I SOMEHOW ENDED UP WITH A HAREM FULL OF BEAST MEN

The bone needle moved through the fabric with a soft, rhythmic whisper, each stitch falling into perfect alignment with the last. I didn’t need to look at my hands anymore; the motion had become automatic, muscle memory taking over as I worked the pale cream cloth into something that would actually bring comfort.

I sat cross-legged near the open window, surrounded by the evidence of a morning well spent. Piles of finished pillows in varying sizes rested in neat stacks beside me, each one plump and even, the seams invisible, the corners crisp. Afternoon sunlight poured through the window, gilding everything in warm honey, and I paused to run my palm over the latest creation. Perfect. Soft as a cloud, firm enough to hold its shape, the cloudbloom fiber distributed with exactly the right density.

My fingers found the rhythm again, drawing the thread through, pulling it taut, moving to the next stitch without hesitation. There was something meditative about the work now, something satisfying that I had never expected to find. Back home, back in the world I’d left behind, pillows were simple things. You walked into a store, squeezed a few options, complained about the price, and took one home. The process was invisible. Manufactured. Someone else handled the stitching, the stuffing, the thousand small decisions that turned raw materials into something soft.

Here, in Askalda, nothing was invisible.

Every thread had been spun by hand. Spun, not manufactured. Drawn out from fluffy bundles of raw fiber by fingers that knew precisely how much twist to add, how much tension to maintain, how to transform cloud soft tufts into strong, even strands. Every fiber had been gathered. Plucked from plants that grew only in specific seasons. Sheared from the coats of animals raised and cared for through harsh winters. Harvested from the cocoons of insects that lived their entire lives for this single purpose.

Then came the cleaning. Hours of washing, picking out debris, separating the usable from the refuse. The drying, laid flat in the sun for days, turned and shifted to catch the light just so. The carding, teasing tangles into alignment with wooden paddles lined with fine wire teeth, over and over until the fibers lay parallel and smooth as water.

I wanted softness. I wanted pillows my mates could pretend to disdain before stealing them every night. I wanted blankets the cubs could drag around and burrow into. I wanted, in small ways, to recreate the comfort of the world I’d lost, not by replicating its convenience, but by earning its warmth through effort and care.

I tied off the final stitch and examined my work. The seam was invisible, the fill perfectly distributed, the shape exactly what I had envisioned. I ran my thumb over the finished edge, feeling a quiet pride that had nothing to do with talent and everything to do with persistence. I had earned this skill. Stitch by stitch, mistake by mistake, I had learned how to make something real.

So far, I had created comfort. And that felt like enough.

My gaze drifted across the room to where Soryn had established his permanent residence.

The bone needle moved through the fabric with a soft, rhythmic whisper, each stitch falling into perfect alignment with the last. I didn’t need to look at my hands anymore; the motion had become automatic, muscle memory taking over as I worked the pale cream cloth into something that would actually bring comfort.

I sat cross-legged near the open window, surrounded by the evidence of a morning well spent. Piles of finished pillows in varying sizes rested in neat stacks beside me, each one plump and even, the seams invisible, the corners crisp. Afternoon sunlight poured through the window, gilding everything in warm honey, and I paused to run my palm over the latest creation. Perfect. Soft as a cloud, firm enough to hold its shape, the cloudbloom fiber distributed with exactly the right density.

This was my fourth batch this season, and I had finally mastered it.

My fingers found the rhythm again, drawing the thread through, pulling it taut, moving to the next stitch without hesitation. There was something meditative about the work now, something satisfying that I had never expected to find. Back home, back in the world I’d left behind, pillows were simple things. You walked into a store, squeezed a few options, complained about the price, and took one home. The process was invisible. Manufactured. Someone else handled the stitching, the stuffing, the thousand small decisions that turned raw materials into something soft.

Here, in Askalda, nothing was invisible.

Every thread had been spun by hand. Spun, not manufactured. Drawn out from fluffy bundles of raw fiber by fingers that knew precisely how much twist to add, how much tension to maintain, how to transform cloud soft tufts into strong, even strands. Every fiber had been gathered. Plucked from plants that grew only in specific seasons. Sheared from the coats of animals raised and cared for through harsh winters. Harvested from the cocoons of insects that lived their entire lives for this single purpose.

Then came the cleaning. Hours of washing, picking out debris, separating the usable from the refuse. The drying, laid flat in the sun for days, turned and shifted to catch the light just so. The carding, teasing tangles into alignment with wooden paddles lined with fine wire teeth, over and over until the fibers lay parallel and smooth as water.

And now, here I was, adding my own contribution to the home Aurin had given us, a house larger than anything we had lived in since my arrival, with space for all of us, space to breathe, space to build something permanent. My pillows were not an insult to the craftsmanship surrounding them; they were my offering to it. My way of honoring the skill and patience embedded in every other object in this room by adding something made with my own hands, my own time, my own growing competence.

I wanted softness. I wanted pillows my mates could pretend to disdain before stealing them every night. I wanted blankets the cubs could drag around and burrow into. I wanted, in small ways, to recreate the comfort of the world I’d lost, not by replicating its convenience, but by earning its warmth through effort and care.

I tied off the final stitch and examined my work. The seam was invisible, the fill perfectly distributed, the shape exactly what I had envisioned. I ran my thumb over the finished edge, feeling a quiet pride that had nothing to do with talent and everything to do with persistence. I had earned this skill. Stitch by stitch, mistake by mistake, I had learned how to make something real.

So far, I had created comfort. And that felt like enough.

My gaze drifted across the room to where Soryn had established his permanent residence.

He had not moved in nearly an hour. He sat curled within an enormous nest constructed from woven grasses, heated stones, and layers of soft fur, seven leathery eggs arranged in a careful circle before him. His long green tail formed a protective barrier around the entire arrangement, and one hand rested possessively across two of the eggs. His eyes were half-closed, hooded in that deceptive way that suggested relaxation while actually indicating hyper-vigilance.

Soryn was not relaxed. Soryn was waiting.

One of the eggs shifted slightly beneath his palm, a barely perceptible movement, a settling of the leathery shell, and his eyes snapped open immediately.

I could not help it. I laughed.

”You know they are not going anywhere,” I said, setting aside my finished pillow.

Soryn’s head turned toward me, his expression utterly serious, as though I had suggested something absurd. ”You do not know that.”

”They are eggs, Soryn.”

”Exactly.”

I waited for elaboration. None came. He simply stared at me with those intense serpent eyes, as if the word ”eggs” contained some hidden danger I was too foolish to perceive.

I shook my head, picking up my needle again. ”You have not left that nest since breakfast.”

”I left,” he countered.

”When?”

”This morning.”

”You went six feet to get water from the pitcher.”

”That counts.”

”It absolutely does not.”

”I disagree.”

Of course he did. Arguing with Soryn was like arguing with a particularly stubborn wall, a wall that could give you looks of withering disdain.

I threaded the needle, smiling as the bone point caught the light. ”You could go outside for a while. Get some air.”

”No.”

”Take a walk. Stretch your legs.”

”No.”

”Eat somewhere that is not directly beside the eggs?”

”No.”

”Soryn.”

”Krys.”

I fixed him with my best attempt at a stern look, the one that occasionally worked on the children. He fixed me with one of his own, which worked on absolutely everyone, including me. The man was impossible, and what made it worse was that he had already broken my other mates.

Ravin had tried first. Two mornings ago, he had entered the nest chamber with his typical calm demeanor, assessed Soryn’s situation, and offered to maintain the egg warmth while Soryn went hunting. Soryn had simply stared at him. No words, no aggression, just an unblinking serpent gaze that communicated more than shouting ever could. Ravin had lasted approximately ten seconds before backing out of the room with his hands raised.

Leon had been next. ”I have raised cubs,” he had argued, his voice carrying the authority of experience.

”They are not cubs,” Soryn had replied.

”They are babies.”

”They are serpent babies.”

”I understand infants.”

”You do not understand these infants.”

Leon had looked to me for support. I had wisely chosen to remain uninvolved, focusing on everything else but them.

Caelion had offered to watch the eggs while Soryn bathed. Soryn had decided bathing was unnecessary. Aureon had jokingly suggested sitting on them, and Soryn had nearly removed his head. And Veylan? Veylan had taken one look at Soryn’s face, assessed the situation with his typical pragmatism, and simply said, ”No.”

Smartest man in the house.

I tied off my seam and examined the result. Perfect, as always. ”You are going to exhaust yourself,” I said, not looking up.

”I am fine.”

”You say that now.”

”I will sleep when they hatch.”

My needle froze. I stared at him. ”Do you actually believe newborn babies are going to make you sleep more?”

Soryn’s expression underwent a fascinating transformation. His eyes widened slightly, just a fraction, then dropped toward the seven eggs in his care. I watched realization dawn across his face with the speed of continental drift. Slow. Inevitable. Horrifying.

”Oh,” he said quietly.

I burst out laughing. ”You did not think that far ahead, did you?”

His scales rippled along his neck, a serpent’s equivalent of a blush. ”They will sleep,” he said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now.

”Sometimes,” I agreed.

”They will be quiet.”

I laughed harder, the sound filling the room. ”Soryn, they are newborns. They will scream, eat, and eliminate. Constantly. For months.”

”They are serpents,” he insisted, but his voice had lost conviction.

”And?”

”They could inherit your personality.”

The laughter died in my throat. We both turned slowly to look at the eggs, seven small, leathery ovals that suddenly seemed ominous. Seven potential versions of me. Seven chaotic, impulsive, disaster-prone little beings.

”We are doomed,” I whispered.

Soryn nodded solemnly, his hand tightening protectively around his eggs. ”Completely.”

A knock sounded against the doorframe, and we both turned. Eryx stood in the opening, his posture hesitant, almost apologetic for existing in the same space as us. He had healed considerably since the Stonehorn attack, the deep wound across his shoulder now reduced to pink scar tissue, the bruising faded from his face. He looked healthier, less like someone who had been trampled by massive beasts and more like a man trying very hard not to be a burden.

But there was something else in his expression. Nervousness. Hope, perhaps, or the fear of hope.

”Am I interrupting?” he asked, his voice careful.

”No,” I said, setting aside my sewing. ”Come in.”

Soryn’s eyes tracked him immediately, not hostile, exactly, but watchful. Everyone was watchful now. It had become second nature, a survival instinct honed sharp by uncertainty.

We still did not know who had paid the Stonehorn warriors to intercept Eryx’s supplies. We did not know who had orchestrated the ambush that nearly killed him. That single unanswered question had transformed every interaction into something suspect. Every unfamiliar face became a potential threat. Every sound outside after dark made one of my mates rise, hand on weapon, to check the perimeter.

We had found peace in Tiger territory, but we had not found safety. Not completely. Not yet.

Eryx stepped inside, his movements careful, as though the floor might betray him. ”I wanted to congratulate you,” he said, and his gaze found the eggs. ”Seven.” The word came out filled with genuine wonder. ”That is... remarkable.”

I smiled, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. ”Apparently Soryn does not believe in doing anything halfway.”

Soryn’s chest puffed slightly. ”A strong clutch.”

”A very large clutch,” I corrected.

”Strong,” he insisted.

”Large.”

”Both.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. Eryx laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine. ”Congratulations to both of you. Truly.”

”Thank you,” I said.

Soryn inclined his head in acknowledgment, but his eyes remained fixed on Eryx with that unwavering serpent intensity.

I was not fooled, though. Eryx had come to congratulate me, I believed that, mostly, but the way his gaze kept drifting toward the courtyard told me the rest of the story. I followed his line of sight through the open window.

Veylan sat beneath one of the broad shade trees, his back against the trunk, Niku sleeping peacefully across his lap. He was repairing the leather strap of a boot, his movements precise and methodical. He looked calm. Centered. At peace.

Which meant Eryx was about to disrupt everything.

I sighed internally; the sound trapped behind closed lips. Eryx noticed. His expression became sheepish, the corner of his mouth twitching with embarrassed acknowledgment.

”I was also wondering if Veylan was here,” he admitted.

”Of course you were.”

”I did come to congratulate you.”

”I believe you.”

”Do you?”

”About sixty percent.”

His mouth quirked. ”That seems unfair.”

”Seventy.”

”Better.”

I looked toward Veylan, sitting so peacefully beneath his tree. ”Just do not push him,” I said quietly. ”Please.”

The smile vanished from Eryx’s face, replaced by something more serious. ”I will not.”

He meant it. I could see that. Unfortunately, Eryx’s definition of ”not pushing” and Veylan’s definition existed in entirely different universes.

Eryx stepped outside, and I tried not to watch. I failed immediately, my body turning of its own accord, my eyes finding the scene beyond the window.

Soryn noticed. ”You are spying,” he said, not looking up from his eggs.

”I am observing.”

”From behind a curtain.”

”Quietly observing.”

His mouth twitched. ”Your sewing is on your lap.”

I returned my attention to the pillow for approximately three seconds. Then I looked again.

Eryx approached Veylan slowly, his steps measured, giving the other man every opportunity to acknowledge him before he got too close. Veylan noticed him before he had made it halfway across the yard. His ears shifted slightly, that was the only sign, that small movement of canine ears, but he did not look up. He continued threading leather through the boot’s eyelets, his focus apparently complete.

Eryx stopped several feet away, maintaining respectful distance. ”Veylan,” he said.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

Veylan pulled the strap tighter, his movements unhurried, deliberate.

Eryx waited, the silence stretching between them like a physical thing. ”I heard your side is healing well,” he tried.

No response.

Veylan’s hands continued their work, steady and sure.

Eryx rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of nervous uncertainty. ”I thought maybe we could eat together later. Talk.”

Still nothing.

”I do not mean alone,” Eryx added quickly. ”Everyone could come. It would not have to be...”

Veylan finally moved. He stood, careful not to disturb the sleeping Niku, and for one hopeful second, Eryx straightened, his expression brightening with fragile optimism.

Then Veylan lifted Niku, tucking the sleeping cub carefully against his chest, and walked away.

Right past Eryx.

Without a word. Without a glance. As though Eryx were simply another tree in the yard, unworthy of acknowledgment.

Eryx closed his eyes. I winced, the expression physical, visceral. Another failed attempt. Another rejection added to the pile.

He remained standing beneath the tree for several long moments, his shoulders slowly dropping, before finally turning around. His gaze met mine through the doorway, and I immediately pretended to be fascinated by my sewing, my head bowed over neat stitches.

Soryn made a sound, not quite a laugh, but close. ”Subtle,” he murmured.

”Be quiet,” I whispered back.

Eryx returned inside, his expression a complicated mixture of embarrassment and defeat. He looked like a man who had walked into a wall he knew was there and had hit it anyway, hoping this time it might have moved.

”That went well,” I said, unable to help myself.

He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. ”You enjoyed that.”

”I did not.”

”You did.”

”Maybe a little.”

He sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. ”I do not know what else to say to him, Krys. I have tried everything. Apologies. Space. Showing up and just... being here. He will not even look at me.”

”Maybe stop saying things,” I suggested.

He stared at me as though I had spoken in tongues. ”That seems counterproductive.”

”Not with Veylan.”

Eryx glanced back outside, where Veylan had disappeared around the corner of the house. ”I thought he might at least answer. Acknowledge that I am trying.”

”He did answer,” I said gently.

”He walked away.”

”Exactly.”

Eryx’s shoulders dropped further, the defeat settling deeper into his bones. ”I do not understand what he wants from me.”

”He wants you to understand that walking away is the answer,” I said. ”For now.”

”For now,” Eryx repeated, his voice hollow. ”How long is ’for now’? Days? Months? Years?”

”However long he needs.”

Eryx’s gaze lowered to the floor, his jaw tight with frustration. ”I just want him to know I am sorry. That I know what I did, what I failed to do, and I am sorry.”

”He knows you are sorry,” I said. ”He has known since you arrived. That is not the problem.”

”Then what is?”

”Sorry does not fix everything, Eryx. It does not erase years of pain. It does not undo the choices you made.”

”I know that.”

”But staying might mean something,” I continued. ”Eventually. If you can actually stay without demanding he respond on your timeline.”

His expression became uncertain, hope warring with doubt. ”Eventually?”

”Maybe.”

That was as much hope as I was willing to give him, because this was not my forgiveness to promise. This was not my pain to heal. Veylan’s wounds were his own, deep and old, and no amount of my wishing could make them disappear.

Eryx nodded slowly, absorbing the words. ”I can wait,” he said, and there was determination in his voice now. ”However long. I can wait.”

From outside came Veylan’s voice, clear and sharp. ”Then do it quietly.”

Eryx froze, his eyes widening. I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, pain shooting through my jaw as I fought to contain my reaction. Soryn’s shoulders began shaking, actual, visible shaking, and we both looked toward the doorway.