I watch her. The way lamplight catches the streaks of indigo in her hair. The way she’s curled into herself, defensive even in supposed safety. The sharp intelligence in her eyes that never quite shuts off.
She’s beautiful in ways I don’t have context for. Nothing like Lyria. Nothing like anyone I remember from before.
Just… Mara.
And tomorrow I’ll know if that’s enough.
“Tell me something,” she says into the quiet. “Something true. Something you haven’t said yet.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Why did you really save me?” She looks up. Meets my eyes. “Not the practical answer about wounds you could heal. The real reason. What made you decide I was worth the effort?”
The question cuts to the bone.
I could deflect. Could give her the answer about instinct and newly woken power.
Instead, I tell the truth.
“Because I was drawn,” I begin. “Something called me. And because when I pulled you from the wreckage, you were still fighting. Still conscious. Still trying to survive despite injuries that should have killed you instantly.” I hold her gaze. “And I thought—this female refuses to die. Refuses to give up. I can work with that.”
“So I impressed you with my stubbornness.”
“You impressed me with your will to live. Everything else—the intelligence, the humor, the way you make sense of impossible things—I learned later. But that first moment?” I shake my head. “That was pure instinct. Yours and mine. You chose to fight. I chose to help you fight. Everything else followed from there.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me, and it’s about me being too stubborn to die.”
Despite everything, I almost smile. “Should I have led with poetry instead?”
“God no. Poetry would’ve been weird.” She uncurls slightly. “But this? This is very you. Very ‘K.’”
K.
The name she gave me before I remembered who I was.
“You can still call me that,” I say. “If you want. After tomorrow. Regardless of what happens with the bond.”
“Yeah?” Her voice is soft. Hopeful.
“Yes. It’s yours. You gave it to me before you knew what I was. Before memory or duty or my history complicated things.” I lean back. “It’s the one thing that belongs to now instead of then.”
“I like that,” she says quietly.
“Good.”
The silence that follows is different. Gentler. Like something fragile has settled between us, and we’re both afraid to break it.
Mara shifts on the bed. Pats the space beside her. “The chair looks uncomfortable.”
“It’s adequate.”
“Kael. It’s a terrible chair, and you’re going to spend all night in it being noble and uncomfortable.” She pats the bed again. “There’s room. And the bond—” She stops. “It’ll be easier. For both of us.”
She’s right. The bond pulls less when we’re close. Feels… natural.
I stand. Move to the bed. Sit on the edge, keeping distance between us.
“You can actually sitonthe bed, not hover near it like it’s going to bite you.”
