Emilyvt
Active member
Dramatis personae
Kasi, she’s an orphan. Works as an official courier taking messages on foot from town to town, village to village
Micah, he’s older than Kasi, from a poor family and making his own way as a courier
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Chapter 1
"Rocks in your shoes again, girl?" The old cleric chuckled as Kasi hopped on one foot near the library's arched entrance, shaking a pebble from her worn sandal.
She grinned, tossing her tangled blonde hair over her shoulder. "Only the left one today. Must be luck." The morning sun caught her opal eyes, making them gleam like wet stones as she straightened up and dusted her hands on her loincloth. The librarian's robes—heavy, embroidered things—always made her own bare skin feel lighter by comparison.
Three leather scroll tubes waited on the polished cedar counter between them, their wax seals gleaming red as fresh blood. The old man tapped the nearest one with a knobby finger. "Temple of the White Stag by sundown. Their scribe’s waiting with a reply for the mayor’s wife—some fuss about festival dates." He pushed them toward her, the motion practiced after years of handing messages to couriers who came and went like seasons.
Kasi tucked the tubes into her shoulder sack without checking the seals. She knew better than to pry, and besides, the weight told her enough: two were standard parchment, but the third had the dense heft of vellum, the kind used for holy decrees. Her thumb brushed the cleric’s wrinkled palm as she took them—a habit from orphanage days, a silent *thank you* when words felt too heavy. He gsve her a blessing for safe travel that made her feel warm and fortituous
She knew to unseal a scroll and spy was a high crime and would curse her, she had a reputation to maintain too—honest, reliable, the fastest runner for three villages—but the vellum tube burned against her thigh with every step toward the forest path.
The first hour passed in the rhythm of packed earth beneath her sandals, the sway of her sack against her hip, the way sweat pooled between her small breasts before trickling down her ribs. Kasi adjusted her stride as the trail narrowed—long steps between rocks, short hops over roots—her body remembering every turn better than her mind did. The third time her fingers brushed the suspicious tube, she caught herself and clenched her fist.
A crow’s cry shattered her thoughts. She looked up to see three black shapes circling above the cedars. Not crows—ravens, the White Stag’s messengers. Too early for them to be out unless... Her stomach dropped. Someone had died at the temple.
The ravens’ shadows skimmed the ground ahead of her, moving faster than she could run. Kasi hissed a curse and ducked under a low branch, her sandals skidding on damp leaves. She couldn’t outfly them, but if the scribe was already preparing a death announcement, she’d lose her bonus for swift delivery.
The ravens vanished beyond the treeline, but their shadows clung to Kasi's heels as she ran. Not the frantic sprint of a startled deer—couriers who ran like that snapped ankles or worse—but the steady, measured pace that could outlast panic. Her breathing steadied—in through the nose, out through parted lips—as she settled into the rhythm village couriers called "the long hunger." Not a sprint, but something deeper: a gnawing emptiness in the thighs that meant you'd still be moving when others collapsed.
Her backpack and bedroll were snug across her back. Nothing bounced or rattled and her consignment was safe and secure inside her pack. She had tied the straps tight and adjusted them perfectly. She knew she had. Yet with every step, that damn vellum tube *itched* against her thigh like a burr caught in her loincloth.
The path dipped into a shallow creek bed. Kasi barely slowed—her toes knew the slick stones by heart, how to land just long enough to push off without slipping. The icy water barely registered as it splashed up her calves. Three summers hauling messages through these woods had turned her feet into maps.
Halfway across, her sandal caught on something soft. Not a rock. A bundle of sodden linen wedged between stones—no, a *sleeve*. Kasi’s breath hitched. The rest of the robe surfaced as she nudged it with her foot, its embroidered hem frayed and dirty. Temple garb. White Stag acolytes wore this shade of blue when tending the sick.
She crouched, scanning the banks. No blood. No body. Just the robe, washed downstream and snagged here like driftwood. Her fingers hovered over the fabric. Touching a death shroud was bad luck, but leaving it felt worse. The ravens had been flying east, toward the temple. If plague had broken out... she coild only reprot her findings, not go investigate. That was for others to decide.
A twig snapped upstream. Kasi froze, her knife halfway drawn before she recognized the sound—not a predator, but the uneven gait of Old Man Harik’s lame mule. The beast emerged from the ferns, its rider slumped over its neck in a way that made her stomach twist. Harik wasn’t supposed to be on the forest paths today. His daughter had sworn he was bedridden with swamp fever.
The mule stopped mid-stream, nostrils flaring at the torn robe. Harik didn’t stir.
"Hey." Kasi waded closer, sandals slipping on mossy stones. The old farmer’s face was gray as rainclouds, his lips cracked and moving soundlessly. She grabbed the mule’s frayed bridle. "Harik. Look at me."
Harik's eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes glassy with fever. His breath came in shallow rasps, carrying the sour stench of infection. "Girl..." he croaked, fingers twitching toward the sodden robe caught on the rocks. "They're burning them. At the temple."
Kasi's grip tightened on the bridle. Burning robes meant plague, meant quarantine. But the White Stag temple stood southwest—Harik had come from the east fork, where the river curled toward Black Hollow. Her pulse steadied. The scrolls in her pack weren't destined for a death house after all.
The mule shifted, its hooves clattering on creek stones. Harik groaned, his fever-damp forehead brushing the animal's mane. "They barred the Hollow road," he whispered. "Smashed the bridge timbers." His fingers plucked at his own threadbare tunic like he wanted to tear it off. "Said we brought the sickness. But it was *them*—their pilgrims..."
Kasi's mind raced. Black Hollow lay beyond her usual routes, a cluster of woodcutters and charcoal burners too poor to afford regular couriers. If they'd blocked the bridge, the detour would add half a day to her trip—but the alternative was walking into a plague ward. She touched Harik's wrist. His skin burned like a banked hearth.
"You're not going back there." She knotted the mule's lead rope around a maple sapling. The old man's daughter lived two ridges north, near the salt lick. Close enough.
Harik's head jerked toward the waterlogged robe. "They're marking houses," he rasped. "Chalk circles on the doors. Like the old tales." His fingers trembled, sketching a shape in the air that made Kasi's nape prickle—not the Stag's antlers, but the hooked rune wardens used to quarantine the dying.
A breeze rippled the creek, carrying the scent of cedar and something darker, like wet ashes. Kasi shoved the robe under a rock with her foot. Let the river take it downstream to the marshes where no one would find it until the dyes bled out. Plague markers were trouble; people panicked at the sight of them, started seeing signs where there were none.
She looped Harik's arm over her shoulders, his weight familiar from hauling injured couriers off mountain trails. "We're taking you to Lila." His daughter would know what to do—whether to hide him or burn his clothes or send for the wardens. That wasn't Kasi's burden. Her duty was the scrolls in her pack, still dry, still sealed.
The mule balked when she tried to turn it uphill. Harik mumbled against her neck, his breath hot and sour. "The boy... ran toward the temple. Thought they'd heal his sister." His cracked lips split on a sound that might have been a laugh. "They threw torches."
Harik's fingers dug into her shoulder like tree roots—not pulling her closer, but pushing her away. "Go," he wheezed. His breath smelled of rotting reeds and sour milk. "Your duty's to those tubes, not to me." His hand trembled against her collarbone, the gesture unmistakable: *Move.*
Kasi hesitated. The old farmer's weight slumped against her, his ribs heaving under the threadbare tunic. She could taste the fever on his breath—bitter willow bark and something darker, like mud stirred from river bottoms. His fingers still pushed weakly at her shoulder, insistent as a tide.
"Lila's closer than the temple," she lied, adjusting her grip on his waist. The mule snorted, its ears flat against its skull. She could almost hear her old orphanage matron hissing in her ear: *Messages first, mercy second.* The scroll tubes pressed against her thigh, their seals intact, their destinations unchanged by whatever horror had unfolded at Black Hollow.
Harik coughed—a wet, rattling sound that sprayed droplets onto her collarbone. "Boy wasn't... lying," he gasped. His fingers found the strap of her shoulder sack, tugging weakly. "They're burning them alive." The words slithered out between labored breaths, each syllable weighted with a truth Kasi didn't want to carry.
A gust stirred the cedars, showering them with needles. Kasi exhaled through her teeth. Duty warred with the memory of Harik's daughter pressing a honey cake into her palm last winter, whispering *For the road* while her own children watched with hungry eyes. She touched the vellum tube through the sack's worn fabric. Temple decrees couldn't outrun a plague—but they could save a town.
Kasi counted her breaths like coins—precious, finite. Five to steady her hands. Ten to ignore the fever-heat radiating from Harik’s ribs against her side. Twenty to drown out the image of torches arcing through twilight onto thatched roofs. The old farmer sagged heavier with each step, his mumbled warnings dissolving into incoherent whispers about chalk circles and burning robes.
She ran towards her destination amone, hoping thr old man would keep to him self in case he was sick or worse and contagious. The mule was nowhere to be seen, she hoped it had wandered home. The sun was low and she needed to make shelter for the night and decide what to do in the morning.
The path branched ahead—one fork leading uphill toward Lila's farm, the other winding down toward the White Stag temple. Kasi's sandals skidded on loose gravel as she hesitated. Harik's warnings buzzed in her skull like wasps in a jar. Burning robes. Barred roads. If the temple wardens were torching plague houses, delivering these scrolls could mean walking into a death camp. But the mayor's wife needed that festival date confirmed by dawn, and couriers who abandoned consignments didn't get second chances.
She veered uphill, her thighs burning with the incline. Not toward the temple, not yet—but to the abandoned charcoal burner's hut she'd used last autumn when the rains came early. The roof had held then; it would hold tonight. As for Harik... Lila's farm stood another mile beyond the hut. Close enough to reach by moonlight if she moved fast.
The hut's sagging door creaked when she shoved it open. Dust motes swirled in the fading light slanting through the smoke hole. Kasi dropped her pack by the cold hearth and knelt to inspect the scroll tubes. The vellum one bore the White Stag's antler seal pressed into scarlet wax—untouched, just as she'd received it. She traced the ridges with her thumb. Breaking it would curse her, but not knowing might get her killed.
The vellum tube rolled between Kasi's palms like a live coal. Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the hut's cracked mortar with a sound like distant screaming. She shoved the scroll back into her pack—too loud, too obvious—then froze at the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Too heavy for Harik's mule, too steady for a fever-struck farmer.
Kasi dropped flat behind the hearthstone just as the door groaned open. Boots scuffed the dirt floor, paused near her abandoned sandals. She held her breath, counting heartbeats until the intruder exhaled—a wet, labored sound that wasn't human. The stench hit her next: rancid fat and spoiled meat. Bear. But not the healthy kind that avoided cabins; this one smelled like it had been rolling in plague corpses.
Claws clicked toward her hiding spot. Kasi bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, then slid her knife across her thumb in one quick motion. The pain barely registered—she'd had worse splinters hauling cedar logs—but the blood welled fast and dark. Pressing her thumb to her forehead, she traced the orphanage wardens' old sigil against plague and predators: a circle with a line through it, simple as a barred door. *Keep walking. Keep walking.* The prayer was to the god of travellers snd messengers for protection.
The bear sniffed the air with wet, rattling breaths. Its claws scraped the hearthstone inches from her face, leaving grooves in the soot. Kasi squeezed her eyes shut. Blood trickled past her temple, warm as candle wax. She imagined it hardening into a mask, sealing her scent away from whatever rot had driven the beast inside.
A grunt from the bear and paw scrapes on ground were the last she heard of it. She set out her bed role and took out her rations and lit a fire to make tea with the herbs she had gathered earlier that day. She listened for any sound of the bear but heard none. She was not afraid, she had met many bears before, but was wary of this one because of its stench. She ate her meal and drank her tea and lay down to sleep.
The fire had burned down to embers when she heard the footsteps outside—confident, steady, not the shuffling gait of Harik or the lumbering tread of the bear. A voice called, "Hail in the hut?" Young, male, with the clipped cadence of someone used to covering distance quickly.
Kasi sat up, knife already in hand. "Hail," she called back, matching the formal greeting. Her voice didn't waver, though her fingers tightened around the hilt.
The door creaked open just enough to reveal a silhouette backlit by moonlight—lean shoulders, a courier's pack slung low, the glint of a blade at his belt. "I'm a courier looking to stay the night," he said. "May I? I think a bear is nearby."
She saw his red loincloth and scarf, not unlike her own and knew he was a courier by his build so let him in, he saw she was naked for bed but saw her red courier svarf and loincloth and was relieved to meet a fellow messenger. He introduced himself as Micah from White Stag Temple and she told him she was Kasi from the library town.
They exchanged greetings and she told him about Harik and the bear and the robe in the creek. Micah listened intently, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh. When she mentioned the robe, his fingers stilled. "Blue with silver embroidery?" His voice was too calm.
Kasi nodded, watching his face in the dim firelight. "You know something."
Micah exhaled through his nose. "They're burning the sick. Not just at Black Hollow—three villages east of the temple." His fingers traced the outline of the vellum tube in her pack. "That's why I'm here. To warn the outlying settlements before the wardens seal the roads completely."
Kasi's fingers twitched toward her knife. The firelight caught the hollows under Micah's eyes, the sweat sheening his collarbones above his scarf. Too close, too knowing. "You touched one of those scrolls," she accused.
Micah's face was grim “never, but I overheard the clerics discussing it before they called me in to take the scrolls”
Kasi rose to stoke the embers without hesitation, her bare skin catching the dim orange glow as she crouched by the hearth. Micah watched her hands move—practiced, unselfconscious—as she added kindling and blew gently on the coals. The fire leapt up, painting her shoulder blades with light.
"You're not from the temple," she observed, not looking up. The way he'd said *overheard* suggested he wasn't among the trusted.
Micah untied his scarf with a wry twist of his mouth. "Third son of a charcoal burner. They only let me near the scrolls because i’m the senior courier”
Kasi tossed another stick into the fire without bothering to cover herself. Nudity meant nothing among couriers—they bathed in streams together, patched each other’s wounds, slept tangled for warmth on winter runs. Still, she caught Micah’s gaze flicking downward before he busied himself untying his sandals. Not staring, just assessing. She’d done the same when he’d entered: noting the lean muscle of his thighs, the old scar across his ribs—signs of a runner who’d taken tumbles and kept moving.
"Tea’s bitterroot and honeyfern," she said, pouring hot water over the dried leaves in her tin cup. The steam carried a scent like burnt caramel and wet earth. "Keeps the night chills out."
Micah peeled off his loincloth with the quick efficiency of someone used to dressing in downpours or wolf territory. His skin was darker than hers, sun-browned from temple courtyard drills, and he moved with the loose-hipped grace of a boy who’d grown up climbing trees. He scooped creek water from her bucket to rinse his face and chest, the droplets catching firelight as they slid down his stomach.
Kasi handed him the chipped clay cup. Their fingers brushed—warm where hers were calloused from knife work, his still damp from washing. He took a sip and sighed “my favourite thank you”
Micah’s fingers lingered on the cup a heartbeat too long before passing it back. The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling toward the smoke hole. "They’re not just burning the sick," he said quietly. "They’re marking the couriers who delivered to those villages."
Kasi’s breath hitched. She touched the red scarf tied around her wrist—the one all messengers wore to identify their guild. "With what?"
"Purple dye ." Micah drew a hooked rune in the dirt between them, identical to the one Harik had sketched in the air. "On our scarvs and foreheads, no hiding it”
The firelight danced across Micah’s face as Kasi studied the rune in the dirt. It looked like a sickle moon with a barbed tail—the kind of mark wardens used to brand thieves before driving them into the wilds. She swallowed hard. "Why?"
Micah’s fingers clenched around the cup. "Because we’ve been everywhere. Like the merchants, theyre being marked too, in case we’re spreading it”
Micah gestured to the space beside her bedroll with his chin, his hands busy wringing water from his damp loincloth. "Mind if I—"
Kasi shrugged before he finished, scooting over to make room near the hearth. "Shared body heat's better than a blanket." She tossed him one end of her thin sleeping mat—courier pragmatism, nothing more. The nights got cold in burner huts, and they both knew the temple wouldn't replace frostbitten toes.
He spread his bedroll with quick, efficient motions, the firelight catching on the puckered scar along his ribs—a souvenir from some past run gone wrong. Kasi pretended not to notice how his breathing hitched when he stretched, or the way his fingers lingered over that old injury. Every courier had those tells; the ones who lasted learned to read them in others like trail markers.
"You've got burrs in your hair," he said suddenly, reaching out but not quite touching the tangled blonde strands catching firelight.
Micah's bedroll unfurled with a whisper of worn fabric, landing parallel to hers but not touching—the careful distance couriers kept when sharing space with strangers. Kasi watched from the corner of her eye as he smoothed the thin padding with practiced hands, his fingers lingering near the knife strapped to its edge. A question hovered between them, unasked: *Which way will you face tonight?* Toward the door or the hearth? Toward trust or caution?
She turned her back to him first, presenting her spine like a challenge. The fire popped behind them, casting their elongated shadows against the soot-stained wall. Micah exhaled—slow, deliberate—before lying down facing her, close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. Not intimate, just efficient; this way, they could both spring up armed if the bear returned.
"You're shivering," he murmured. His fingertips brushed her shoulder blade—light as a leaf falling, gone before she could tense. "Plague fever doesn't start that fast."
Kasi clenched her teeth to stop their chattering. The hut's drafts always found the gaps in a bedroll. "It's the creek water in my bones." She'd forded three streams since finding Harik, each colder than the last.
Micah unrolled his sleeping mat with quick, practiced motions, the frayed edges brushing against hers in the firelight. Kasi watched his hands—calloused knuckles, dirt-crusted nails, the kind of hands that had hauled messages through hailstorms and still kept moving. He settled in closer than strictly necessary for warmth, his knee bumping hers as he arranged his pack within easy reach. Neither apologized; couriers learned early that personal space was a luxury reserved for those who slept indoors more than once a month.
"How close do you want me to be?”
Kasi rolled toward him, her fingers brushing his cheek before either of them could second-guess the motion. The calluses on her fingertips caught against the rough stubble along Micah’s jaw—not a lover’s touch, but something quieter, fiercer. The firelight carved hollows under his eyes, made his pupils wide and dark. She didn’t pull away.
"Cold makes you stupid," she said, as if explaining why she’d left her knife sheathed between them instead of in her grip.
Micah’s breath hitched—not from fear, but the way her thumb traced the scar above his eyebrow. A courier’s instinct, cataloging injuries like trail markers. "Bear got you?"
"Oak branch." His voice was rougher than she expected. "Middle of a hailstorm. Had to finish the run with one eye full of blood."
Kasi rolled toward Micah in the flickering firelight, her fingers finding his face before she could overthink the motion. His skin was warm under her touch—warmer than it should be after washing in creek water—but his steady breathing reassured her. Plague or not, this hut with its drafty gaps and the distant memory of the bear’s rancid stench felt safer with another courier’s presence. She traced the ridge of his cheekbone, the rough patch where stubble caught against her calluses.
"Your scar," she murmured. "It’s newer than I thought." The raised flesh was still pink at the edges, the kind of wound that hadn’t fully settled into the skin yet.
Micah caught her wrist, not to push her away but to anchor her hand against his jaw. His grip was firm, the way couriers held onto each other crossing swollen rivers. "Three moons ago," he admitted. "Right before they started marking the couriers." His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist where her pulse thrummed—checking for fever, she realized, the way orphanage matrons did after night chills.
The fire popped, scattering embers across the hearthstone. Kasi didn’t pull back. Scary times made for strange comforts, and right now, the solid reality of Micah’s breath on her knuckles mattered more than guild decorum. Outside, the wind moaned through the hut’s cracks, carrying a scent like wet charcoal and distant rain.
Kasi's fingers hovered over Micah's cheekbone, tracing the air just above his skin like she was reading braille. The firelight made shadows pool in the hollow beneath his eye—too deep for a healthy courier, the kind of hollow that came from too many missed meals and too many night runs. Her thumb finally made contact, brushing the ridge of his scar with a touch so light it might have been accidental.
Micah didn't flinch. His breath stayed even—in through the nose, out through parted lips—the measured rhythm of someone used to conserving energy. But his eyelids lowered halfway, not in exhaustion but in something quieter, something that made Kasi's own breathing slow to match his. The hut's drafts still found their way through the bedrolls, but where their knees touched, a line of warmth formed like a promise.
Kasi's fingers drifted lower, tracing the angle of his jaw where tendon met bone. Courier's hands knew bodies by their wear—the knotted shoulders of scribes, the thickened wrists of farmers—but Micah's throat moved under her touch with the easy grace of someone who'd spent years running messages through these same hills. Her thumb found his pulse point, not to count beats but because it was there, because in this moment she could.
The fire popped, sending embers swirling upward. Micah's hand rose to cover hers where it rested against his neck—not to push away, but to press her palm more firmly against his skin. His fingers were warmer than they should be after washing in the creek, but not fever-hot. Just alive. Just present.
Kasi shifted closer without thinking, her bare thigh brushing his as she propped herself up on one elbow. The movement brought their faces inches apart—close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the way his pupils widened as her hair fell forward to curtain them both. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the orphanage matron's voice scolded about propriety, but it was distant as last winter's snow.
Kasi's breath hitched as Micah's knee slid between hers—not a demand, not a question, just the quiet inevitability of two bodies finding warmth in a drafty hut. His fingers still clasped hers against his throat, their pulses syncing in the firelight. The calluses on his palm rasped against her knuckles, familiar as her own scars.
She could have pulled back. Should have, maybe, if they'd been in the temple courtyard with wardens watching. But here, with the wind howling through the chinks in the mortar and the memory of that bear's stench still clinging to the doorframe, propriety felt as distant as the stars.
"Promise you'll pull out?" she asked quietly, her breath warm against Micah's collarbone. Not coy, not hesitant—just practical, like discussing which fork in the trail to take at dawn.
Micah's fingers stilled where they'd been tracing the dip of her spine. He drew back just enough to meet her eyes in the firelight, his expression unreadable except for the way his throat worked when he swallowed. "Couriers don't lie about that," he said finally, voice rough. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist where her pulse hammered—not fear, but the adrenal surge of a runner cresting a ridge.
Kasi exhaled through her nose. She knew the risks as well as any orphan raised in the temple's shadow—bastards got left on doorsteps, or worse, grew up hauling water for wardens until their backs bent. But the way Micah looked at her now, with his scars silvered by firelight and his breath coming quick against her lips, made the warnings feel as distant as last winter's snow.
She arched into him, her knee hooking over his hip. "Then don't stop," she murmured, and sealed the words against his mouth.
The firelight guttered as Micah rolled her beneath him, his mouth hot and insistent against hers. Kasi tangled her fingers in his hair—not gentle, not sweet—the way couriers grabbed at handholds when scaling cliff faces. His teeth caught her lower lip, and she arched up to meet him with a gasp that had nothing to do with pain.
Somewhere beyond the hut's thin walls, the wind screamed through the trees. Closer, much closer, Micah's breathing went ragged against her throat as she dragged her nails down his back. The scars under her fingertips told stories of their own—ridged lines from whipvine encounters, the puckered knot of an old arrow wound—a map of deliveries made and survived.
Practicality warred with the heat pooling low in her belly. She'd seen enough couriers slowed by pregnancy, their routes cut short by swollen ankles and aching backs. But when Micah's hand slid between her thighs, calluses catching on sensitive skin, Kasi stopped thinking altogether.
She spread her legs wide for him, her hands guiding his hips down—no hesitation, no false modesty. The first thrust stole her breath, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of connection, their bodies fitting together with the same easy precision as their footsteps on a mountain trail. Micah groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing against hers as he paused, trembling. Kasi dug her heels into the small of his back. "Move," she ordered between clenched teeth. "Or I will."
He obeyed without hesitation, setting a rhythm that matched the pounding of her pulse—fast but sustainable, the pace they'd both perfected on countless runs. The thin bedroll did little to cushion her against the packed earth, but Kasi barely noticed the discomfort. Every thrust drove the thought of plague marks and burning villages further from her mind, replaced by the slick heat between them and Micah's ragged breathing in her ear.
When his fingers dug into her hips for leverage, Kasi realized with startled clarity that Micah was hitting depths no courier boy had ever reached before. The stretch bordered on painful—not the sharp sting of her first time behind the orphanage woodshed, but a deep, throbbing pressure that radiated up through her pelvis with every thrust. She arched off the bedroll with a gasp that turned into a moan halfway up her throat, her fingers scrabbling at his sweat-slick shoulders for purchase.
Micah's breath hitched in response, his rhythm faltering for half a heartbeat before he adjusted the angle of his hips. The next thrust dragged against something inside her that made her vision whiten at the edges. Kasi's thighs clamped around his waist involuntarily, her toes curling against his calves as pleasure licked up her spine like wildfire through dry grass.
"You're—ah—taller than you look," she managed between panting breaths, her voice breaking on the last word as he bottomed out again. His pelvis ground against hers with delicious precision, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock rubbing her oversensitized clit with each thrust. Kasi arched off the bedroll, her nails raking furrows down Micah's sweat-slick back as her climax hit like a summer storm—sudden, drenching, impossible to ignore.
He pulled out before cumming and she quickly took him in her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head before taking him deep, her lips tight. Micah's fingers tangled in her hair—not guiding, just anchoring—as his hips jerked involuntarily. The taste of him was familiar, salt and iron and the faint bitterness of road dust, but the way his breath hitched when she hollowed her cheeks was new.
Kasi worked him with the same practiced efficiency she used to clean her knife—methodical, thorough, no wasted motion. Her fingers pressed into the hollows of his hips where sweat pooled, keeping him from thrusting too deep. When his thighs trembled, she slowed, teasing the vein along his shaft with her tongue until he groaned her name like a prayer snd filled her mouth with his seed
.
They lay tangled afterward, limbs draped over each other with the easy familiarity of shared exhaustion. Micah traced idle circles on her shoulder where a scar from a courier's satchel strap had long since faded white. Outside, the wind had died down, leaving only the occasional creak of branches and the distant cry of a night heron.
"At dawn," Kasi murmured against his collarbone, "we check each other for marks." Micah's answering hum vibrated through her cheek where it rested on his chest. His fingers paused their tracing of her scars—just for a heartbeat—before continuing their idle path along her ribs.
The fire had burned low, leaving the hut draped in shifting shadows. Kasi watched the dim orange glow play across Micah's throat, counting the pulse there as it slowed toward sleep. Her own eyelids grew heavy, but she forced them open. The night felt too fragile for dreams.
They held each other close and fell asleep. Dawn came gray and damp, mist clinging to the cedar boughs outside the hut. Kasi woke first, her body stiff from the hard ground but warm where Micah's chest pressed against her back. His arm was slung over her waist, fingers twitching occasionally as if still tracing routes on her skin.
She slipped free carefully, reaching for her knife before standing. The blade's edge caught the pale light as she checked it—still sharp enough to shave hairs from her forearm. Outside, the world was eerily silent. No birdsong, no rustling in the underbrush—just the drip of condensation from the hut's thatched roof.
Micah stirred when she knelt beside him, his eyes snapping open with the instant alertness of someone who'd slept rough more nights than not. "Your scarf," he said hoarsely, fingers brushing the red cloth still tied around her wrist. "Still clean."
Kasi exhaled, tension she hadn't realized she was holding leaving her shoulders. She turned her face toward the light filtering through the smoke hole. "Your turn."
Micah sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Kasi turned his face toward the dim light. Her fingers were brisk against his skin, tilting his chin up to examine his throat, then pushing his hair back to inspect his forehead. The morning air was thick with the scent of damp cedar and the lingering musk of their shared warmth.
"Clear," she announced after a thorough inspection, her thumb brushing the faint stubble along his jawline.
Micah caught her wrist, pressing her palm flat against his chest where his heartbeat thudded steadily. "You're sure?" His voice was low, rough with sleep, but his eyes were sharp—searching hers for hesitation.
Kasi nodded. "No fever. No marks." She pulled her hand free and reached for her loincloth, shaking out the wrinkles before tying it on with practiced efficiency.
The first birdsong of dawn was still tentative when Micah sat up abruptly, his hands finding Kasi's hips in the gray half-light. She blinked sleep from her eyes as he pulled her upright—no hesitation, no asking—just the firm certainty of a courier who'd made his decision. Kasi went willingly, her thighs bracketing his lap as he lifted her effortlessly, her body remembering the lean strength she'd felt beneath her palms hours before.
Their joining was smoother this time—no fumbling, no adjustments—just the slick heat of her body opening for him as gravity did the work. Kasi gasped at the stretch, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he seated himself fully inside her. Micah's breath hitched against her throat, his arms trembling slightly from the effort of holding her suspended.
"You're amazing” he said softly, his lips brushing her throat as he moved beneath her. Kasi arched into each slow thrust, her hands braced against his shoulders for balance. The morning chill made gooseflesh rise along her arms, but where their bodies joined, heat pooled thick and urgent. Micah's fingers tightened on her hips—not guiding, just holding—as she set a rhythm that matched her quickening breaths.
Outside, the mist thinned as the sun climbed. A shaft of pale gold light pierced the smoke hole, painting Micah's collarbones with liquid warmth. Kasi watched the play of muscle beneath his skin as she rode him, marveling at how something so simple could feel so consuming. When his thumb found the sensitive nub between her legs, her vision whited out for a heartbeat, her thighs clamping around his waist involuntarily.
Micah groaned low in his throat, his hips stuttering beneath her. "Close," he warned—not a plea, just a courier's habit of signaling milestones. Kasi nodded, tightening around him deliberately as she chased her own peak. The friction burned deliciously, her body straining toward that precipice where pleasure and pain blurred.
She came with a soundless gasp, her back bowing as the wave crested. Micah lifted her off and she desperately took him in her mouth again, swallowing hard as he pulsed between her lips. They collapsed together, damp with exertion, their mingled breaths loud in the quiet hut. Kasi wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, tasting salt and something faintly metallic—probably from where her teeth had nicked his thigh earlier.
The morning light revealed details last night's firelight had hidden—a fresh scratch along Micah's ribcage from her nails, the way his collarbones jutted sharper than they should. She reached out without thinking, tracing the hollow between them. "You're leaner than temple rations allow."
Micah caught her fingers, pressing them briefly to his lips before releasing them. "Been running extra routes." His gaze flicked to her pack where the sealed scrolls lay. "Same as you."
Kasi sat up, the rough-woven bedroll scratching her thighs. Outside, the mist had burned away, leaving the hut's interior washed in pale gold. She reached for her knife first—always the knife—then her loincloth, tying it with quick, efficient tugs. "We should check the perimeter. That bear—"
Micah was already moving, rolling to his feet with the silent grace of someone who'd slept armed in wolf country. Kasi watched the play of morning light across his back—the old scars, the fresh scratches from her nails—as he buckled his knife belt. Neither spoke as they dressed; couriers learned early that dawn was for listening, not talking.
The door creaked when Micah pushed it open, the sound impossibly loud in the hush. Kasi followed, her bare feet silent on the damp earth. The world outside was too still—no chattering squirrels, no rustling undergrowth—just the drip of condensation from cedar boughs and the distant gurgle of the creek.
She spotted the tracks first: three-toed, deep-gouged, trailing something dark and viscous toward the tree line. Not bear. Not anything natural. Micah crouched beside her, his fingers hovering above the claw marks without touching. "Warder's work," he murmured. The words hung between them like a hanged man's shadow.
Kasi's hand found her knife hilt. She'd heard stories of course—every orphan had—of the temple's enforcers and their... modifications. But seeing the proof carved into the earth was different. The tracks led northeast, toward Harik's daughter's farm.
The creek mud sucked at Kasi's sandals as she and Micah crouched behind a fallen cedar, studying the warder's tracks. The three-toed prints glistened with something darker than morning dew—oil, maybe, or congealed blood. Micah's fingers brushed hers in the damp leaves, not quite holding, just confirming contact.
"We swing wide around Harik's farm," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. "Head straight for the delivery point. If the guards are still at their posts, they'll sign for both our scrolls without us stepping foot in town."
Kasi nodded, her thumb rubbing absently over the red scarf at her wrist. It made sense—couriers paired up during pestilence seasons all the time. But this was different. This was Micah tracing the back of her hand with one callused finger as they planned, his touch lingering just long enough to make her pulse skip.
They moved in tandem along the creekbed, their bare feet silent on the mossy stones. Every few paces, Micah would pause—not to check for danger, but to brush a hand across her lower back, or catch her elbow when she stumbled on a slick rock. Small, unnecessary touches that warmed her more than the rising sun.
TBC
Kasi, she’s an orphan. Works as an official courier taking messages on foot from town to town, village to village
Micah, he’s older than Kasi, from a poor family and making his own way as a courier
************
Chapter 1
"Rocks in your shoes again, girl?" The old cleric chuckled as Kasi hopped on one foot near the library's arched entrance, shaking a pebble from her worn sandal.
She grinned, tossing her tangled blonde hair over her shoulder. "Only the left one today. Must be luck." The morning sun caught her opal eyes, making them gleam like wet stones as she straightened up and dusted her hands on her loincloth. The librarian's robes—heavy, embroidered things—always made her own bare skin feel lighter by comparison.
Three leather scroll tubes waited on the polished cedar counter between them, their wax seals gleaming red as fresh blood. The old man tapped the nearest one with a knobby finger. "Temple of the White Stag by sundown. Their scribe’s waiting with a reply for the mayor’s wife—some fuss about festival dates." He pushed them toward her, the motion practiced after years of handing messages to couriers who came and went like seasons.
Kasi tucked the tubes into her shoulder sack without checking the seals. She knew better than to pry, and besides, the weight told her enough: two were standard parchment, but the third had the dense heft of vellum, the kind used for holy decrees. Her thumb brushed the cleric’s wrinkled palm as she took them—a habit from orphanage days, a silent *thank you* when words felt too heavy. He gsve her a blessing for safe travel that made her feel warm and fortituous
She knew to unseal a scroll and spy was a high crime and would curse her, she had a reputation to maintain too—honest, reliable, the fastest runner for three villages—but the vellum tube burned against her thigh with every step toward the forest path.
The first hour passed in the rhythm of packed earth beneath her sandals, the sway of her sack against her hip, the way sweat pooled between her small breasts before trickling down her ribs. Kasi adjusted her stride as the trail narrowed—long steps between rocks, short hops over roots—her body remembering every turn better than her mind did. The third time her fingers brushed the suspicious tube, she caught herself and clenched her fist.
A crow’s cry shattered her thoughts. She looked up to see three black shapes circling above the cedars. Not crows—ravens, the White Stag’s messengers. Too early for them to be out unless... Her stomach dropped. Someone had died at the temple.
The ravens’ shadows skimmed the ground ahead of her, moving faster than she could run. Kasi hissed a curse and ducked under a low branch, her sandals skidding on damp leaves. She couldn’t outfly them, but if the scribe was already preparing a death announcement, she’d lose her bonus for swift delivery.
The ravens vanished beyond the treeline, but their shadows clung to Kasi's heels as she ran. Not the frantic sprint of a startled deer—couriers who ran like that snapped ankles or worse—but the steady, measured pace that could outlast panic. Her breathing steadied—in through the nose, out through parted lips—as she settled into the rhythm village couriers called "the long hunger." Not a sprint, but something deeper: a gnawing emptiness in the thighs that meant you'd still be moving when others collapsed.
Her backpack and bedroll were snug across her back. Nothing bounced or rattled and her consignment was safe and secure inside her pack. She had tied the straps tight and adjusted them perfectly. She knew she had. Yet with every step, that damn vellum tube *itched* against her thigh like a burr caught in her loincloth.
The path dipped into a shallow creek bed. Kasi barely slowed—her toes knew the slick stones by heart, how to land just long enough to push off without slipping. The icy water barely registered as it splashed up her calves. Three summers hauling messages through these woods had turned her feet into maps.
Halfway across, her sandal caught on something soft. Not a rock. A bundle of sodden linen wedged between stones—no, a *sleeve*. Kasi’s breath hitched. The rest of the robe surfaced as she nudged it with her foot, its embroidered hem frayed and dirty. Temple garb. White Stag acolytes wore this shade of blue when tending the sick.
She crouched, scanning the banks. No blood. No body. Just the robe, washed downstream and snagged here like driftwood. Her fingers hovered over the fabric. Touching a death shroud was bad luck, but leaving it felt worse. The ravens had been flying east, toward the temple. If plague had broken out... she coild only reprot her findings, not go investigate. That was for others to decide.
A twig snapped upstream. Kasi froze, her knife halfway drawn before she recognized the sound—not a predator, but the uneven gait of Old Man Harik’s lame mule. The beast emerged from the ferns, its rider slumped over its neck in a way that made her stomach twist. Harik wasn’t supposed to be on the forest paths today. His daughter had sworn he was bedridden with swamp fever.
The mule stopped mid-stream, nostrils flaring at the torn robe. Harik didn’t stir.
"Hey." Kasi waded closer, sandals slipping on mossy stones. The old farmer’s face was gray as rainclouds, his lips cracked and moving soundlessly. She grabbed the mule’s frayed bridle. "Harik. Look at me."
Harik's eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes glassy with fever. His breath came in shallow rasps, carrying the sour stench of infection. "Girl..." he croaked, fingers twitching toward the sodden robe caught on the rocks. "They're burning them. At the temple."
Kasi's grip tightened on the bridle. Burning robes meant plague, meant quarantine. But the White Stag temple stood southwest—Harik had come from the east fork, where the river curled toward Black Hollow. Her pulse steadied. The scrolls in her pack weren't destined for a death house after all.
The mule shifted, its hooves clattering on creek stones. Harik groaned, his fever-damp forehead brushing the animal's mane. "They barred the Hollow road," he whispered. "Smashed the bridge timbers." His fingers plucked at his own threadbare tunic like he wanted to tear it off. "Said we brought the sickness. But it was *them*—their pilgrims..."
Kasi's mind raced. Black Hollow lay beyond her usual routes, a cluster of woodcutters and charcoal burners too poor to afford regular couriers. If they'd blocked the bridge, the detour would add half a day to her trip—but the alternative was walking into a plague ward. She touched Harik's wrist. His skin burned like a banked hearth.
"You're not going back there." She knotted the mule's lead rope around a maple sapling. The old man's daughter lived two ridges north, near the salt lick. Close enough.
Harik's head jerked toward the waterlogged robe. "They're marking houses," he rasped. "Chalk circles on the doors. Like the old tales." His fingers trembled, sketching a shape in the air that made Kasi's nape prickle—not the Stag's antlers, but the hooked rune wardens used to quarantine the dying.
A breeze rippled the creek, carrying the scent of cedar and something darker, like wet ashes. Kasi shoved the robe under a rock with her foot. Let the river take it downstream to the marshes where no one would find it until the dyes bled out. Plague markers were trouble; people panicked at the sight of them, started seeing signs where there were none.
She looped Harik's arm over her shoulders, his weight familiar from hauling injured couriers off mountain trails. "We're taking you to Lila." His daughter would know what to do—whether to hide him or burn his clothes or send for the wardens. That wasn't Kasi's burden. Her duty was the scrolls in her pack, still dry, still sealed.
The mule balked when she tried to turn it uphill. Harik mumbled against her neck, his breath hot and sour. "The boy... ran toward the temple. Thought they'd heal his sister." His cracked lips split on a sound that might have been a laugh. "They threw torches."
Harik's fingers dug into her shoulder like tree roots—not pulling her closer, but pushing her away. "Go," he wheezed. His breath smelled of rotting reeds and sour milk. "Your duty's to those tubes, not to me." His hand trembled against her collarbone, the gesture unmistakable: *Move.*
Kasi hesitated. The old farmer's weight slumped against her, his ribs heaving under the threadbare tunic. She could taste the fever on his breath—bitter willow bark and something darker, like mud stirred from river bottoms. His fingers still pushed weakly at her shoulder, insistent as a tide.
"Lila's closer than the temple," she lied, adjusting her grip on his waist. The mule snorted, its ears flat against its skull. She could almost hear her old orphanage matron hissing in her ear: *Messages first, mercy second.* The scroll tubes pressed against her thigh, their seals intact, their destinations unchanged by whatever horror had unfolded at Black Hollow.
Harik coughed—a wet, rattling sound that sprayed droplets onto her collarbone. "Boy wasn't... lying," he gasped. His fingers found the strap of her shoulder sack, tugging weakly. "They're burning them alive." The words slithered out between labored breaths, each syllable weighted with a truth Kasi didn't want to carry.
A gust stirred the cedars, showering them with needles. Kasi exhaled through her teeth. Duty warred with the memory of Harik's daughter pressing a honey cake into her palm last winter, whispering *For the road* while her own children watched with hungry eyes. She touched the vellum tube through the sack's worn fabric. Temple decrees couldn't outrun a plague—but they could save a town.
Kasi counted her breaths like coins—precious, finite. Five to steady her hands. Ten to ignore the fever-heat radiating from Harik’s ribs against her side. Twenty to drown out the image of torches arcing through twilight onto thatched roofs. The old farmer sagged heavier with each step, his mumbled warnings dissolving into incoherent whispers about chalk circles and burning robes.
She ran towards her destination amone, hoping thr old man would keep to him self in case he was sick or worse and contagious. The mule was nowhere to be seen, she hoped it had wandered home. The sun was low and she needed to make shelter for the night and decide what to do in the morning.
The path branched ahead—one fork leading uphill toward Lila's farm, the other winding down toward the White Stag temple. Kasi's sandals skidded on loose gravel as she hesitated. Harik's warnings buzzed in her skull like wasps in a jar. Burning robes. Barred roads. If the temple wardens were torching plague houses, delivering these scrolls could mean walking into a death camp. But the mayor's wife needed that festival date confirmed by dawn, and couriers who abandoned consignments didn't get second chances.
She veered uphill, her thighs burning with the incline. Not toward the temple, not yet—but to the abandoned charcoal burner's hut she'd used last autumn when the rains came early. The roof had held then; it would hold tonight. As for Harik... Lila's farm stood another mile beyond the hut. Close enough to reach by moonlight if she moved fast.
The hut's sagging door creaked when she shoved it open. Dust motes swirled in the fading light slanting through the smoke hole. Kasi dropped her pack by the cold hearth and knelt to inspect the scroll tubes. The vellum one bore the White Stag's antler seal pressed into scarlet wax—untouched, just as she'd received it. She traced the ridges with her thumb. Breaking it would curse her, but not knowing might get her killed.
The vellum tube rolled between Kasi's palms like a live coal. Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the hut's cracked mortar with a sound like distant screaming. She shoved the scroll back into her pack—too loud, too obvious—then froze at the crunch of footsteps on gravel. Too heavy for Harik's mule, too steady for a fever-struck farmer.
Kasi dropped flat behind the hearthstone just as the door groaned open. Boots scuffed the dirt floor, paused near her abandoned sandals. She held her breath, counting heartbeats until the intruder exhaled—a wet, labored sound that wasn't human. The stench hit her next: rancid fat and spoiled meat. Bear. But not the healthy kind that avoided cabins; this one smelled like it had been rolling in plague corpses.
Claws clicked toward her hiding spot. Kasi bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, then slid her knife across her thumb in one quick motion. The pain barely registered—she'd had worse splinters hauling cedar logs—but the blood welled fast and dark. Pressing her thumb to her forehead, she traced the orphanage wardens' old sigil against plague and predators: a circle with a line through it, simple as a barred door. *Keep walking. Keep walking.* The prayer was to the god of travellers snd messengers for protection.
The bear sniffed the air with wet, rattling breaths. Its claws scraped the hearthstone inches from her face, leaving grooves in the soot. Kasi squeezed her eyes shut. Blood trickled past her temple, warm as candle wax. She imagined it hardening into a mask, sealing her scent away from whatever rot had driven the beast inside.
A grunt from the bear and paw scrapes on ground were the last she heard of it. She set out her bed role and took out her rations and lit a fire to make tea with the herbs she had gathered earlier that day. She listened for any sound of the bear but heard none. She was not afraid, she had met many bears before, but was wary of this one because of its stench. She ate her meal and drank her tea and lay down to sleep.
The fire had burned down to embers when she heard the footsteps outside—confident, steady, not the shuffling gait of Harik or the lumbering tread of the bear. A voice called, "Hail in the hut?" Young, male, with the clipped cadence of someone used to covering distance quickly.
Kasi sat up, knife already in hand. "Hail," she called back, matching the formal greeting. Her voice didn't waver, though her fingers tightened around the hilt.
The door creaked open just enough to reveal a silhouette backlit by moonlight—lean shoulders, a courier's pack slung low, the glint of a blade at his belt. "I'm a courier looking to stay the night," he said. "May I? I think a bear is nearby."
She saw his red loincloth and scarf, not unlike her own and knew he was a courier by his build so let him in, he saw she was naked for bed but saw her red courier svarf and loincloth and was relieved to meet a fellow messenger. He introduced himself as Micah from White Stag Temple and she told him she was Kasi from the library town.
They exchanged greetings and she told him about Harik and the bear and the robe in the creek. Micah listened intently, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh. When she mentioned the robe, his fingers stilled. "Blue with silver embroidery?" His voice was too calm.
Kasi nodded, watching his face in the dim firelight. "You know something."
Micah exhaled through his nose. "They're burning the sick. Not just at Black Hollow—three villages east of the temple." His fingers traced the outline of the vellum tube in her pack. "That's why I'm here. To warn the outlying settlements before the wardens seal the roads completely."
Kasi's fingers twitched toward her knife. The firelight caught the hollows under Micah's eyes, the sweat sheening his collarbones above his scarf. Too close, too knowing. "You touched one of those scrolls," she accused.
Micah's face was grim “never, but I overheard the clerics discussing it before they called me in to take the scrolls”
Kasi rose to stoke the embers without hesitation, her bare skin catching the dim orange glow as she crouched by the hearth. Micah watched her hands move—practiced, unselfconscious—as she added kindling and blew gently on the coals. The fire leapt up, painting her shoulder blades with light.
"You're not from the temple," she observed, not looking up. The way he'd said *overheard* suggested he wasn't among the trusted.
Micah untied his scarf with a wry twist of his mouth. "Third son of a charcoal burner. They only let me near the scrolls because i’m the senior courier”
Kasi tossed another stick into the fire without bothering to cover herself. Nudity meant nothing among couriers—they bathed in streams together, patched each other’s wounds, slept tangled for warmth on winter runs. Still, she caught Micah’s gaze flicking downward before he busied himself untying his sandals. Not staring, just assessing. She’d done the same when he’d entered: noting the lean muscle of his thighs, the old scar across his ribs—signs of a runner who’d taken tumbles and kept moving.
"Tea’s bitterroot and honeyfern," she said, pouring hot water over the dried leaves in her tin cup. The steam carried a scent like burnt caramel and wet earth. "Keeps the night chills out."
Micah peeled off his loincloth with the quick efficiency of someone used to dressing in downpours or wolf territory. His skin was darker than hers, sun-browned from temple courtyard drills, and he moved with the loose-hipped grace of a boy who’d grown up climbing trees. He scooped creek water from her bucket to rinse his face and chest, the droplets catching firelight as they slid down his stomach.
Kasi handed him the chipped clay cup. Their fingers brushed—warm where hers were calloused from knife work, his still damp from washing. He took a sip and sighed “my favourite thank you”
Micah’s fingers lingered on the cup a heartbeat too long before passing it back. The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling toward the smoke hole. "They’re not just burning the sick," he said quietly. "They’re marking the couriers who delivered to those villages."
Kasi’s breath hitched. She touched the red scarf tied around her wrist—the one all messengers wore to identify their guild. "With what?"
"Purple dye ." Micah drew a hooked rune in the dirt between them, identical to the one Harik had sketched in the air. "On our scarvs and foreheads, no hiding it”
The firelight danced across Micah’s face as Kasi studied the rune in the dirt. It looked like a sickle moon with a barbed tail—the kind of mark wardens used to brand thieves before driving them into the wilds. She swallowed hard. "Why?"
Micah’s fingers clenched around the cup. "Because we’ve been everywhere. Like the merchants, theyre being marked too, in case we’re spreading it”
Micah gestured to the space beside her bedroll with his chin, his hands busy wringing water from his damp loincloth. "Mind if I—"
Kasi shrugged before he finished, scooting over to make room near the hearth. "Shared body heat's better than a blanket." She tossed him one end of her thin sleeping mat—courier pragmatism, nothing more. The nights got cold in burner huts, and they both knew the temple wouldn't replace frostbitten toes.
He spread his bedroll with quick, efficient motions, the firelight catching on the puckered scar along his ribs—a souvenir from some past run gone wrong. Kasi pretended not to notice how his breathing hitched when he stretched, or the way his fingers lingered over that old injury. Every courier had those tells; the ones who lasted learned to read them in others like trail markers.
"You've got burrs in your hair," he said suddenly, reaching out but not quite touching the tangled blonde strands catching firelight.
Micah's bedroll unfurled with a whisper of worn fabric, landing parallel to hers but not touching—the careful distance couriers kept when sharing space with strangers. Kasi watched from the corner of her eye as he smoothed the thin padding with practiced hands, his fingers lingering near the knife strapped to its edge. A question hovered between them, unasked: *Which way will you face tonight?* Toward the door or the hearth? Toward trust or caution?
She turned her back to him first, presenting her spine like a challenge. The fire popped behind them, casting their elongated shadows against the soot-stained wall. Micah exhaled—slow, deliberate—before lying down facing her, close enough that his breath stirred the fine hairs at her nape. Not intimate, just efficient; this way, they could both spring up armed if the bear returned.
"You're shivering," he murmured. His fingertips brushed her shoulder blade—light as a leaf falling, gone before she could tense. "Plague fever doesn't start that fast."
Kasi clenched her teeth to stop their chattering. The hut's drafts always found the gaps in a bedroll. "It's the creek water in my bones." She'd forded three streams since finding Harik, each colder than the last.
Micah unrolled his sleeping mat with quick, practiced motions, the frayed edges brushing against hers in the firelight. Kasi watched his hands—calloused knuckles, dirt-crusted nails, the kind of hands that had hauled messages through hailstorms and still kept moving. He settled in closer than strictly necessary for warmth, his knee bumping hers as he arranged his pack within easy reach. Neither apologized; couriers learned early that personal space was a luxury reserved for those who slept indoors more than once a month.
"How close do you want me to be?”
Kasi rolled toward him, her fingers brushing his cheek before either of them could second-guess the motion. The calluses on her fingertips caught against the rough stubble along Micah’s jaw—not a lover’s touch, but something quieter, fiercer. The firelight carved hollows under his eyes, made his pupils wide and dark. She didn’t pull away.
"Cold makes you stupid," she said, as if explaining why she’d left her knife sheathed between them instead of in her grip.
Micah’s breath hitched—not from fear, but the way her thumb traced the scar above his eyebrow. A courier’s instinct, cataloging injuries like trail markers. "Bear got you?"
"Oak branch." His voice was rougher than she expected. "Middle of a hailstorm. Had to finish the run with one eye full of blood."
Kasi rolled toward Micah in the flickering firelight, her fingers finding his face before she could overthink the motion. His skin was warm under her touch—warmer than it should be after washing in creek water—but his steady breathing reassured her. Plague or not, this hut with its drafty gaps and the distant memory of the bear’s rancid stench felt safer with another courier’s presence. She traced the ridge of his cheekbone, the rough patch where stubble caught against her calluses.
"Your scar," she murmured. "It’s newer than I thought." The raised flesh was still pink at the edges, the kind of wound that hadn’t fully settled into the skin yet.
Micah caught her wrist, not to push her away but to anchor her hand against his jaw. His grip was firm, the way couriers held onto each other crossing swollen rivers. "Three moons ago," he admitted. "Right before they started marking the couriers." His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist where her pulse thrummed—checking for fever, she realized, the way orphanage matrons did after night chills.
The fire popped, scattering embers across the hearthstone. Kasi didn’t pull back. Scary times made for strange comforts, and right now, the solid reality of Micah’s breath on her knuckles mattered more than guild decorum. Outside, the wind moaned through the hut’s cracks, carrying a scent like wet charcoal and distant rain.
Kasi's fingers hovered over Micah's cheekbone, tracing the air just above his skin like she was reading braille. The firelight made shadows pool in the hollow beneath his eye—too deep for a healthy courier, the kind of hollow that came from too many missed meals and too many night runs. Her thumb finally made contact, brushing the ridge of his scar with a touch so light it might have been accidental.
Micah didn't flinch. His breath stayed even—in through the nose, out through parted lips—the measured rhythm of someone used to conserving energy. But his eyelids lowered halfway, not in exhaustion but in something quieter, something that made Kasi's own breathing slow to match his. The hut's drafts still found their way through the bedrolls, but where their knees touched, a line of warmth formed like a promise.
Kasi's fingers drifted lower, tracing the angle of his jaw where tendon met bone. Courier's hands knew bodies by their wear—the knotted shoulders of scribes, the thickened wrists of farmers—but Micah's throat moved under her touch with the easy grace of someone who'd spent years running messages through these same hills. Her thumb found his pulse point, not to count beats but because it was there, because in this moment she could.
The fire popped, sending embers swirling upward. Micah's hand rose to cover hers where it rested against his neck—not to push away, but to press her palm more firmly against his skin. His fingers were warmer than they should be after washing in the creek, but not fever-hot. Just alive. Just present.
Kasi shifted closer without thinking, her bare thigh brushing his as she propped herself up on one elbow. The movement brought their faces inches apart—close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the way his pupils widened as her hair fell forward to curtain them both. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the orphanage matron's voice scolded about propriety, but it was distant as last winter's snow.
Kasi's breath hitched as Micah's knee slid between hers—not a demand, not a question, just the quiet inevitability of two bodies finding warmth in a drafty hut. His fingers still clasped hers against his throat, their pulses syncing in the firelight. The calluses on his palm rasped against her knuckles, familiar as her own scars.
She could have pulled back. Should have, maybe, if they'd been in the temple courtyard with wardens watching. But here, with the wind howling through the chinks in the mortar and the memory of that bear's stench still clinging to the doorframe, propriety felt as distant as the stars.
"Promise you'll pull out?" she asked quietly, her breath warm against Micah's collarbone. Not coy, not hesitant—just practical, like discussing which fork in the trail to take at dawn.
Micah's fingers stilled where they'd been tracing the dip of her spine. He drew back just enough to meet her eyes in the firelight, his expression unreadable except for the way his throat worked when he swallowed. "Couriers don't lie about that," he said finally, voice rough. His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist where her pulse hammered—not fear, but the adrenal surge of a runner cresting a ridge.
Kasi exhaled through her nose. She knew the risks as well as any orphan raised in the temple's shadow—bastards got left on doorsteps, or worse, grew up hauling water for wardens until their backs bent. But the way Micah looked at her now, with his scars silvered by firelight and his breath coming quick against her lips, made the warnings feel as distant as last winter's snow.
She arched into him, her knee hooking over his hip. "Then don't stop," she murmured, and sealed the words against his mouth.
The firelight guttered as Micah rolled her beneath him, his mouth hot and insistent against hers. Kasi tangled her fingers in his hair—not gentle, not sweet—the way couriers grabbed at handholds when scaling cliff faces. His teeth caught her lower lip, and she arched up to meet him with a gasp that had nothing to do with pain.
Somewhere beyond the hut's thin walls, the wind screamed through the trees. Closer, much closer, Micah's breathing went ragged against her throat as she dragged her nails down his back. The scars under her fingertips told stories of their own—ridged lines from whipvine encounters, the puckered knot of an old arrow wound—a map of deliveries made and survived.
Practicality warred with the heat pooling low in her belly. She'd seen enough couriers slowed by pregnancy, their routes cut short by swollen ankles and aching backs. But when Micah's hand slid between her thighs, calluses catching on sensitive skin, Kasi stopped thinking altogether.
She spread her legs wide for him, her hands guiding his hips down—no hesitation, no false modesty. The first thrust stole her breath, not from pain but from the sheer intensity of connection, their bodies fitting together with the same easy precision as their footsteps on a mountain trail. Micah groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing against hers as he paused, trembling. Kasi dug her heels into the small of his back. "Move," she ordered between clenched teeth. "Or I will."
He obeyed without hesitation, setting a rhythm that matched the pounding of her pulse—fast but sustainable, the pace they'd both perfected on countless runs. The thin bedroll did little to cushion her against the packed earth, but Kasi barely noticed the discomfort. Every thrust drove the thought of plague marks and burning villages further from her mind, replaced by the slick heat between them and Micah's ragged breathing in her ear.
When his fingers dug into her hips for leverage, Kasi realized with startled clarity that Micah was hitting depths no courier boy had ever reached before. The stretch bordered on painful—not the sharp sting of her first time behind the orphanage woodshed, but a deep, throbbing pressure that radiated up through her pelvis with every thrust. She arched off the bedroll with a gasp that turned into a moan halfway up her throat, her fingers scrabbling at his sweat-slick shoulders for purchase.
Micah's breath hitched in response, his rhythm faltering for half a heartbeat before he adjusted the angle of his hips. The next thrust dragged against something inside her that made her vision whiten at the edges. Kasi's thighs clamped around his waist involuntarily, her toes curling against his calves as pleasure licked up her spine like wildfire through dry grass.
"You're—ah—taller than you look," she managed between panting breaths, her voice breaking on the last word as he bottomed out again. His pelvis ground against hers with delicious precision, the coarse thatch of hair above his cock rubbing her oversensitized clit with each thrust. Kasi arched off the bedroll, her nails raking furrows down Micah's sweat-slick back as her climax hit like a summer storm—sudden, drenching, impossible to ignore.
He pulled out before cumming and she quickly took him in her mouth, her tongue swirling around the head before taking him deep, her lips tight. Micah's fingers tangled in her hair—not guiding, just anchoring—as his hips jerked involuntarily. The taste of him was familiar, salt and iron and the faint bitterness of road dust, but the way his breath hitched when she hollowed her cheeks was new.
Kasi worked him with the same practiced efficiency she used to clean her knife—methodical, thorough, no wasted motion. Her fingers pressed into the hollows of his hips where sweat pooled, keeping him from thrusting too deep. When his thighs trembled, she slowed, teasing the vein along his shaft with her tongue until he groaned her name like a prayer snd filled her mouth with his seed
.
They lay tangled afterward, limbs draped over each other with the easy familiarity of shared exhaustion. Micah traced idle circles on her shoulder where a scar from a courier's satchel strap had long since faded white. Outside, the wind had died down, leaving only the occasional creak of branches and the distant cry of a night heron.
"At dawn," Kasi murmured against his collarbone, "we check each other for marks." Micah's answering hum vibrated through her cheek where it rested on his chest. His fingers paused their tracing of her scars—just for a heartbeat—before continuing their idle path along her ribs.
The fire had burned low, leaving the hut draped in shifting shadows. Kasi watched the dim orange glow play across Micah's throat, counting the pulse there as it slowed toward sleep. Her own eyelids grew heavy, but she forced them open. The night felt too fragile for dreams.
They held each other close and fell asleep. Dawn came gray and damp, mist clinging to the cedar boughs outside the hut. Kasi woke first, her body stiff from the hard ground but warm where Micah's chest pressed against her back. His arm was slung over her waist, fingers twitching occasionally as if still tracing routes on her skin.
She slipped free carefully, reaching for her knife before standing. The blade's edge caught the pale light as she checked it—still sharp enough to shave hairs from her forearm. Outside, the world was eerily silent. No birdsong, no rustling in the underbrush—just the drip of condensation from the hut's thatched roof.
Micah stirred when she knelt beside him, his eyes snapping open with the instant alertness of someone who'd slept rough more nights than not. "Your scarf," he said hoarsely, fingers brushing the red cloth still tied around her wrist. "Still clean."
Kasi exhaled, tension she hadn't realized she was holding leaving her shoulders. She turned her face toward the light filtering through the smoke hole. "Your turn."
Micah sat up slowly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as Kasi turned his face toward the dim light. Her fingers were brisk against his skin, tilting his chin up to examine his throat, then pushing his hair back to inspect his forehead. The morning air was thick with the scent of damp cedar and the lingering musk of their shared warmth.
"Clear," she announced after a thorough inspection, her thumb brushing the faint stubble along his jawline.
Micah caught her wrist, pressing her palm flat against his chest where his heartbeat thudded steadily. "You're sure?" His voice was low, rough with sleep, but his eyes were sharp—searching hers for hesitation.
Kasi nodded. "No fever. No marks." She pulled her hand free and reached for her loincloth, shaking out the wrinkles before tying it on with practiced efficiency.
The first birdsong of dawn was still tentative when Micah sat up abruptly, his hands finding Kasi's hips in the gray half-light. She blinked sleep from her eyes as he pulled her upright—no hesitation, no asking—just the firm certainty of a courier who'd made his decision. Kasi went willingly, her thighs bracketing his lap as he lifted her effortlessly, her body remembering the lean strength she'd felt beneath her palms hours before.
Their joining was smoother this time—no fumbling, no adjustments—just the slick heat of her body opening for him as gravity did the work. Kasi gasped at the stretch, her fingers digging into his shoulders as he seated himself fully inside her. Micah's breath hitched against her throat, his arms trembling slightly from the effort of holding her suspended.
"You're amazing” he said softly, his lips brushing her throat as he moved beneath her. Kasi arched into each slow thrust, her hands braced against his shoulders for balance. The morning chill made gooseflesh rise along her arms, but where their bodies joined, heat pooled thick and urgent. Micah's fingers tightened on her hips—not guiding, just holding—as she set a rhythm that matched her quickening breaths.
Outside, the mist thinned as the sun climbed. A shaft of pale gold light pierced the smoke hole, painting Micah's collarbones with liquid warmth. Kasi watched the play of muscle beneath his skin as she rode him, marveling at how something so simple could feel so consuming. When his thumb found the sensitive nub between her legs, her vision whited out for a heartbeat, her thighs clamping around his waist involuntarily.
Micah groaned low in his throat, his hips stuttering beneath her. "Close," he warned—not a plea, just a courier's habit of signaling milestones. Kasi nodded, tightening around him deliberately as she chased her own peak. The friction burned deliciously, her body straining toward that precipice where pleasure and pain blurred.
She came with a soundless gasp, her back bowing as the wave crested. Micah lifted her off and she desperately took him in her mouth again, swallowing hard as he pulsed between her lips. They collapsed together, damp with exertion, their mingled breaths loud in the quiet hut. Kasi wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, tasting salt and something faintly metallic—probably from where her teeth had nicked his thigh earlier.
The morning light revealed details last night's firelight had hidden—a fresh scratch along Micah's ribcage from her nails, the way his collarbones jutted sharper than they should. She reached out without thinking, tracing the hollow between them. "You're leaner than temple rations allow."
Micah caught her fingers, pressing them briefly to his lips before releasing them. "Been running extra routes." His gaze flicked to her pack where the sealed scrolls lay. "Same as you."
Kasi sat up, the rough-woven bedroll scratching her thighs. Outside, the mist had burned away, leaving the hut's interior washed in pale gold. She reached for her knife first—always the knife—then her loincloth, tying it with quick, efficient tugs. "We should check the perimeter. That bear—"
Micah was already moving, rolling to his feet with the silent grace of someone who'd slept armed in wolf country. Kasi watched the play of morning light across his back—the old scars, the fresh scratches from her nails—as he buckled his knife belt. Neither spoke as they dressed; couriers learned early that dawn was for listening, not talking.
The door creaked when Micah pushed it open, the sound impossibly loud in the hush. Kasi followed, her bare feet silent on the damp earth. The world outside was too still—no chattering squirrels, no rustling undergrowth—just the drip of condensation from cedar boughs and the distant gurgle of the creek.
She spotted the tracks first: three-toed, deep-gouged, trailing something dark and viscous toward the tree line. Not bear. Not anything natural. Micah crouched beside her, his fingers hovering above the claw marks without touching. "Warder's work," he murmured. The words hung between them like a hanged man's shadow.
Kasi's hand found her knife hilt. She'd heard stories of course—every orphan had—of the temple's enforcers and their... modifications. But seeing the proof carved into the earth was different. The tracks led northeast, toward Harik's daughter's farm.
The creek mud sucked at Kasi's sandals as she and Micah crouched behind a fallen cedar, studying the warder's tracks. The three-toed prints glistened with something darker than morning dew—oil, maybe, or congealed blood. Micah's fingers brushed hers in the damp leaves, not quite holding, just confirming contact.
"We swing wide around Harik's farm," he murmured, his breath warm against her temple. "Head straight for the delivery point. If the guards are still at their posts, they'll sign for both our scrolls without us stepping foot in town."
Kasi nodded, her thumb rubbing absently over the red scarf at her wrist. It made sense—couriers paired up during pestilence seasons all the time. But this was different. This was Micah tracing the back of her hand with one callused finger as they planned, his touch lingering just long enough to make her pulse skip.
They moved in tandem along the creekbed, their bare feet silent on the mossy stones. Every few paces, Micah would pause—not to check for danger, but to brush a hand across her lower back, or catch her elbow when she stumbled on a slick rock. Small, unnecessary touches that warmed her more than the rising sun.
TBC
