Chapter 3: Before the Storm

 Chapter 3: Before the Storm

Rain lashed the shutters of Kilbride Hall, where the wind howled like wolves along the cliffs. Thunder cracked in the night sky, but inside, the fire burned hot and steady. Sir Salty stood by the hearth, the glow casting golden light across the iron curves of his breastplate and the war-worn scars of his bare arms. His axe, Stormcutter, rested within reach—always—but tonight, his thoughts strayed far from steel and blood.

Maeve was there, watching him from the bed they’d shared since dusk fell, the linen sheets tangled around her, her hair a wildfire across the pillows. She was a woman of the sword and saddle, with hands calloused from bowstrings and boots worn from battles. But beneath the battle-leather and stubborn fire was a heart that had only ever softened for Salty.

He crossed the room slowly, the weight of what awaited him on the morrow pressing hard upon his shoulders. The war horn’s call had echoed across the valley that afternoon—an omen that the Orcish host had reached the Blacklow Plains. Tomorrow, Salty would ride north and may not return.

Maeve sat up, reaching for him. “You don’t have to go.”

“I do,” he said. “They need me.”

“I need you,” she whispered.

Her words hit harder than any blade. He knelt beside her, brushing damp curls from her face. Her skin smelled of salt and smoke, her breath warm with longing.

“There’s still tonight,” he murmured.

She pulled him to her with desperate hunger, her kiss fierce and unrelenting. Their bodies met with a familiarity born of years fighting side by side, surviving ambushes, watching the stars from tents and treetops. Now, they clung to each other as though by touch alone they could slow time, cheat death.

The room filled with the sound of rain and breath, skin to skin, lips tracing the edges of old wounds and new promises. They made love not as lovers lost in lust, but as two warriors facing the storm—grasping something pure in a world that had forgotten peace.

Again and again, they came together, their movements speaking what words could not: I am yours. I will return. I will not forget.

Later, they lay quiet, limbs entwined, the fire burned low. Maeve’s hand rested over his heart, feeling its steady drum beneath his ribs.

“What if you don’t come back?” she asked.

“Then I’ll haunt you like a lovesick ghost,” he said with a smile.

“Don’t joke.”

He turned to face her, serious now. “If I fall, it won’t be in vain. I fight for the living. For you. For every child not yet born who deserves to grow up free.”

She looked away, but he caught her chin and turned her back to him. “You’ll lead them if I can’t. Promise me.”

She nodded once, tearful but strong. “Aye.”

Outside, the storm moved on, but its shadow remained. Morning light crept over the hills like a spy, and the crows gathered on the roof, waiting.

Sir Salty rose before the sun, dressed in silence, and kissed Maeve one last time as she slept. He didn't wake her. He couldn’t.

With Stormcutter in hand and the memory of her lips burned into his soul, he rode alone into the dawn.