"They listen for weakness."
"Then let them hear strength instead."
Her tone left no room for argument. Each breath drew the black hum in his veins quieter, slower. The ache in his head eased. The shadows coiled inward, docile, not gone but resting.
He realized his hand had come to rest over hers. He hadn't meant to. Her fingers were small against his, but their touch held steady even when his claws grazed her skin.
"Say it," she whispered. "Tell me you're still here."
He wanted to say her name. But something older rose first—a word from long ago, spoken to him when his bones were still soft with youth. Azfar's voice again, from some distant training ground of blood and silence.
Endure.
He said it aloud. "Endure."
Her expression softened. "Then that's the word."
He frowned. "For what?"
"For when you forget who you are. When you lose yourself in it again. I'll say it, and you'll come back."
He studied her face—the fierce certainty, the calm at the center of it. "And what will you say?"
Her lips curved faintly. "I'll say, 'I am here.'"
A silence stretched between them, deep and fragile as the space before a storm.
Then he spoke, voice low: "Endure."
She answered without hesitation. "I am here."
The world seemed to breathe with them.
He didn't know how long they stayed like that. Time had lost its shape. When the tremor in his limbs finally stilled, he let his head drop forward, forehead brushing hers. The contact was electric and unbearable all at once.
"You shouldn't come near me when I'm like this," he said.
"Then stop trying to hide it."
He huffed a quiet laugh that might have been something close to relief. "You give orders like an orc."
"And you follow them like one," she replied.
Her breath ghosted across his mouth. He could have kissed her. He wanted to—every part of him ached for it—but he turned his head instead and pressed his lips to her temple. The warmth there grounded him more than desire ever could.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Her answer was a whisper: "Don't thank me. Just stay."
Chapter
Fifty-One
Dusk fell. He watched her by the fire, unable to look away. The others slept or kept silent watch. The forest's nocturnal sounds rose around them, while the whispers that had plagued him retreated beneath the steady rhythm of her presence.
Eliza sat cross-legged near the flames, mending a tear in her cloak. Each movement—needle through cloth, thread pulled taut—was precise, patient. He found it hard to look away.
Her calm was an anchor. Every time his thoughts threatened to slide toward hunger, he found her face instead.
