"It is perfect," I whisper.
He turns in my arms. He stares at me, his expression raw. He reaches out and traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, a touch so tender it makes my breath hitch.
"I have nothing," he says. "No title. No magic. No army. I am a man who hauls ropes and sleeps in a rented room."
"You have me," I say. "And I have you. And no one is trying to kill us."
He closes his eyes, leaning his forehead against mine. "I promised you a kingdom, Leora."
"I don't want a kingdom," I tell him fiercely. "I want Imas. I want the man who threw his sword away to save me. I want the man who looks at me like I am the sun."
He shudders. He pulls me closer, burying his face in my hair. We stand there for a long time, just holding each other, letting the reality of our survival settle into our bones.
Eventually, the exhaustion of the journey catches up with us.
We lie down on the narrow bed. It is a tight fit. We have to tangle our limbs together, fitting like puzzle pieces.
For the first time, we lie together not as master and slave, nor as desperate lovers trying to outrun death. We lie together as partners. Equals.
I listen to the rhythm of his breathing as it slows into sleep. I feel the steady beat of his heart against my palm. The silence in my head is profound, a deep, resonant peace that has very little to do with magic, yet everything to do with safety.
I drift off, lulled by the sound of the water and the warmth of his body.
I waketo the golden light of late afternoon spilling across the floor.
Imas is awake. He is propped up on one elbow, watching me. His hair is loose, falling around his face in a curtain of silver. He looks rested, the gray pallor gone from his skin.
He smiles. It is a small, tentative thing, but it reaches his eyes.
"You snore," he informs me softly.
I laugh, swatting his arm. "I do not."
"You do. It is... endearing." He catches my hand, interlacing our fingers. He studies our joined hands, the contrast of his charcoal skin against my pale flesh.
"I need to find work," he says, his tone shifting, becoming serious. "There are smithies here. Shipyards. Places that value strength and a mind for strategy."
"We have the stones," I remind him, thinking of the Zanthenite sewn into my cloak.
"The stones are a reserve," he says firmly. "I will not build our life on these. I will build it with my own hands."
He squeezes my fingers, his grip tight and possessive.
"I will build you a house, Leora. Not a fortress. Not a cage. A home. With windows that open to the sea and a garden where nothing ever dies."
My heart swells, filling my chest until it feels like it might burst. I look at him—this fallen lord, this beautiful, broken man who is rebuilding himself from the ground up just for me.
"I don't need a palace, Imas," I whisper. "I just need this."
He leans down and kisses me. It is slow and sweet and full of promise. It tastes of hope.
"You will have both," he vows against my lips. "Because you are the queen of my peace, and you deserve a throne."
I smile, pulling him down to me. The future is uncertain. We are strangers in a strange city, stripped of everything we once were.
But as his weight settles over me and the light of the setting sun turns the room to gold, I know one thing for certain.
Life is perfect.
