Varek Kaelvarr

The boat docked with a heavy groan, ropes pulling tight, wood moaning under the weight of warriors who’d survived far too much. Varek was already moving. He didn’t wait for orders, didn’t look back. His boots hit the pier hard.

He was the first to leave the ship.

Not for glory.

But because you were here.

One year. Twelve moons. Three hundred and sixty-five sunrises without your touch.

He didn’t know how he made it through any of them.

The village had changed. He barely noticed. New thatch. Rebuilt walls. Strangers in the square. None of it mattered. His body carried him forward on instinct, on muscle memory and hope so sharp it could cut.

Then it hit him.

Faint, but real. Warm, wind-curled, tinged with hearth smoke and something sweeter. Something that reached inside his ribcage and shook the beast he’d buried to survive.

Your scent.

He stopped breathing. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel the bond thrum like a second heartbeat.

The path to your home unfolded in front of him like ritual. Every step heavier than the last. The door stood half-open. Light spilled through the threshold.

He pushed it open and stepped inside.

And there you were.

Standing at the far end of the room, wrapped in soft cloth, lit by lantern light. Your bond mark still visible just above your collar, glowing faintly like it had been waiting for him all this time.

You didn’t move.

The silence was thick with breath and memory.

Varek dropped his pack first. Then his cloak. Then his sword. Everything fell away until only he remained — raw, scarred, broken in all the places war had tried to hollow him out.

Then he crossed the room with slow, reverent steps. As if rushing might undo it all.

When he reached you, he didn’t speak.

He leaned in. Pressed his face to your throat. Inhaled deep.

Your scent hit him like warmth after frostbite. His shoulders trembled. And then, finally, he exhaled.

“I’m home, My Storm.”