Lance Roan's Arc

Chapter 4 of 4

Lance laid his sword on the table inside the cabin and started counting hours until dawn. He meant to work alone. Genevieve watched him from the doorway, arms crossed, and did not move when he asked her to rest. "I sleep when this is done," she said. "Not before." He wanted to argue. He did not. Instead he carried planks from the woodshed and braced the gate, then nailed extra slats across the vine-laced fence where the wood had gone soft. The elk paced the tree line, breath steaming. "Two weak spots," Haroel said as he passed. "South corner. Behind the well." Lance fixed them both. When he came back for the sword, it was gone. Genevieve stood in the yard beside a low carved stone she used for her work, his blade laid flat across the top. Around it she had set bundled herbs, a bowl of salt, a knife of her own. A small fire burned at her feet. "That's mine," Lance said, quiet. "It is." She did not look up. "And I'm standing here with it. You take the gate. I take the door. He gets through one of us or neither." She finally met his eyes. "I'm not furniture, Lance." He looked at the sword on her stone, at the steady set of her mouth, and something in him gave way. He nodded once. He took the post by the gate. She stayed by the pedestal, his blade within reach, the cabin at her back. The night settled around them, and they waited together.