The Steppe thinned until the change became obvious. Grass shortened. Dust cooled beneath the horses’ hooves. Liana rode ahead, guiding them toward the Steppe–Forest border Dorian had seen through the raven’s eyes.

  She felt the shift first through Ineya. The mare slowed and tested the softer ground. Damp air brushed against Liana’s legs. The smell changed. Resin. Wet bark. Less dust.

  Behind her, Toren breathed in slowly. The Steppe magic he knew so well faded from his senses, clean and hot. In its place he felt the forest. Deep. Heavy. It did not guide him the way the Steppe did. It simply existed.

  Dorian slowed Lucky and let the machine roll behind the horses. The air felt thicker against his skin, carrying the scent of sap and damp leaves. The terrain matched what he had seen through the raven, but memory borrowed from another creature’s eyes was never precise.

  Liana halted Ineya. Toren brought his horse beside her. Dorian stopped Lucky behind them and stepped down, the engine settling into a low hum.

  Dorian packed Lucky away and moved ahead. A Mirror Call might appear as pressure beneath the skin. Or a shift in reflection.

  Hours passed. Nothing answered.

  Liana adjusted their direction quietly, guiding Ineya around roots and dips in the soil. Toren walked beside Dorian, clearing branches where the ground narrowed. His eyes drifted toward Dorian more than once before he forced himself to look away.

  They circled the border in widening loops. The forest remained silent.

  At last Dorian stopped.

  “It is gone.”

  Liana studied the darkening trees. “Then we follow your memory. The path to Ashen Valley goes through the Forest from here.”

  Toren checked the horses, running a hand down each leg. After a moment he shook his head.

  “They will not survive that terrain.”

  “We leave them at the Steppe Outpost,” Liana said. “It is close. We camp there and enter on foot in the morning.”

  Dorian exhaled slowly. No call. No trace.

  They turned back toward the Steppe. By the time the Outpost appeared ahead, night had already settled.

  ***

  The Steppe Outpost was simple. A well, a shelter wall, and a fire pit blackened by years of use. Two Steppe guards kept watch beside a small lantern. They watched the travellers arrive. Asked no questions. Liana greeted them with a brief nod. The guards returned it and remained at their post.

  The horses drank before being tied nearby. Night settled quickly once the sun dropped. The last warmth of the Steppe faded with it.

  They built a small fire and sat with their backs to the wind. Flatbread warmed on a stone while strips of horse jerky passed between them. The flames threw slow shadows across the ground.

  After a while, Dorian asked, “You’re half-Forest, right?”

  Toren nodded. “Father’s from there. Mother’s Steppe.”

  Dorian studied him across the fire. “Did you grow up in the woods or on the plains?”

  “Both,” Toren said. “Depends on the season.”

  One of Dorian’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Is that a Forest trait? Evasion.”

  Toren expected the usual edge. It never came. He allowed a small smile. “If you like.”

  Dorian leaned forward slightly. “How do you move through it? The forest. Not the stories. The real thing.”

  Toren paused, then answered. “You listen. You don’t take what isn’t meant for you. If you hunt or gather, you ask permission first. Be polite. And thank the forest for what it gives.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  Toren met his eyes across the fire. “You regret it.”

  Dorian held the look a moment, then nodded. “Makes sense.”

  Something tightened in Toren’s chest. Holding Dorian’s gaze felt like standing too close to fire. He finally looked down at the flames.

  Across from them Liana nudged a log with her stick. “We leave early,” she said. “Save your secrets for the trees.”

  Dorian leaned back against the post behind him. Toren said nothing.

  ***

  In the morning the Outpost guards agreed to keep the horses for them. They waited while Liana and Toren said their farewells. Neither Liana nor Toren rushed it. Both pressed their foreheads to the warm hide, hands steady on neck and mane, murmuring thanks in the Steppe dialect. Fingers traced old scars and familiar muscle, gentle and brief.

  Dorian watched from a polite distance. His cynicism died on contact. The bond between the Loteri and their animals was not sentimental. It was practical. Lived. Earned.

  The guards led the horses away, hooves muffled in the grass. Liana nodded once, more to herself than to anyone.

  That was all.

  Liana and Toren loaded their supplies onto Lucky. Dorian adjusted the packs, checked the straps, then looked at them both.

  “If either of you fancies a rest, there’s room behind me,” he said. “Not dignified. But it moves.”

  Liana gave the machine a hard stare. “I’ll trust my own legs.”

  Dorian smiled. “Suit yourself.”

  Toren hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “I’ll try it.”

  Liana rolled her eyes and muttered something about men and their machines again.

  Lucky hissed softly as its gears settled. Dorian set off, guiding the machine along the rough path. Toren climbed on behind him, leaving careful space between them. The machine jolted over uneven ground, and after a moment Dorian glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Best hold on. The road’s rough, and the trees are too dense for Lucky to take off. Regrettably.”

  Toren wrapped an arm around Dorian’s waist. His hand settled near Dorian’s belt as he steadied his balance. “Understood.”

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  The closeness was immediate. Toren breathed in without meaning to. Dorian smelled of oil, worn leather, skin, and something sharper beneath it. The sensation unsettled Toren more than the movement of the machine. He tightened his grip slightly, unsure whether it was practical or something else entirely.

  Dorian did not comment. He only leaned back a fraction, enough for Toren to feel the warmth of him through fabric. Toren fixed his gaze on the passing grass and convinced himself he had noticed nothing at all.

  They had not gone far when the undergrowth shifted. At first it seemed like wind moving through the brush, but the movement was wrong. Slower. Deliberate. Shadows thickened between the trunks, and roots rose where roots had not been before, lifting from the soil and weaving together until a living wall stood across the path.

  Dorian stopped Lucky at once and stepped down, moving in front of Liana without thinking, his hand already drifting toward the tools at his belt. Liana noticed. Her eyes narrowed slightly before she gave a small nod, approval or respect, hard to tell.

  “Step back, Mirrorwalker,” she said calmly. “You’re too valuable to lose in some forest brawl. Let us do what needs doing.”

  Toren stepped forward with his hands open. His breathing slowed as he faced the wall without blinking. When he spoke, the words came in the Forest dialect, quiet and steady.

  The sound moved through the roots like ripples across dark water. Each phrase reached the wall and the bark flexed slightly, as if the forest listened through the wood itself. The roots loosened. They did not retreat. Instead the wall unmade itself, strands separating and sliding back into the soil until the path opened again.

  Dorian watched in silence.

  Toren seemed different in the forest. Older. Certain.

  Only when the last root disappeared did Toren breathe again. His shoulders dropped slightly, revealing the effort it had taken to remain calm.

  They moved on.

  Behind them the shadows shifted again. Not following exactly. Remembering. The Rootbounds repeated the travellers’ shapes in their slow movement, as if committing them to memory.

  ***

  They made camp at dusk. Liana circled the clearing first, checking the ground for tracks before dropping her pack beside the fire ring. Toren gathered kindling nearby, working quietly. Dorian packed Lucky back into its capsule and sealed it.

  After a moment, Toren spoke.

  “The Rootbounds accepted us as harmless guests.” He glanced toward Liana. “In return, we don’t hunt.”

  Liana nodded.

  A short walk from the clearing they found a spring where warm water rose into a basin deep enough to stand waist-high. They washed in turn. Toren glanced at the healing whip marks across Dorian’s back.

  “I’m fine,” Dorian said. “Disappointingly.”

  They returned to the fire as the forest darkened, sitting close to the flames and eating quietly, glad for the warmth.

  Liana fell asleep almost as soon as she reached the travel mat. Toren walked the edge of the camp with smoking herbs, murmuring requests to the forest. When he finished, he checked on Liana, tucked the leather cloak around her shoulders, and set a flask of water within her reach.

  Dorian stepped away from the fire and leaned against a thick tree, watching. He studied Toren in silence and named him the Forest boy again. The care. The quiet ease. Always there. Toren’s bond with Liana was old and strong. Dorian had noticed it from the beginning.

  He closed his eyes, arms crossed, face tilted toward a patch of moonlight between the branches. The air was cool and heavy, nothing like the Steppe heat, settling through him slowly. A sleeping mat waited on the moss nearby.

  Toren lingered at the edge of the clearing. Dorian sensed his approach before hearing a step and kept his eyes closed.

  “Something on your mind?” Dorian asked evenly.

  Toren shook his head. “No. Just making sure.”

  Dorian’s mouth twitched. “Making sure I haven’t escaped into the night already?”

  “Maybe,” Toren said. The smile didn’t quite hold.

  Dorian opened his eyes and looked at him. Toren met the gaze and, for a moment, lost himself in it. Neither of them spoke. The quiet stretched between them. Toren reached for a nearby branch and murmured a spell. The air thickened, drawing a sphere of stillness around them, sealing them from sight and sound.

  Dorian watched him with one eyebrow raised, a half smile returning. “Do explain.”

  Toren paused, gathering breath and magic.

  “We’ll part soon. I don’t think I’ll have another chance.”

  He fell silent.

  Then Toren stepped forward and touched Dorian’s face. Dorian caught his wrist, gentle but firm.

  “Well,” Dorian said mildly, “this is already a questionable decision.”

  His grip loosened but did not fully release.

  “Are you certain?”

  Toren nodded.

  Dorian studied him for a moment longer, as if offering one last chance to reconsider. Toren didn’t move.

  Dorian let go.

  The space between them disappeared. Toren kissed him first, tentative at the start, lips tight with nerves. Dorian answered with unexpected softness and let him lead. The tension eased as the kiss deepened, Toren’s hands sliding over Dorian’s shoulders and beneath his shirt as curiosity replaced restraint.

  For a moment, Toren paused. Dorian’s body was not entirely unfamiliar to him. He had seen it before while tending the ritual wounds. But touching it now felt different. His fingers brushed across the thin scars along Dorian’s ribs.

  Toren dropped to his knees without grace, the moss damp and itchy beneath him, hands sliding down to Dorian’s hips. He fumbled at the fastening of Dorian’s trousers, fingers shaking slightly. The button resisted. He tried again, determined not to look up.

  Dorian watched him with quiet amusement before reaching down and covering Toren’s hands with his own, guiding the fingers until the fastening gave way. Toren glanced up briefly. Dorian’s gaze was patient.

  Once the fabric loosened Toren slipped his hands inside, fingertips tracing warm skin. He leaned forward, mouth moving lower, cautious at first while he tested Dorian’s response. Dorian exhaled slowly in approval, resting one hand in Toren’s hair and letting him explore.

  Toren moved with too much care, every motion deliberate, desperate to do it correctly. Dorian noticed and filed it under nerves. Toren pushed himself deeper until he choked and had to pull back, breath catching.

  Dorian’s hand tightened gently in his hair.

  “Easy… Forest boy,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

  The words slipped out before Dorian noticed. He caught himself, surprised, but did not take them back. Toren looked up, eyes wide, holding the moment as if committing it to memory.

  Dorian’s control nearly slipped, but he kept it. In one motion he pulled Toren to his feet and pressed him back against the tree. Dorian undressed him slowly, exploring Toren’s body unhurriedly. Toren closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Dorian’s hair, his pulse racing.

  Then Dorian guided Toren down onto the sleeping mat. Kneeling over him, Dorian watched for the slightest sign of hesitation. Toren gave none.

  Toren leaned up, hands working clumsily at Dorian’s shirt until skin met skin again and their mouths found each other, impatient now.

  Dorian’s hand moved between Toren’s thighs, pushing them apart. Toren held his breath as Dorian’s fingers tested him.

  Dorian paused, gaze sharpening. “Ever been with a man before?”

  Toren nodded too quickly.

  He lied.

  Dorian studied him a moment longer before saying nothing. The scent of clean oil lingered as he eased his fingers inside Toren, slow and careful, opening him without pain. The sensation made Toren gasp. Sharp at first. Then warmth spread through him.

  As Dorian leaned over him, Toren felt the firm pressure of Dorian’s erection brush the inside of his thigh, steady and impossible to ignore. Dorian’s other hand moved over Toren’s arousal in an even rhythm until tension snapped into release. Toren shuddered, breathless, clutching the moss beneath him.

  Dorian held him until the shaking passed.

  Only then did Dorian rise and guide Toren back toward him. Toren finished what he had begun earlier, taking Dorian into his mouth and swallowing the metallic taste as Dorian released.

  Afterward, Dorian placed a brief kiss on Toren’s temple before dropping beside him on the moss. They lay side by side in silence, catching their breath.

  Toren spoke first, voice rough. “That wasn’t how I imagined it.”

  Dorian watched the branches above. “I rarely match expectations.”

  Toren smiled faintly. “Very much the Mirrorwalker way, I suppose.”

  Dorian glanced at him. “That would be an exaggeration.”

  Toren rolled onto his side and traced a slow line along Dorian’s cheek and down across his scarred chest. “Why didn’t you take me, Dorian?”

  Dorian froze at the sound of his name, then relaxed again beneath Toren’s hand.

  “I don’t have a habit of breaking people,” Dorian said mildly. “Especially useful allies.” He kept the rest to himself.

  Toren curled closer, murmuring, “I’d love you to break me.”

  Dorian laughed quietly. “Loteri are the most stubborn folk I’ve ever met.”

  He buttoned his shirt and wrapped them both in Toren’s cloak. Neither spoke again.

  Dorian lay awake, watching the branches above. Idiot. He had broken his own rule. Never be someone’s first. It’s fine, he told himself. They would part ways soon. One night. Nothing more. The thought satisfied him enough to drift off beside Toren.

  ***

  Morning came cold and quiet. Toren was already awake. Clean and composed, as if the night had not happened. He checked the packs with efficient movements. Liana crouched by the fire, poking at a pan with her usual unimpressed expression as the smell of something edible drifted through camp.

  Dorian sat up and watched them both.

  The world had already moved on.

  On the road, Liana agreed to ride behind Dorian for a while. She lasted ten minutes before climbing down again, muttering about machines and personal dignity. Toren took her place, arms settling around Dorian’s waist.

  After a while, Dorian felt the pressure of Toren’s erection.

  He inhaled quietly but kept his eyes on the road ahead.

  Entirely his own fault.