Thessia blinks at the shimmering liquid, then looks up at me. Her eyes meet mine, speaking volumes without a single word.
“That’s not right,” she mutters. “Her blood—”
“Is hers,” I reply, tense now. “And you will not speak of it here.” I let out a heavy breath through my nose, slow and sharp. “She needs warmth. Quiet. Not praise.”
Thessia nods, voice gentling. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
Her hand falls to Auryn’s arm, stroking once—tentative. Like she can’t quite believe Auryn is real. My own hands ache where they rest against her back. The feeling is mutual.
Then softer, Thessia bids, “sleep, moonbeam. The rest of us will keep the world turning tonight.”
Auryn nods. She turns to look at me. “Help me walk. Don’t let them see me fall.”
I want to protest. To lift her into my arms. But how could I when she looks at me with stubborn pride and steel-borne grit?
“Hang onto me,” I tell her. “Don’t let go.”
Her hand finds my sleeve. Clings. And though she nods, her legs barely move.
One step.
Then another.
All the while, silver blood leaves faint smears on my arm.
“Are you all right?” I ask again, more desperate this time. Because she can’t be. Not after what she did.
Yet she smiles again. Soft. Quiet. Tired beyond words.
“I will need sleep,” she murmurs, head tilting against my shoulder. “But I will heal.”
I believe her. How could I not? This woman—this star in my hands—has just done something no histories have ever spoken of. Her words are truth. Her will is absolute.
So, I believe her.
And of all the things I would come to regret—this would be the first.
15
Silver Hush
Morning light filtered soft and gray through the seams in the Commander’s tent, brushing over Kailorien’s bare shoulders where he lay. Another dawn bought with blood and fortune, leaden and silent in its arrival. The hush held everything in suspension. Even the dust motes dared not move.
He hadn’t slept.
All night, his scar kept him awake with its incessant itching; the battle and the use of his runes likely aggravating it.
Auryn, curled against him for warmth, hadn’t stirred once through the night. His arm was still wrapped around her; the book he’d been pretending to read had long since slipped to his thigh. His muscles ached from remaining half-tensed, too afraid to move and wake her.
She looked like peace carved in moonlight—untouchable, undeserved,and his to protect.
Carefully, he slid his arm away and sat up, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes. The ache in his bones was familiar—post-battle weariness—but something deeper gnawed beneath it. Something that hadn’t come from war.
He glanced at her again. Her breath was slow. Measured. But when he tucked the blanket higher over her shoulders, he paused. Her skin was cold. Not alarmingly so. But enough to make him hesitate. Frown.
She must be worn thin. Any mage would be.Closing that rift…Void, I’ve never heard of anything like it.
His fingers reached out of their own accord, brushing silver strands from her cheek. She didn’t stir. Didn’t so much as flinch. Just lay there, soft and silent, as if she hadn’t mended the very fabric of the sky the day before. As if she hadn’t ridden Astenos into a storm and jumped straight into his arms like she’d known he’d catch her.
