Then, slowly, he gives the smallest nod, a hesitant, fragile thing.
Only then do I continue, my fingertips brushing the cold of his mask.
I do not know what drives me. Curiosity, or the aching need to ease his suffering, as I do for all who bear pain. Despitewhothey are. Despitewhatthey are.
Because pain is the great equalizer. It does not favor, does not discriminate. It takes, it breaks, it brands, and so I must tend to it with the same indifference, the same unwavering touch.
My fingers inch beneath the edges of his mask, curling into the grooves. He shivers. His throat bobs with a hard, audible swallow, but he does not stop me. He does not move at all, save for the tightening of his fists against his thighs.
So I pull.
The mask resists, a final act of defiance, but then it loosens. And with one firm tug, it comes free.
What lies beneath is a battlefield of scars. Scorched flesh stretched taut, ridges of deep purple and ashen white carved into the left side of his face. The burns claim his brow, twist into his hairline, consume half his nose and the corner of his mouth, curve cruelly down his jaw before trailing down his neck.
I do not flinch.
I do not recoil.
Because I know what it is to be marked by fire. To be remade by ruin.
The Golden Son does not look at me. His breath is shallow, uneven, his hands curled so tightly his knuckles go white. He is waiting. Bracing. As if he has been here before. As if he has seen the horror, the pity, the revulsion written on another’s face and is readying himself for it once more.
I do none of those things.
Instead, I reach out, my touch featherlight as I trace the edges of his scars, the ridges and valleys of melted flesh. He inhales sharply, but does not pull away.
And softly, barely above a whisper, I say, “I see you.”
I feel the relief well behind his eyes, a dam ready to break, but he does not let it. Instead, he leans into my touch, his breath shallow, as if afraid to disturb this fragile moment.
I must heal him. I must take this pain away.
I close my eyes, reaching inward, summoning the gift that is both my burden and my blessing. Warmth stirs within me, a familiar golden light unfurling like the first rays of dawn. It fills me, bright and boundless, spilling through my veins like a river of molten sun. I have missed this. This sacred power, this connection to something greater. It is the whisper of the Souls, the caress of my lost sisters, the memory of soft grass beneath my feet. It ishome.
For one perfect moment, I lose myself in it.
And then…
Agony.
A burning, searing pain explodes around my throat, raw and all-consuming, as if fire itself has come alive and sunk its fangs into my flesh. My body jerks, the light within me twisting, turning,rebelling.I grit my teeth, willing myself to endure it, but the pain only deepens, sharper, crueler, until it rips a scream from my lips.
“Amara!”
His voice booms through the haze of agony, frantic, desperate. “No! I didn’t ask you for this. Stop!”
I try, Souls, I try, but the pain holds me captive, an unrelenting inferno consuming me from the inside out. My vision blurs, stars bursting behind my eyelids, and somewhere through the haze, he grips my shoulders.
“Amara, stop!” The Golden Son shakes me, his voice raw with panic. “Please!”
I gasp, my eyes flying open, the world lurching back into focus. The collar around my neck glows red-hot, no longer just a shackle but a branding mark, searing, punishing.
He pushes my hand away from his face, his own trembling as they clutch at me, as if willing me back to myself.
“Please,” he whispers again, and there is something in his voice I do not expect.
Fear.
