Rakhal had been true to his word. He stepped outside, leaving her alone, though whether he lingered just beyond the doorway like a sentinel or wandered the courtyard in thought, she couldn't say.
He was different now in the daylight—different from the being of shadows she had first seen in the dead of night, cloaked in death and menace. The sunlight softened him, stripped some of the dread away, though not enough for her to forget what he was.
A gauzy curtain hung across the entrance, granting her privacy.
She undressed slowly, discarding her nightgown, undergarments, and finally his black shirt—the shirt that still carried his scent—onto the cool stone floor. For a moment, her fingers lingered on the fabric. Then she turned away and stepped into the water.
The pool embraced her instantly. Warm. Silken. Faintly mineral, with traces of something like salt and stone. The water caressed her skin, easing the ache from muscles she hadn't realized were tense. Tiny bubbles rose from below, dancingagainst her limbs, carrying the scent of earth and something floral she couldn't name.
Too perfect. Too soothing. Too civilized for the brutal creatures she had been raised to fear. The contrast unsettled her more than any threat could have.
Not what should exist here, in the heart of an orc stronghold. Not what should be happening to her.
She tried to remind herself—he almost killed you.
This was the same male who had stood over her with a dagger at her throat, who had slaughtered her kind, perhaps hundreds. With his shadows, he could have ended entire battalions in silence.
Eliza lowered herself onto a submerged ledge, leaning back, letting the water close around her body. Above, the sunlight slanted through the high windows, warm against her face.
For the first time in days, there was quiet.
Respite.
The warmth seeped into her bones, loosening the coil of dread in her chest. It felt like the calm before the storm, though. A fragile moment, stolen, precarious.
How was she going to navigate this impossible path?
What would she do once Rakhal bound himself to her as consort? Would he stay in Istrial, haunting the corridors of her castle? Or would he return here, leaving her to deal with the aftermath of a political union no one had wanted?
She would keep her distance, of course. She would find a way to contain his power. Perhaps her mages could study him, find a weakness in the shadows he wielded so effortlessly, a way to neutralize him.
But what if harming him led only to more bloodshed? Another war?
Her mind chased itself in circles, caught between impossible choices. Perhaps she had always been trapped like this, sincethe day she was born—bound by duty, hemmed in by Maidan tradition, by council decrees, by the ceaseless rumbling of war beyond their gates.
And now… this orc.
What if Rakhal wasn't only a threat? What if he offered her a way out of all of it?
The thought was too large, too dangerous to follow. A knot too tightly bound to unravel all at once. She would have to work at it bit by bit.
For now… she let her eyes close, the sun warming her face, the water holding her in its embrace.
For now, she would allow herself to breathe.
She sank beneath the surface one last time, letting the water close over her head, silencing everything. For a moment too long, she let herself drift weightless in the crystalline stillness.
Then she surged back up, gasping softly, water streaming down her face.
Enough. She would not linger. This was no luxury. This was necessity. She needed to be collected, composed, unshaken when she stepped back into his presence.
Time slipped away in the warm embrace of the water, but eventually, the practical voice of the queen overrode the woman's desire to linger. Eliza rose from the pool, water streaming from her body in silvery rivulets. The cool air raised gooseflesh across her damp skin, a sharp reminder of where she was—of her vulnerability in this place.
She seized one of the linen towels, briskly drying herself with military efficiency, then wrapped the robe around her body, cinching it tightly. Another towel she used to slick her hair back from her face, taming the dark strands as best she could without a proper lady's maid.
"I need a comb," she called, her voice steady, sharp. Not a plea. A command. "And something suitable to wear."
He appeared almost instantly, the curtain parting under his hand. Folded garments rested in his arms, a comb balanced on top.
