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Sixteen

S he hadn’t moved.

The restraints had long since disengaged, whispering away into the frame of the chair, but she remained seated. Rigid. Guarded. Her arms were still drawn tight to her chest, fingers clenched into the thin fabric of her gown. Her legs were pressed together, her shoulders slightly hunched—as though any wrong move might trigger something terrible.

But she didn’t cower.

She didn’t sob.

She looked at him.

And Karian… stood.

Watching her.

Feeling her fear ripple through the air like electric current. It clung to her skin. Scented the room. But beneath it, something else stirred in her. Not hatred. Not despair. Something much sharper.

Defiance.

It fascinated him.

He approached, each step deliberate. The floor beneath him acknowledged his movement with a low, resonant hum.

When he stopped in front of her, the silence grew heavy. Thicker than before. It wasn’t just the ship settling after battle. It was the space between them—the unknown.

He reached up.

Her eyes tracked the movement immediately. She flinched. Her hands twitched at her sides.

But she didn’t stop him.

She didn’t look away.

Slowly, he pressed his fingers to the edge of his mask. The hidden seams parted at his touch, whispering open with a quiet release of pressure. The air touched his skin—cool, clean. For a long moment, he hesitated.

Then he lifted the mask away.

He did not look down. He looked at her.

And she… stared.

Her breath caught.

Her pupils dilated. Her mouth parted.

Not in horror. Not in disgust.

Just— awe .

And fear. Of course. But it wasn’t revulsion that flared in her gaze.

It was something far more dangerous.

It was admiration .

Karian said nothing at first. He held her gaze, let her see him fully. Let her study him. No one—not even the other Marak—had looked at him like this. Not since his ascension. The mask had always been power. Tradition. Shield.

Now, it was gone.

And she saw him.

That should have made him feel vulnerable.

Instead, it pleased him.

Deeply.

“I need to know your name,” he said at last. His voice was softer now, unfiltered. The words resonated low in his chest, carried to her ears without the translator’s veil.

She blinked once. Then again.

Her voice came, quiet. Trembling, but clear.

“Leonie.”

He repeated it immediately. “Leonie.”

And again, slower. “Le-o-nie.”

The name was strange. It moved oddly in his mouth. The syllables caught on his tongue like starlight over dark water. But it suited her—unexpected, sharp-edged, and alive.

Leonie .

He let it rest in the air between them like a jewel.

“I watched you,” he said. “During the descent.”

Her jaw tensed.

“I saw your fear.”

“You left me,” she said. “Strapped to a chair. Alone.”

“Yes.”

It was a quiet acknowledgment. No justification. No lies.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought I was going to die.”

“You didn’t.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I should have.”

That surprised her. He saw it in the way her mouth twitched, the brief widening of her eyes.

“I did not know your name,” he said. “That was… careless.”

She lifted her chin. “You think?”

The sharpness in her tone cut through the room like a blade. He accepted it.

“I know it now,” he said again. “Leonie.”

He moved closer—not much, just enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him.

“I do not want you to be afraid of me.”

She gave a bitter breath. Not quite a laugh. “That’s not really your call to make.”

Karian tilted his head. Considered her words.

“No,” he said. “It is not.”

Her gaze lingered on his face—still wide, still tense. But no longer unreadable. Her fear hadn’t gone. But now, it was mingled with curiosity. Fascination.

She was studying him.

He reached out, slowly. Not to touch her. Just to show he could , and that he would not . His hand hovered, then lowered again.

“I protected you the only way I knew,” he said. “Majarin ships do not fall. But war is never certain. And if anything had happened to you...”

He stopped.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

She watched him in silence. Her body relaxed—only slightly—but he noticed it. She rubbed her wrist, still sore from the restraints.

“Why?” she asked. “Why go to all this trouble for a human?”

His voice dropped. “Because you are rare. Because you didn’t break. Because you are not afraid to look at me.”

He leaned in slightly, letting her see the subtle movement of his breath. Letting her feel the raw honesty in what came next.

“Because you stir something in me I do not understand.”

Silence stretched again—but it was no longer hostile.

She looked down, then back up.

“I’m still angry,” she said.

“I do not expect you to forgive me,” he said. “Only to keep speaking.”

He stepped back.

And then—quietly, with the same precision he had removed it—he lifted the mask once more.

The seams sealed with a soft whisper as he pressed it into place.

A part of him regretted it.

But the world outside demanded the mask.

At the door, he looked back.

And this time, his voice dropped low—not a command, but a vow.

“Sleep, Leonie. You are safe now.”

Then he was gone.

But her name echoed in him still.

Leonie.

And the memory of her eyes upon his face.