Hope, fragile but real, blooming where it had no right to grow.
Chapter
Fifty-Seven
The camp slept under a thin silver moon. Watchfires burned low, their light small and careful. The river beyond the trees whispered softly, a cool constant murmur beneath the stillness.
Rakhal rose when the tremor began. It started in his hands and crawled inward, curling through his veins like smoke. His breath quickened, his chest tight with pressure. The darkness inside him—his old ally—had become unpredictable since the dungeon. Now it moved of its own will, restless, hungry.
He slipped away from the camp and followed the sound of the river, moving through mist and the scent of damp bark. Moonlight cut the current into ribbons of silver. He knelt at the edge and gripped the stones until his knuckles burned.
“Endure,” he whispered, the word rasping out of him like an order given to someone else.
The shadows stirred.Take, take, take,they whispered, coiling tighter around his ribs. He pressed harder into the earth, fighting for breath, for control, for anything that still belonged to him.
He didn’t hear her approach until her reflection joined his in the water.
“You shouldn’t be alone when it happens.”
Eliza stood behind him, barefoot, her cloak unfastened, hair loose around her shoulders. Moonlight caught the pale gleam of her skin, the calm in her expression.
“It’s safer this way,” he said hoarsely.
“For whom?”
He had no answer.
When she moved closer, he felt the warmth of her before she touched him. “Look at me,” she said quietly.
He obeyed. Her eyes, in the half-light, held the steadiness he lacked. She raised a hand slowly enough for him to stop her. He didn’t. Her palm found his chest—warm, deliberate, grounding.
“Breathe with me,” she murmured. “In. Hold. Out.”
He tried. At first the air tore ragged through his lungs, but she didn’t move her hand. Her pulse steadied against his skin until his own found its rhythm again. The shadows recoiled, uncertain, retreating to the edges.
“They don’t like you,” he said, voice rough.
“Then they’ll have to learn to live with me.”
A short breath escaped him—something close to a laugh. The tension began to ease. The trembling in his arms stilled. The stones under his hands felt cool again, not alive.
Her hand lingered over his heart. He covered it with his own, fingers curling lightly around hers. The relief of touch felt almost unbearable.
“You’re stronger than you think,” she said.
“You have too much faith in things that break.”
“Then I’ll mend them.”
The simplicity of it undid him. He lifted his hand to her face, rough thumb brushing her jaw. He waited. She leaned in, just enough. The night seemed to pause—the river, the air, even the shadows holding still.
He kissed her, slow and searching, the taste of water and warmth between them. It wasn’t hunger; it was surrender. Her hand slid up his arm, the pads of her fingers tracing the lines of muscle. He felt her shiver, her breath catching against his.
When she pulled back, her eyes met his—steady, questioning, not afraid. He saw the reflection of his own restraint there, the effort it took not to lose himself again.
She touched his cheek. “You’re not alone in this.”
He nodded once. “I’m starting to believe that.”
