Page 10 of Touch of Oblivion (Woven in Time #1)

Ilyria simply resumes walking back toward me and links our arms once more. Her tone is light as she whispers, “For what it’s worth, I’d love to watch you continue to put him in his place if you were who he crowned.”

I glance sideways at her.

There’s an easy camaraderie in her words–like she’s already decided I’m someone worth walking beside. Someone worth…defending.

It warms something small and vulnerable within my chest, and I bite my bottom lip before a smile can spread in response.

“First, we’ll get you a bath,” Ilyria announces, her voice echoing softly off the stone as she crosses the room with purpose. Steam drifts in delicate ribbons from a large oblong shape nestled beside the fire. It takes a moment but the word comes to me: tub .

Folded linens sit neatly on a nearby bench, their clean scent already reaching my nose, mingling with the fainter earthy notes of something herbal. Beside them, a small stack of soft fabric waits in offering.

Ilyria reaches for a small glass jar on the side table. “This should help with any bruising or cuts,” she says as she unscrews the lid. “My own recipe, but I should warn you, it smells atrocious.”

Her nose wrinkles slightly as she sniffs it to confirm. “I focused on function, not fragrance.”

I manage the faintest smile. “That’s…reassuring.”

She glances up and gestures loosely toward the coat draped around my shoulders. “You can set that aside. I promise not to stare.”

I hesitate.

It isn’t modesty that knots my stomach. That feeling was handed to me the moment the kings found me, but I’ve never claimed it as my own. Since waking, I’ve had no real agency. Even choosing between the four supposed kings wasn’t much of a choice.

Now, something as simple as deciding when I’ll uncover my skin feels like a form of power I’m unsure I want to relinquish. My hands tighten around the bottom of it as my fingers brush against the fabric.

Ilyria doesn’t push. She just waits, still and quiet, making the choice wholly mine.

Somehow, that makes it easier, and eventually my hands let go of the dirty fabric.

With slow movements, I shrug the coat from my shoulders and fold it over the back of a nearby chair.

The cool air brushes across my bare skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.

Ilyria’s gaze stays politely turned while I step forward and lower myself into the tub inch by inch, the heat kissing my skin in a slow, stinging caress before melting into something deeply soothing. I exhale as it wraps around me.

The silence stretches, companionable and oddly tender for having just met this woman.

Then Ilyria speaks, her voice so soft I almost miss it. “You look like someone who hasn’t been taken care of in a very long time.”

The words land like a stone in me, weighing my mind and body down.

Has anyone ever taken care of me?

I don’t answer my own question, nor her statement.

A strange sadness blooms beneath my ribs, sudden and quiet, and impossible to place. I sit with it, letting it breathe through me, sharp-edged and searching. I don’t know what about her words opened that door inside me, I only know it did.

“Lean your head back,” she murmurs gently.

Her fingers sink into my hair and guide me down, submerging me just far enough that my scalp warms. The scent of lavender rises from the water as she massages the oil through the strands with a firm, practiced touch.

I close my eyes, and for the first time since I woke in that clearing, I allow myself to relax. Just a little.

Once my hair is rinsed, she places a few bars and bottles beside me with quiet instructions. I bathe in silence, scrubbing away dirt, blood, and ash with slow, deliberate movements, careful to not brush my ribs.

When I finally step out of the tub, the air is cooler, but I don’t flinch. I wrap a thick linen around myself, the fabric soft against my freshly cleaned skin.

She kneels to grab the opened jar, then dips two fingers inside.

“Would you like help?” she asks, tone carefully neutral. “There are some spots you won’t be able to reach.”

I nod once before letting the linen fall.

She doesn’t ask how I got my wounds. Doesn’t comment on the way I wince when she brushes too close to a rib. She just works.

It settles an underlying anxiety that I hadn’t realized was humming through my body.

For a fleeting moment, I have the urge to tell her I killed someone, just to see how she’d react. I swallow the cheeky thought as she finishes and reseals the jar with a soft clink of glass.

She doesn’t rise immediately as I wrap the linen back around myself. Instead, she sits back on her heels and studies me .

“I like you,” she says at last, as if that decision has just solidified in her bones.

The words catch me off guard. My brows lift as I glance down at her in a silent question.

Why?

“You’re unsettling in the best way,” she offers, a smile curving her lips at the end. “It’s been dull here for a long time. Controlled. Predictable. But you…you’ve shaken things.”

I shrug and answer honestly, “I’m just trying to remember who I am.”

She nods as if that isn’t a surprise. “That’s why it’s interesting to watch. Everyone here plays their role so well, but it’s clear you don’t want to be handed one.”

My voice softens in return as my gaze drops to the floor. “I’m not sure what I want.”

“Then don’t play by their rules,” she says simply, with a conviction and strength that lifts my eyes to hers. “Make your own.”

There’s a soft pause before she rises to her feet.

“Dinner won’t be for a little while still.” She tilts her head, mischief sharpening again. “Want to stir up a little more chaos before we eat?”

I stare at her, caught somewhere between confusion and intrigue.

A slow smile forms on my lips before I can stop it. “Alright. What kind of chaos are we talking about?”

Her pink lips split into a grin. “The harmless kind. Mostly. But I need to get you some nicer garments than what my brother’s staff found for you.”

She leaves with a wink, promising she’ll return with something comfortable and “marginally less hideous.”

I scan the room, letting my mind slowly recall each item before crossing to the bed in the opposite corner. For a moment, I simply breathe in and out as I sit on the edge of it, letting the quiet settle around me in comfort.

My mind drifts to the proclaimed kings and the war I was thrown into.

Azyric’s words come back to me, cold and sharp. Only one side will stand when it ends.

It sounded so certain. What I still can’t understand is if all of this is justified.

Did the humans truly strike first? Am I only hearing one side of history?

Even if everything Azyric said was true…is this brewing war truly the only way forward?

My gaze lifts to the high, vaulted ceiling above, and I wonder if anyone ever asks those questions before choosing violence.

The door creaks open, drawing my focus. Ilyria steps inside again, arms full of a pale green fabric.

“I found something that will flatter your dark hair and eyes,” she announces, setting it on a nearby chair.

My mind is still caught up in my confusion of this war as I nibble on my bottom lip before whispering, “Ilyria?”

From what I’ve seen of her, she’s honest and kind. I’m curious what her thoughts are, opposed to Azyric’s.

She pauses, half-turned, brows lifted. “Hmm?”

“Do you think this war is for the best?” I ask quietly. “Or do you think there is a path to peace?”

There’s a beat of silence, then she moves closer, her expression unreadable for a breath.

Her brow pinches as she nibbles on her bottom lip for a few seconds. When her eyes meet mine again, her shoulders pull back, lips thinning into a straight line.

“Peace is a lovely story we used to tell, but stories are only written by those who survive. I want my people to survive, Wren.”