“Food, and boots,” I said, kissing him quickly. “Let’s get dressed.”
A few minutes later, we were ready, clothed as best as we could be, armored up—Rhyan in his new golden armor, the green shard of the Valalumir. And we were armed, including the red shard on my back. Rhyan looked like himself again, like the soturion I knew he was—minus the fact that he had no shoes.
But a moment later, black leather boots appeared around his feet, laced up to his knees. He was barefoot in reality— but, it would keep anyone who saw us from looking twice.
Then I went to work on the rest of our glamours. My hair became an icy-white blonde shade, as did Rhyan’s. For a second, my heart thundered. I thought I was looking at Auriel again. I was overjoyed to be with Rhyan. But I hadn’t expected to lose Auriel so suddenly. To not have a chance to truly say goodbye. To hug him one last time. To thank him. Rhyan said they’d connected as their souls moved—Rhyan’s into his body, and Auriel’s back through the dimension that led him home. But I wished I could see or talk to him, just know that he was home and safe, and back in Asherah’s arms.
My arms. Because I was Asherah. And Rhyan was Auriel. And every life he’d lived, every life in which I’d loved him in, was precious.
But I let the thought go. One problem at a time. And we had more than enough to deal with.
Another sweep of my stave, and we were both in Kormac silver.
Rhyan’s eyes widened when he saw my transformation. “By the Gods,” he said.
“You hate it?” I asked, touching my hair self-consciously. “It’s not really my color.”
He pulled me into his arms. “Partner, every color is your color.” He kissed my forehead.
An hour later, we sat in the darkest corner of a pub, Rhyan wearing his new black boots.
He looked longingly at his food as it arrived at the table. I’d ordered everything off the menu. It was his first meal in almost two months. I wanted him to have everything.
There were eggs and bread and dips, berries and melons, pancakes, and fried potatoes. Plates and plates of them.
His jaw tightened, his chest heaving. “Go ahead,” I said. “Eat.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’ll have whatever you don’t want. But this is yours.”
He reached under the table, his hand seeking mine and squeezing it, his foot shaking. His jaw muscle worked. Then he took a fork, and stabbed it through the plate of scrambled eggs, his eyes reddening as he brought it to his mouth. For a second, he bared his teeth as if he’d extract fangs, then his throat bobbed.
“Sorry. Habit.” He frowned.
“It’s okay. Take your time.”
He wrapped his lips around the fork, then he chewed, making a strangled sound in his throat, his eyes closing.
Swallowing the first bite, he sniffled.
“Is it good?” I asked.
He just nodded, too emotional to speak. I picked up my fork, spearing it through the eggs, but holding it up to his mouth, feeding him as he fed me that last morning.
“Here,” I said.
He accepted my eggs, then smiled, and in turn, fed me another forkful.
We ate slowly, purposefully. Rhyan wanted to savor every bite. I wanted that, too.
Our waiter had just delivered a second carafe of coffee to our table, when the pub doors opened and a group of soturi stumbled inside, speaking in hushed tones.
“The Wall of the Prince,” one muttered. “Just collapsed. How the fuck does that happen?”
Rhyan stilled, and my ears perked up.
“They can’t be far, the akadim,” said one of the soturi.
