Kael’s palms ball into fists, veins bulging in his forearms. His sharp jaw is set, his ocean-lightning eyes unyielding.
Gods, he’s mesmerizing.
Elyssara rests her hand over his in a soothing touch, electricity sparking there. Gods, she misses his touch.
But her emerald-green eyes land on Laryn, then Kiva. “We’re going, whether you help us or not.”
Kiva huffs a small laugh. “I know,” she sighs in acceptance. “Laryn, get the linens. They’ll be needing to get out of those leathers and into something a little moreCaelorian.”
Elyssara doesn’t speak. She was expecting more of a fight.
“Surprised I agreed? Darling, I know the look of a woman who can’t be swayed. I come from a long line of them,” Kiva whispers conspiratorially, winking at Elyssara.
“Get Yvesha’s Inside linens,” Kiva demands, throwing a glance to Laryn.
Laryn groans as he pushes to stand, running a hand over the black stubble on his chin. “I’ve learned better than to arguewith a Corvannis woman,” he grumbles. “Yep, just accept my losses and do as they say. Isn’t that right, love?” He bends down, pressing a tender kiss into Kiva’s hair.
She smiles fondly, but her gaze never drifts from Elyssara. “It only took him thirty years.”
A laugh bursts from Elyssara’s throat, and a warmth blooms in her chest—at the easy banter, the familiarity, the affection.
But her chest clenches, too. At the loss, the hardship, the daily question they must answer:am I safe today?
No one should have to live like this. But everywhere she goes, power looks less like collective thriving, and more like engineered favoritism to a minority.
Light sparks at her fingertips, fury taking root in her gut. But Kael slips words down the tether.Justice suits you, my love.
The words settle into her like something she didn’t realize she needed to hear: that Kael is still…Kael.
His shadows spread over her hand, gently soothing her fire into submission. The endless cold of his shadows crawls up her forearm. Intoxicating, alluring—as if her light craves to dance with them. Her head tips back just slightly as she sucks in a small gasp.
Laryn clears his throat, disappearing into the only adjoining room without ceremony.
Kiva suppresses a smirk.
Elyssara snaps her hand back, smoothing down her cloak, and tucking unbound strands behind her ears.
It’s been too long.
Too long since his hands have found hers. Too long since his mouth was on her. Too long since he touched her with indecent intent.
Kael drags his hands through his stubble, fighting a smile that craves to break free.
He slips a single sentence down the tether before snapping his walls back into place.You’re so beautiful when you’re flustered, my love.
But before she can respond, he’s gone. Her intent slamming into the walls of his mind.
Laryn returns carrying an armful of linen—white, sun-bleached, folded into careful rectangles that have been handled too rarely to be casual, too often to be precious.
Elyssara’s throat tightens.
The fabric is thin. Breathable. Unadorned. Like it has been designed to vanish against stone.
“Caelorian Inside dress,” Kiva says, already shaking one length loose. “For people who work or live within the walls.”
That’s when Elyssara realizes—Kiva doesn’t wear white. She wears rust.
“Caelorian Outside dress. Signifies us as people beyond the boundary,” Kiva answers the question she knows Elyssara wants to ask.
