to hide her unease, she unpacked some food for them and arranged it on the blanket she'd spread out near the crackling fire. After sitting down close to the warmth, she reached out with her good hand and offered Dorian a few slices.
"How did you light the fire?" she asked casually, though her curiosity was genuine.
Dorian raised a brow—of all questions, after a day like this, he certainly hadn't expected that. It even pulled a small smile from him.
"It's not complicated. Just a bit of magic."
Seeing her puzzled look, he shrugged.
**"The elves command different elements of nature. That's what we call magic. Most can only manage small things—lighting candles, warming bathwater. Everyday conveniences.
We divide ourselves into castes: the Levitants, the Shapeshifters, the Waterborne, the Flamecallers… the Forest Elves. Each of us has a distinct kind of magic. Some are born with stronger gifts, some with barely a trace of one. But magic lives in all of us, and with certain ancient incantations, it can be strengthened.
A few among us are blessed with additional abilities—those are rare, of course. More commonly, we learn to manipulate our surroundings with various spells."**
Leonie listened with her mouth slightly open. It was hard to comprehend that all of this was real. How could she have lived so many years completely ignorant of her own people? How much more was there she didn't know?
"And what about you? What kind of magic do you have? Are you a Flamecaller?"
This was already her second attempt to uncover his secret—the first time he'd dodged the question entirely.
"Partially."
Still as curt as ever, though the seed of guilt was growing in him. He continued in a lighter tone:
"Members of the royal family usually possess multiple abilities.
It may sound arrogant, but I dabble in most branches of magic.
Well… perhaps not just 'dabble'."
He lifted a shoulder dismissively, though Leonie cut him off.
"You can shapeshift? Into what? Could you show me?"
Her curiosity overpowered any remaining caution. It was the most unbelievable thing she'd ever heard. Could she potentially learn to do that too? No—surely she belonged among the elves whose powers barely flickered.
"I think we should save that demonstration for another evening," Dorian said, finding her disappointed expression almost endearing. She looked like a child denied a taste of cake.
"And… your hand, at least?" she tried again, unwilling to give up.
Her eagerness was so sincere that Dorian realized if he didn't show her something, she'd keep asking until sunrise. He let out a long breath, lifted his hand, and moved his fingers in front of her face.
In the next heartbeat, his nails lengthened into massive claws, and Leonie squeaked in surprise.
She couldn't tear her eyes away. When she reached up to touch one, they vanished instantly—Dorian's hand returning to its human form as if nothing had happened.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered.
She gently took his hand, her fingertips tracing along his unchanged fingers—but felt nothing strange at all. When she looked up into Dorian's widened eyes, she immediately jerked her hand back, as though burned.
The memory of his expression that morning crashed into her, and shame washed over her once more.
Surely he found her presence unbearable after everything she had revealed.
He was a highborn elf—a prince—and she was nobody, cast at his feet like used cloth…
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
Dorian only shook his head.
The speed with which this girl could open up, withdraw, then open again—it was astonishing. At least to him, who had no idea of the battles she fought inside herself.
"Time to sleep," he said in his usual authoritative tone.
He waited for her to lie down facing the fire, then settled behind her and pulled the blanket over them both. Leonie lay stiff as a board, as if she'd swallowed a branch.
Dorian had spent the entire day debating what to say about their morning conversation. Now he felt it was time to share the result of that one-day internal turmoil.
"Leonie," he said quietly. "I apologize for forcing the truth out of you this morning—"
He didn't get further. She turned over sharply, bringing their faces so close his breath caught.
"You only asked. It wasn't your fault," she whispered.
Dorian didn't agree, but decided not to press the matter. She already had far too much to deal with at once. He comforted himself with the idea that sparing her the full truth—for now—would make things easier for both of them.
"And I'm sorry you ended up arguing with Marcus because of me."
Surprisingly, she really missed the other elf's cheerful company.
"Marcus and I always argue," Dorian sighed. "We're like brothers—you can't separate us that easily. And he has every right to be angry."
He hesitated.
"Creatures like that… the kind who harmed you… we execute them immediately. Maybe it was a mistake not to go back…"
Leonie's eyes widened in fear.
"Please don't go back. They're far more dangerous than you think."
Of course, Dorian didn't believe that. They were humans. He could wipe out the entire fortress before breakfast.
"We're going home, not back to the baron. You've nothing to worry about."
It wasn't the full truth, but it worked—Leonie's entire body relaxed.
They lay in silence for several minutes. While she watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest, Dorian studied her face. Worry lay etched between her brows, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to kiss the lines away.
"What troubles you?" he asked.
She swallowed visibly.
"This… morning…"
She met his deep blue eyes hesitantly.
"I understand if you're disgusted by what happened. I saw your face.
Please… don't tell the others tomorrow. I don't want them thinking of me the way you do…"
Dorian stared at her, stunned.
Was that what she believed?
No wonder she'd been strangely distant all day. He'd been foolish enough to think her withdrawal came from the way he'd pressed her into speaking—but she didn't even know about that part.
"Leonie," he said gently, her name soft on his tongue.
"I don't think anything bad of you—"
She cut him off, voice trembling.
"I saw how you looked at me. Others at the castle looked the same way. They thought I was… a whore."
Dorian opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had to reassure her—but the right words wouldn't line up fast enough.
Before he could speak, Leonie made up her mind for him and turned her back.
"Leonie—" he tried, but she interrupted:
"Let's just sleep. I'm tired."
She shut her eyes, fighting tears. She couldn't understand why his opinion mattered so much. She barely knew him—and soon enough they'd go their separate ways. She had to keep her distance.
While she lay awake, plotting how to do that, Dorian was busy planning the exact opposite.
He felt like his much younger self again—clumsy, uncertain, ignorant of how one was meant to approach a woman.
Still, he respected her request and fell silent.
There would be time.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow he would tell her that in his eyes, her soul was spotless.