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Rolling the hilt between her palms, newly formed—thanks to training—calluses scraped against the empty settings. Her fingertips traced the barren indentations where she could only guess gems once called home, where now only grains of dirt and flecks of dried blood remained. Picking at the opalescentgemstone near the pommel, she chipped away the grime and traced her blood-splattered fingertips over the embellishments.

Taking in the unknown symbols and swirls across the blade, Alora considered the questions Eldacar had yet to find answers to.

It was a beautiful weapon. Likely with a story behind the missing stones. Maybe they were pawned off to earn coin for traveling or to buy land. She wondered if all the empty settings held gemstones the same as the one that remained. Over and over, she twisted it in her palm. Conjuring stories of where it was from and who once owned it and what the blade must’ve done. Until her eyes grew heavy and it rested on her armor.

Soft rustling stirred her mind awake sometime later. Her eyes opened to see Garrik in front of the dust-covered dresser, in nothing but a white towel draped flawlessly around his waist. The candle had burned down by an inch at least, and its white flame was hardly flickering, nearly snuffed out by whorling shadows.

His back was to her. The scars on full display in the glow of the amethyst moonlight.

Alora tried not to look at them. To not lay there and wonder what sort of brutality he had endured to suffer such horrific marks.

It appeared as if the scars were layered. How there may have been multiple moments, separated by time, when each scar was laid. How some appeared lost to time but others were somehow recent.

A vicious shiver scratched down her spine like talons at the sight of him, but she couldn’t turn away. Every mark seemed to be worse than the next. Most were bumpy, thickened in some areas, while others were drawn tight and discolored. She knew those types of scars well.

Burns.

And mixed throughout, most across the expanse of his shoulders and below his neck, were horrendous slash marks like …

Those weretallies…

Alora saw something move in the dresser mirror. Garrik’s hand was tracing down his chest, down to his abdomen. His eyes were closed. The muscles in his back expanded with long, deep breaths as the hand brushed across the overwhelming amount of scars on his front, which were entirely different.

With these scars, somehow, her entire bodyfeltthe difference.

Somehow knowing that they were caused by a more terrible monster than those on his back. Not burns, but something wholly evil. A creature that existed outside of darkness; a void so empty light had never touched it long enough to bask in the shade. She couldn’t find the words to describe the scars themselves.

Alora watched as his hand trembled, his face taut and lips quivering with each raised ridge his fingers found. Too many to count. Far too many.

Then that towel loosened around his waist, drawing her attention away.

The temptation was there—to continue watching.

Garrik’s muscled back rippled as he opened the towel.

And her throat went dry, imagining what those muscles would feel like under her hands?—

“There is a hot bath if you wish to wash.”

Heat flushed her cheeks, tearing her eyes away with only the sound of his towel dropping to the floorboards below.

The dresser closed moments later before she felt him moving, heard his footsteps peddle to the edge of the bed. Then silence until she was brave enough to turn her gaze—oh-so-slowly—to find him standing over her feet at the foot of thebed. Fully clothed in black night pants and a soft tunic with no buttons, perfectly hugging every swell and dip of his muscles. The blood was cleaned from his hair, face, and hands.

Luckily, Garrik didn’t comment on her exploration. Maybe just as inclined to pretend it didn’t happen as she was.

“I would say to hurry if you wish to bathe in the heat, but I am sure your fire can remedy that.”

She blinked, wondering if she’d heard him correctly.

A bath?It was nearly impossible to contain her excitement or the embers that sparked in her eyes. The thought alone sounded glorious after weeks of washing herself in rivers or a water basin. And even if it was nothing in comparison to the luxury of the manor, it was still a tub, soap, and areal door.

Alora’s eyes flickered from the very thin door that a small faeling could probably kick through, then back to the High Prince, who settled his shoulder against the wall beside the window. Crossed-armed, his biceps nearly split the sleeves of his shirt. The ratty brown curtains drawn back in his fingers allowed the moon to cast its purple glow across his handsome face.

“There is a lock on the door.” His deep voice was low, reassuring in a way.

Even so. What’s stopping him from dawning inside?she thought as her heart dropped, and she felt like a faeling having a trinket taken away. The thought of being bare and exposed and vulnerable when he could effortlessly make his way inside and?—

“Your honor is safe with me, Alora. I will not bother you. I think I have proven that you can trust me.” Without as much as a twitch, those silver eyes remained locked on something outside the window. “Unless you would rather find a dirty stream nearby?—”