It wasn't enough.
The whisper came again—not Azfar's this time, but a chorus of tones he recognized in bone rather than ear. Voices layered upon each other, some deep and guttural, others sharp and whisper-thin. The dead. The ones he'd led into battle. The ones he'd killed. The ones buried under this cursed forest centuries before him.
Feed us, they said.Give us warmth. We can make you whole again.
He bared his teeth. "I don't need you."
We are you.
The ground beneath him darkened where his blood had fallen. It pulsed faintly, like a mouth swallowing. The air turned metallic.
Rakhal slammed his fist into the earth. "Enough."
The voices hissed, then receded, sulking like smoke denied flame. The shadows in his veins quieted—but only because they were listening for another sound.
Footsteps. Soft. Human.
"Rakhal?"
Her voice. Low, uncertain.
He closed his eyes. "Go back to sleep."
She came closer anyway. The air changed with her presence—the shadows recoiled slightly, like animals uncertain of a new scent.
"I woke and you were gone." She took another step toward him. "Then I saw you—like this."
"Like what?" He kept his gaze on the ground.
"Like you're hurting."
"I'm not." He tried to stand, failed, settled back on one knee. The effort cost him a sharp, involuntary sound.
She knelt beside him without hesitation, one hand braced against his shoulder. Her touch burned, not with pain but like a brand pressed against ice. The reaction was immediate. The whispers fell completely silent.
"You're cold," she murmured.
He gave a short, rough laugh. "You're wrong. I'm burning."
Her hand slid down his arm, finding his wrist. "Then let me help."
He should have told her no. Should have moved away, hidden the truth of what writhed beneath his skin. But the need to resist drained out of him with the same steady rhythm as her voice.
"Breathe," she said.
He didn't answer.
She shifted, kneeling opposite him, their knees almost touching. Her palm pressed flat against his chest, over the heart that refused to keep to a single rhythm. "Here. Follow me."
Her eyes held his. Blue-gray, steady. The kind of color that had no name in his language—something between storm and steel.
"Breathe," she said again. "With me."
He obeyed. In, hold, release.
Her hand rose and fell with the movement. Her warmth spread beneath his ribs, slow and invasive, until his body found her rhythm.
"The shadows listen to you," she said quietly.
