“Zeidan…” she whispers, enough to undo me.
I cross the room in three strides and drop to my knees beside her. For one suspended second, I hesitate, fear is a colder enemy than any blade.
Then I reach for her.
The moment my hand closes around hers, the bond settles. The violent static that has clawed at my ribs for days smooths into something steady and whole. Her breathing evens beneath my palm. The tightness in my skull dissolves.
For the first time in days it's calm. I do not move my hand away.
24
AMELIA
Iwake slowly, as if my body has decided to return to the world only after careful negotiation.
The first thing I notice is warmth.
Not the feverish kind, not pain, not the jagged aftermath of magic gone wrong. This warmth is steady, anchored, wrapping around me like something that has chosen to stay. My awareness drifts outward, and I realize I am not alone.
Zeidan is sitting beside the bed.
He isn’t watching the room. He isn’t meditating or pacing or pretending detachment. He is watchingme, his attention so intent that I feel it before I open my eyes. One hand rests on the mattress, close enough that if I shifted even slightly, our fingers would touch.
The bond is quiet.
Not dormant, never that, but calm in a way that feels earned rather than enforced.
When I finally open my eyes, his expression changes instantly. Relief crosses his face before he has time to hide it, raw and unfiltered, followed by something softer that makes my chest tighten.
“You’re awake,” he says.
His voice is low, careful, as if speaking too loudly might undo me.
“Mm,” I murmur. “Wasn’t planning on staying unconscious forever.”
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly. “Good. I would have objected.”
I shift, testing my limbs. There’s soreness, a lingering ache beneath my skin, but it feels manageable. More like exhaustion than injury. Zeidan notices the movement immediately, his posture adjusting without him seeming to think about it.
“Don’t push,” he says gently. “You burned through more than you realize.”
“I always do,” I reply, then sigh. “Is that your way of saying I was reckless?”
“It’s my way of saying you’re alive,” he answers. “And that matters more.”
That lands somewhere deep. The room is quiet around us, the light filtering in pale and gold through the high windows. No council chambers. No wards humming in warning. No audience waiting to measure us. Just this space, suspended outside consequence for a moment.
I swallow. “How long was I out?”
“Most of the night,” he says. “You stabilized near dawn.”
“And you stayed.”
“Yes.”
I turn my head to look at him fully, really look at him, and something shifts in my chest. He looks tired, the kind of tired that settles into the bones. There’s a faint shadow beneath his eyes, his hair less carefully restrained than usual, as if he never bothered fixing it after the urgency passed.
“You should have rested,” I say quietly.
