“I can’t leave her.”
“You’re not leaving her,” she said firmly. “You’ll take three steps, change behind the partition, and be back before she misses your warmth. You want to lay down with her, yeah? What good are you if you’re wet and frozen?”
Resh looked down at his hands. They were steady. Strong. Still warm, even after all this time in the tub. Fire flickered at his core—steady, alive, unyielding.
“This body doesn’t feel the cold,” he murmured, suddenly guilty, wishing he could share this immunity with Auryn in this moment.
Thessia’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Nothing.” He pushed to his feet with quiet reluctance. “I’ll change.”
She watched him go, lips pressed in a thin line.
As she turned back to Auryn, she whispered to the girl tucked in the mountain of furs, “You’ve made a mess of him, little moonbeam. Gods help us all.”
Resh heard her, and he couldn’t deny a word of it.
17
The Second’s Unrest
The moon hung low over the camp, silvered and silent, as Thessia the Lioness walked the perimeter of the camp, checking ward anchors and noting any cracks or defects in stabilizer stones. Every so often, she looked down at her hands, where dried silver blood lingered. Her eyes narrowed to where calloses and scars had made a home for years. Yet now, the skin there was smooth and unmarked.
Healed as though by divine will.
She wiped the blood off on her tunic. Tensed her jaw.
Moonbeam, just what are you? Using magic without a conduit. Closing rifts in the sky. Looking at me with a smile, those silver eyes shining like starlight. Gods help me, what have I stepped into?
She couldn’t help it—her gaze dropped to her healed skin again.
Does he know? Do they know? A dangerous secret, and not mine to tell. Not when I’m just a fool hanging on your every word like it’s my guiding star.
A sudden wind blew across the clearing, as though Elendria had sensed her thoughts. Somewhere in the distance, horses whinnied—but here, by the edge of the southern perimeter, the world held its breath. Lost to time. Waiting for the Lioness to choose her next step on a winding path.
She stroked one of her braids, fingers catching at the aged violet ribbon braided into it. An old habit she'd picked up over the years. Her hand wandered there when danger lurked close. When instinct warned against something creeping in the shadows.
The silver blood on her skin gleamed, and in that moment Thessia chose silence.
Made it a vow.
Time let out its breath. Footsteps shuffled behind her, muffled in the grass. She turned, her grip tightening around the hilt of her glaive. Her body tensed, then relaxed.
Zarrek walked toward her with a grave look on his face, his dark skin reflecting the moonlight. Judging by the way his upper lip pressed against his teeth in disgust, he needed a drink. Maybe several. Too bad bloodwine rations had been dwindling. None of them could afford that particular luxury right now.
Thessia put her hands on her hips. “You look like you lost a fight with the stableboy,” she said. “And forgot to get drunk afterward.”
Zarrek approached without a sound. No sharp remark, no swaggering gait. Just presence, heavy and quiet.
She tilted her head. “Need something?”
He didn’t answer. Just leaned against the outcropping beside her, arms crossed tight, shoulders bunched like corded rope. His eyes glowed gold beneath his brow. Bastard looked rattled, and because there wasn’t much in any realm that could rattle the Bloodletter, she tensed.
He didn’t look at her for a long time. Just stared at the Commander’s tent far across the clearing, jaw locked, the line of his mouth carved from stone.
“…You all right?” she asked.
Zarrek shook his head once. “Not even close.”
