Brenna was gone before Ciaran could form a coherent response. Embarrassed, he crawled over to her bedroll and spread out the blankets, curled up with his hands cradled against his body, his sword an arm’s length away. He lay and watch the flames until they burned out, tried to stay awake, but the stress of the day crashed over him.
His father hated him - thought he’d killed his own mother. His mother was - a goddess made of fire, and she’d left him behind for some great destiny, and he had killed other men.
And Brenna had kissed him. A lot.
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