Page 26

26

VEYLAN

E verything hurts.

The sharp, pulsing ache of torn flesh and exhaustion dragging against my bones. The stench of smoke and blood, thick in my lungs.

Sera sits beside me, hands pressed against my wound. Her fingers tremble, but her touch is unwavering. Determined.

We are alive.

Barely.

The world outside the merchant’s carriage is nothing but the blur of movement, the sway of the wheels rattling over uneven terrain. A stolen escape. Hidden beneath rough fabrics and crates filled with foreign spices, the air is clouded with secrecy.

She does not speak.

Neither do I.

But I feel her watching me.

The cut at my sides is deep. The blade had slipped beneath my armor, slicing through flesh, dangerously close to something vital.

I had not felt it at first.

Not when I was fighting.

Not when I slaughtered the last of Velkiron’s men, their screams ringing in my ears, their blood painting the walls.

But now—it burns.

She will not stop touching me.

Sera leans closer, breath warm against my neck. Her fingers trail across my skin, finding every place I have been broken. She is trying to save me.

She shouldn’t.

“You’re losing too much blood,” she whispers.

The way she looks at me—**like I am something fragile—**it makes my teeth clench.

I am not weak.

And yet, when her palm presses harder against my sides, when her lips part, when the softest note escapes her throat—the world shifts.

The song is nothing more than a hum.

But it moves through me.

It stitches. It mends.

Magic. Her magic.

The same voice that brought men to their knees, that shattered the silence of Velkiron’s stronghold like the howl of a beast—now it is for me.

Only me.

My breathing slows and the pain dulls.

Her song wraps around my wounds like silk, and I know—she is saving me.

And I hate it that I need it because it is her.

That is far more dangerous than the bleeding.

The carriage rocks beneath us. The merchant guiding it has no idea who he carries.

Just two travelers, lost in the remnants of battle.

But Sera is not lost.

She sits with her hands folded in her lap, eyes staring at the moonlight slipping between the wooden slats of the carriage. Her expression is unreadable.

I watch her.

The way she breathes differently now. The way her shoulders no longer hunch with fear.

She is changing.

She looks at me then.

Those ocean-blue eyes.

I feel them, even before they land on my skin.

She has always looked at me with defiance.

Now, there is something else.

“You should sleep,” she murmurs.

Her voice is softer than I have ever heard it.

And it unsettles me.

Not because I fear her.

But because I do not.

Sleep does not come.

The scent of her hair lingers in the confined space, something warm, something that reminds me of salt and old stories.

She is close.

Too close.

And I cannot ignore it.

We are not captor and captive now.

Not in this moment.

Not in the stolen silence of the night, in the rocking cradle of the merchant’s cart.

Something else lives between us now.

Something inevitable.

I feel it.

I know she does too.

But we do not speak of it.

Not tonight as the world outside still wants her dead.

I am not ready to let her go.