The main cavern erupts into motion.
People surge into action, grabbing tools, hauling empty baskets from storage. Someone drags out old woven frames and starts reinforcing them. A couple of the Drakav pile firebloom stalks nearby, organizing a makeshift nectar station for the recovering sick.
In the middle of the chaos, Sarven’s hand finds my wrist.
“Come,” he says silently, tugging gently. “Small alcove.”
I let him pull me out of the crush, down a short side passage into a dimmer niche where the noise of the main cavern is muffled by a curve of rock.
It’s barely more private than standing behind a curtain in a crowded tent, but it feels like another world after the sensory overload outside.
He stops there, turning to face me. The glow from the main cavern washes his features in soft gold and shadow.
His hands come up to take my face, thumbs brushing the faint bruise along my temple where I must have smacked it on a rock during my graceful tumble.
For a second, he just looks at me, eyes dark and too full.
“You are sure?” he asks, the question threaded with fear he’s been hiding from everyone else. “You want to go back so soon?”
Images flash with the thought before he can shield them: me slipping under the dark water, bubbles streaming from my nose, my limbs limp, his own lungs burning as he dove. The crushing panic. The sick, cold knowledge that he might be too late.
My breath stills in my chest.
He swallows hard, throat working.
“Mih-kay-lah…I close my eyes,” he thinks, raw, “I see you not breathing. My dra-kir stops in my chest. To go back there so soon—”He breaks off, jaw tight.
Oh.
Oh, Sarven…
I reach up and cover his hands with mine, fingertips tracing his knuckles.
“I’m sure,” I say, out loud and in, letting the conviction flow through both channels. “If I stay and something goes wrong because I wasn’t there, because I could have fixed it but chose not to, I won’t forgive myself.”
His eyes search mine, desperate for any crack.
There isn’t one.
Finally, something in him gives.
He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping, then firming again with resolve. His thumbs sweep once more across my cheekbones.
“Then I will make the stone obey you, little dra-kir.” His mental tone turns fierce, almost savage. “I will make it smooth where you step, strong where you touch. Nothing will take you there again. Not water. Not rock. Not rival.”
Emotion hits me like a wave.
“Okay,” I whisper, throat tight. “Deal.”
He leans in and rests his forehead against mine, just for a heartbeat, glow flaring gently where our skin touches.
Outside, someone yells for more baskets. Fire pops.
Duty waits.
Chapter 21
XIRAXIS IS CALMER NOW (FOR FIVE MINUTES)
