More. As though this is a gift I can give. As though I know how to give anything except pain.
But my body responds without my permission. Deepens the kiss. Pulls her closer until no space remains between us. My scarification channels pulse, responding to the proximity of her blood, her power, her?—
Her.
The realization breaks through instinct and trained response. This isn’t about blood magic or tactical advantage or the alliance we’re building.
This is about her.
I pull back. Just far enough to see her face. Her lips are swollen, her careful braids disheveled, her gaze dark in ways that have nothing to do with the Vale’s shadows.
“Imara.”
“Kharvek.”
My name again. Different this time. Softer. She reaches up and touches my face—actually touches, her palm against the scarred ruin of my cheek. No one touches me. No one has touched me with care since?—
Never. No one has ever touched me with care.
“This complicates things,” I manage.
“Does it?”
“An alliance based on mutual goals is clean. This—” I gesture between us, the broken bones, the scattered map, her hand still on my face. “This is messy.”
“Everything worth having is messy.” She strokes her thumb across my cheekbone. “You don’t have to want this. We can go back to pure strategy. Plan the assault, kill the Matron, part ways when it’s done. I won’t?—”
“Stop.”
She stops. Waits. Her hand remains on my face.
I don’t have words for this. Don’t have the vocabulary for wanting tenderness. But I try anyway.
“I don’t know how to—” Deep breath. Start again. “Everything I understand about connection is filtered through violence. I’ve never wanted what I couldn’t take by force.”
“And now?”
“Now I want—” The words stick. “I want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
Her expression shifts. Not pity—I’d reject pity—but understanding. One damaged thing seeing another.
“We figure it out.” Her chin lifts. “Neither of us knows how to do this. We learn.”
“Learn.” The word feels strange in my mouth. “The Matron doesn’t let weapons learn. Weapons perform their function or get replaced.”
The pressure behind my ribs expands. Painful. Necessary. Something cracking open that’s been closed since before I understood what closing meant.
I lean into her touch. Surrender I’ve never offered anyone. Trust that feels more dangerous than any combat I’ve survived.
“Imara—”
Torchlight.
The flare cuts through the bone garden’s red glow, harsh and sudden. I pull Imara behind me before conscious thought engages, positioning my body between her and the threat. Training. Instinct. Something else.
“Harvest Guard.” The words come from behind my shoulder, barely a whisper. “They’re conducting sweeps.”
I see them now. Six figures moving through the skeletal monuments, torches held high, their formation too loose for a targeted search. Random patrol. Bad luck rather than discovery.
