Want was a dangerous thing.
Vale Ashryn had learned that early—long before exile, long before silence became safer than hope. Want.. invited disappointment. Want created expectations, and expectations were tools others used to measure how much you were worth.
So she had learned to need- instead.
Need- was practical. Need could be justified.
Want had no such defenses.
She stood at the edge of the river, sleeves rolled to her elbows, cold water biting at her skin as she scrubbed mud from cloth. Around her, the pack moved easily—voices overlapping, laughter unguarded.
No one watched her to see if she belonged.
That, too, felt dangerous.
"You missed a spot."
Vale glanced up.
Theron Blackwood stood a few steps away, holding a folded bundle of clean fabric. His expression was mild, almost amused, but his eyes were careful—attentive in a way that never crossed into intrusion.
She looked back at the cloth. "I thought I'd leave it. Give the river something to complain about."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "It's already endured worse."
He handed her the bundle without brushing her fingers.
Always that small distance.
She finished washing in silence, acutely aware of how close he was without being close at all. The pull inside her stirred—not sharp, not demanding.
Present.
"I don't plan to stay," she said suddenly.
Theron didn't respond right away.
When he did, his voice was even. "You've said that before."
"And I meant it."
"I know."
The ease of his acceptance unsettled her. "You don't ask why."
"I could," he said. "But I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because answers given under pressure aren't honest."
The words struck deeper than she expected.
Vale wrung the cloth once more, then set it aside. "What if honesty costs more than silence?"
"Then silence is a choice," Theron said. "Not a sentence."
She turned to face him fully then. "In my first pack, wanting more made you greedy. Ungrateful. Weak."
Theron's gaze didn't harden—but something steadied. "And here?"
"I don't know," she admitted.
"That's allowed."
Allowed.
The word echoed, foreign and fragile.
She had wanted once—to lead without being feared, to be seen without being judged, to matter without shrinking.
She had buried those wants when they were taken from her and labeled flaws.
Now, standing here, with Theron's presence steady beside her, she realized something that frightened her more than rejection ever had.
She wanted again.
Not him.
Not yet.
But the possibility of choosing.
That night, Vale lay awake listening to the soft rhythms of the camp. No guards pacing. No tension coiled tight in the dark.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the quiet alignment there.
Want was still dangerous.
But maybe—here—it didn't have to be forbidden.