Stavanger Bay and the fire with all the strength it hath

Szymon did not turn away or flinch at the heated intensity within Doe’s golden eyes; they glowed, alight with the rays of the sun, and captured him wholly. He drew breath in a slow, measured way, and held it for the duration of her unspoken vow and the length of her ponderous words. He was not so eloquent as his Chosen One, but he mirrored the promise back to her in his own fashion: “You are mine,” he rumbled, his bass timbre nearly shaking with the conviction of his feelings, “and all I own — and all I am — is yours.” There was, of course, the implicit caveat that both of them were fanatically devoted to Skellige and to the Sea, first and foremost.

Casting his scarred muzzle toward the little sea urchin, he grazed the crest of one thin shoulder and its inky velveteen with his nose. “I will l-learn,” he promised the witch doctor, “to c-care for her.” He could not precisely say, “I will learn to care for her as I care for you,” for it would have been a lie. The feelings he harbored toward Doe were unique and singular — but he would learn to feel a separate, fervent need to protect and provide for Qilaq. Without his knowing it, he already felt a measure of this, betrayed by the gifts he had brought with the scruffy foundling in mind. The small, defenseless creature set the youngest Cairn’s nerves on edge, but in time that agitation would change, melting and reshaping itself into a poor parody of paternal worry. Szymon, at this point in his young life, could offer the little girl nothing more.