Page 8 of Returned to the Vissigroth (The Vissigroths of Leander #6)

I watched the doors close behind me and stood still, bracing my hand against the frame as if the ship’s gravity had suddenly tripled. It hadn’t. I was the one off-balance.

Daphne is alive .

I had whispered that truth to myself so many times in the last few hours, it had begun to taste like a prayer. Or a lie. But she was there. Breathing. Moving. Eyes open, lips parted in wonder, or confusion, or heartbreak.

Gods, her eyes.

They didn’t hold mine the way they used to.

They didn’t soften at the edges or darken with desire or spark with mischief when she said something reckless.

They were wide and watchful, like a wild creature sniffing the wind.

Still the same shape. Still the same color. But no memory behind them. No weight.

I leaned my forehead against the cool corridor wall and exhaled. I’d had this ship built with her in mind. The cabin we just left had been kept untouched for twenty rotations.

I hadn't been able to bring myself to change anything or get rid of her things.

Even the bed still smelled like her. Or maybe my memory was strong enough to conjure her scent: illis flowers, rain, and want.

Some nights, I just lay there and stared out the window, where the stars passed like regrets.

Her body had once molded to mine like a flame to a wick. Her thighs had wrapped around my hips, her hands tugged through my hair, her teeth on my jaw. She used to kiss like it was war. Like we were fighting for breath and memory at once.

Now she looked at me like I was a stranger.

And I?—

I was hard for her. Just standing there. Godsdamned pathetic.

Twenty rotations without sex. Without a single seffy warming my bed.

The others thought I was mad. I’d let them whisper.

What was there to say? Daphne had been my querilly.

My chosen. My only. I had no interest in anything soft, anything new.

I didn’t want clever lips or willing thighs. I wanted hers.

Still did.

I pressed my palm flat to the wall and swallowed hard.

My cock throbbed in memory of her warmth, of her fingers curled around me, of the heat in her voice when she whispered my name against my throat.

She used to beg and tease and take—all in the same breath.

She used to pull me apart and kiss the pieces back together.

Zyn. I missed her. All of her.

And now that she was here… I didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse from the gods to break me once and for all.

She didn’t remember me. Not our home. Not our child. Not the nights we held each other so close I forgot where my body ended and hers began. And yet, she wanted something. She’d asked about Myccael. Demanded to see him, even.

That unsettled me more than anything.

Why him? She didn't even seem to know who he was. That he was her son, or so she believed at her passing, or not… gods, this was a complicated mess. Give me a good battle any day of a cycle, but not this mess.

“Is it really her?” I was so deep in thought that I didn't hear Korran approach. My lack of awareness shook me. He glanced at the cabin door.

I nodded once. “Zyn. I’d know her anywhere.”

He blew out a breath and leaned against the opposite wall. And I opened up, the words pouring out. “She looks like her. Sounds like her… but… she doesn't remember me or anything."

He looked at me for a long beat. “She didn’t recognize you?”

“She doesn’t recognize anyone. Not even me.” I confided with a deep, mournful sigh.

Korran’s jaw shifted, the way it always did when he was thinking too many thoughts at once and didn’t know which one to speak first.

“Then how…?” he trailed off, gesturing loosely.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” I ran a hand over my face. “She woke in the shrine without memory of anything. She didn't even know her own name. She thought she was Thalia. I don't even know how she got to Veyrhall." I stopped, then added, "She asked for Myccael.”

That made Korran’s brow pull tight. “She remembers him ?”

“She doesn’t even know who he is. But something in her keeps pulling her toward him.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Silence fell between us. We were warriors, we fought with swords and axes, we didn't use words between us, not like this. When we talked, we talked about battle strategies, not our families or feelings. Snyg. I didn't know how to do this. Any of this.

"What happened after I left?" I wanted to know. I meant after I ran to catch up with Daphne.

Korran said one word. “Grandyr. He came from the mountains, Grandyr's Crown, and flew low over the castle like a thunderclap. Nearly knocked the spires off their moorings. Scared the stones themselves.”

I stared at him, unable to breathe. So, it was the dragon I heard.

I had suspected as much, but… he hadn’t shown himself since Myccael took the Seat of the Susserayn.

It had to be a sign, I understood that much.

But a sign for what? If he brought my Daphne back from the dead, he could take her again too…

ney, I wouldn't allow that. He couldn't. The gods wouldn’t be that cruel, would they?

To bring her back just to take her again?

Bring her back for what? Grandyr had declared Myccael our susserayn; why would he now send Daphne after him?

She was my querilly. She was Thalia's mother.

Korran folded his arms and voiced his suspicions. “This could be a trick.”

I stiffened. “By who?” Who would have the ability to bring Daphne back?

Nobody that I knew of, except the gods. Zyn, we had enemies aplenty, but this…

something raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly, the Renegades were in possession of the most powerful weapon we had ever seen, and at the same time, Daphne came back? This couldn't be a coincidence.

“She’s not a trick,” I added stubbornly. She couldn't be.

“I didn’t say she was. Just—keep your blade sharp,” Korran advised, sensing that this was as far as I was willing to discuss this. A wise decision, because when I looked at the cabin again, I decided, if anyone tried to take her, god or not, I’d rip the sky open to stop it.

I nodded my assent and turned to reenter the cabin. The door slid shut behind me with a soft hiss. The dim light warmed the edges of the room, gold washed over dark wood, over metal, over her.

Daphne lay curled on the bed, wearing one of her old night gowns, one I remembered well, and the sight nearly ripped my heart out.

Her red hair spilled across the pillow like fire poured over silk.

One bare shoulder was exposed, freckled, luminous.

The material rode dangerously high on her hips, revealing the curve of her back, the soft press of thigh against the blanket.

My throat tightened. She looked like a dream.

A vision that could disappear if I breathed too hard.

I crossed the room in silence and pulled the blanket gently over her.

She shifted but didn’t wake. The dress loosened slightly, and I caught a glimpse of skin I’d memorized with my hands, my mouth, my soul.

I couldn’t help it. I reached out.

My fingers brushed along her arm, light as breath, tracing the delicate slope from her shoulder to her elbow.

Her skin was so warm, so smooth. Just like I remembered.

The sensation shot through me like a lightning bolt.

Not just heat, it was memory too. How many times had I touched this arm?

In happiness, with restraint, to restrain, to hug, to laugh, to pull her to me.

My entire body responded like it was twenty rotations ago, and we were lovers tangled in firelight, tangled in forever.

Gods help me.

I sank down on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, heart pounding hard enough to break stone. My eyes searched her face, her lashes, the small crease between her brows. She looked peaceful. Fragile.

But who was she?

My fingers trembled as I pushed a lock of red hair back from her cheek.

“Who are you now?” I whispered. “Why don’t you remember?”

The words tasted like grief.

“I feel it’s you. Every time you look at me. Every time you speak. It’s you in there. I know it is.” I swallowed hard. “But if I’m wrong…” I closed my eyes. “If the gods have given me a shell with her face… if this is some trick to unravel me—” I didn’t finish the thought. I couldn’t.

My hand hovered just above her. I wanted to trace every line of her face, kiss her shoulder, bury myself in her until she remembered who we were, what we were. But I didn’t. I couldn’t touch her like that. Not until she remembered me. Not until she wanted it again.

Her chest rose slowly. She sighed in her sleep. A soft, almost wistful sound. It went through me like a blade she didn’t even know she was wielding against me.

What was she dreaming?

Did it hurt?

Was she running toward something? Or away?

I leaned in, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath on my jaw. I didn’t kiss her. But gods, I wanted to. I wanted to press my lips to her temple and whisper her name. Instead, I whispered the only words that mattered now.

“Come back to me.”

I stayed there, breathing in sync with her, as the stars turned beyond the ship and the past refused to let go.

Even if she didn’t remember me, even if she looked at me every day like a stranger, I would find a way back to her.

I’d done it once. I’d made her fall in love with me in a world built on blood and duty and battle. I could do it again.

I would do it again. Because if I didn’t believe that, if I didn’t hold to that thread like it was the last unbroken part of me, I’d go insane before we ever reached Leander.

She was my Daphne.

And I was going to make her mine again.

Even if it killed me.