The Price of
a Blade-Kiss

For weeks, the githyanki warrior and the half-elf cleric have circled each other with the cold precision of predators, their rivalry a blade held to the throat of the camp’s fragile peace. The night the tension finally breaks, Lae’zel shoves Shadowheart against the rough bark of a tree and claims her mouth like a challenge—a battle neither intends to lose. What follows is a furious, bruising stand against the trunk, armor half-discarded, teeth and tongues, and the first groan of a need they both hated wanting. The priestess comes first, her nails raking Lae’zel’s spine; the gith follows with a snarled curse in her own language, forehead pressed to Shadowheart’s shoulder, a truce in the aftermath they refuse to name. By morning, the air between them has changed forever—they still argue, but the distance is no longer what they thought it was.