“We don’t know whatitis. What if it kills us as soon as it’s out of that pillar?”
“I’m going to free her anyway.”
Zarrek opens his mouth, closes it, then curses under his breath. He lets go of my arm and wraps both hands around the grip of his axe.
I extend the Seed towards the pillar. For a moment, there’s no reaction at all. Then the ice cracks. Shivers. A ripple echoes through the air as symbols come to life beneath my hand, light bleeding from their edges in mournful arcs.
Do not…
A voice on the wind. Sorrowful. Weak.
The ground shakes, and I stumble to keep balance. Behind me, Zarrek throws a few more curses. Gritting my teeth, I steady my grip on the Seed. Stone moans. Sigils on the walls burnwhite.
Please…do not…
And then—the splintering. With a deafeningcrack, the pillar shatters outward like glass beneath a hammer, peeling away layer by layer like flesh from bone.
The woman falls, and time seems to slow as I catch her in my arms.
Cold. Fragile. Breathing.
Perfect.
Her eyes flutter open. Pale silver, as though her cadling the very fabric of creation. As though they see me.Knowme. And I forget for a heartbeat that I am Resh’Agar. That I am a weapon. A construct.
That I am anything but a man.
One on his knees, undone by a gaze that does not even linger.
“Auryn’reh Solah,” she breathes.
My heart thunders in my ears—a sound I have never heard before.
“What?” I ask her.
Again, she speaks. ”Auryn’reh Solah…”
Zarrek blinks. “What’s it saying?”
“I don’t know.”
Admitting such a thing is strange, for I know all the languages and dialects of Daesmoria, yet this—these syllables on her tongue—are foreign. Older than time.
As though that small action costs her everything, the woman closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath. She goes still, and the thunder in my ears grows louder. I rush to check her pulse.
One heartbeat.
Two.
But with an echo behind, as though somethingelsebeats in rhythm too.
I stare at her face. Hypnotized. Spun starlight. Lush silver hair. Skin pale enough to show the faintest trace of silver veins, like rivers drawn just beneath the surface. Scattered on her cheeks like flakes of glowing snow are freckles that pulse with a white shimmer in time with her heartbeat. And her mouth—soft with just a hint of rose.
Ishouldn’tnotice it, but I do.
A fragile, holy thing. Not to be touched. Or coveted.
“What is it?” Zarrek breathed.
