Her hands search her body. She’s naked save for the undergarments she had on under her gown. Her hands find wet, cold leaves packed into the wound at her side.
She hisses in pain, and her eyes find mottled bruises blooming across her skin from underneath the leaves.
Where in the fucking Stars is she?
She tries to push herself to sit, her hand pressing into the blankets atop a soft cot. Her eyes drift around the room. Notlarge. Humble. Kitchen, table, and this single cot make up the space.Definitely not on the Inside.
This is a quaint, personal home. A home filled with jars of tea and herbs. Bread wrapped in a cloth on the bench. The home of someone living a life here on the Outside.
That’s when she remembers—the wall. The fall. The figure who carried her.
Footsteps approach from behind the only door in the space. The knob turns slowly, and a woman’s face peeks out from behind the door.
“You’re awake,” she whispers, voice tentative and shy.
“Where am I?” Elyssara croaks. “Who are you?”
The woman steps out, closing the door softly behind her as if careful not to disturb something fragile in the room. She is… unexpected. Both gentle and certain. Tender and steady.
Her skin is deep and luminous, like the night sky has made a home there—rich and endless, holding light rather than reflecting it. Textured dark curls frame her face in untamed spirals, catching the sunlight in quiet glints of gold.
Simple clothes. Practical. Rust sleeves pushed to her elbows, revealing forearms dusted with faint scars and the remnants of old burns. A healer’s hands.
She carries a shallow bowl, steam curling lazily from its surface, and sets it carefully on the table before approaching the cot.
“You shouldn’t be moving,” the woman says, voice low and even now, the earlier shyness dissipating. “You’ve lost more blood than your body can afford to spare.”
Elyssara’s gaze sharpens despite the fog pressing in at the edges of her vision.
“Where am I?” she demands again, forcing strength into the words. “And who are you?”
The woman pauses at the edge of the cot, meeting her gaze without flinching.
“Safe,” she answers first, as if that is the most important thing. “For now.”
Not an answer.
Elyssara’s fingers curl into the blanket.
“And you?” she presses.
A beat.
Then…
The same door bursts open, another body striding through it with confidence that fills the room.
“That would be my wife.”
Elyssara’s vision sharpens. Her eyes narrow.
Her hand flies to her thigh, searching for the blade that was never there.It’s lodged in Rhaema’s torso.The thought reopens the wound she forgot existed while she laid here.
She bounds to her feet, shoving down the pain that flares through her ribs. Her legs.Everywhere.
“What the fuck areyoudoing here?” she hisses, dropping low into a crouch, fists raised and ready to fight her way out.
Marin strides forward, mouth lifting in that same wicked smile she flashed while standing over the bodies of Kael’s family. Her hair is unpinned now—smooth and straight and endlessly black. Almost soft. Almost… serene. And perhaps that’s what Elyssara would think if she didn’t already know the woman is fucking demonic.
