Do not let your guard down.
Ashterion had given me relief, this brief escape from pain.But he had done so with a purpose. He always had a purpose.
I would not forget that. Instinctively, I glanced back through the doorway. Ashterion stood with his back to me, hunched over a desk.
Swallowing hard, I reached for the hem of my torn, bloodstained tunic. Every motion was slow, testing—my ribs ached, my arms stiff from healing bruises, from strain.
But even now, with only steam coiling around me, with no one in sight, my hands trembled as I pulled the ruined fabric over my head. I let it drop to the floor. The steam clung to my bare skin, the air thick and humid, curling against the bruises, the scars, the too-pale places where old wounds had finally healed.
With one last bracing breath, I slid into the bath.
The moment I was submerged, the heat wrapped around me, sinking deep into every aching muscle, every bruised inch of skin. But more than that, the tonic.
It worked fast. Almost unnervingly so.
The worst of the pain dulled, the ache in my ribs easing, the scrapes and bruises fading beneath the surface. If I had been in any other situation, I might have let myselfrelax.
But my leg—my gods-damned leg—was all I cared about.
The relief there was slower, the pain lingering, the deep throb pulsing through the bone. But it wasless. Manageable. A breath slipped past my teeth, slow and forced. My fingers flexing beneath the water as my body adjusted to the absence of agony.
I willed myself not to think about how much I had needed this, how much I hadwantedthis relief, how I would have agreed to almost anything if it meant an end to that constant, gnawing pain.
Don’t think about that.
I stayed there, floating, weightless. My hair fanned around me in the water, my heartbeat a steady thrum in my ears.
Then, without leaving the warmth of the bath, I reached beneath the water, fingers finding the waistband of my filthy, torn pants. I sucked in a breath, gritting my teeth, andpulled.
The fabric slid free, and I tossed them aside with a soft, wet slap against the stone.
Idid notthink about how vulnerable it made me. How exposed.
Instead, I focused on scrubbing myself clean.
The water darkened, murky with blood and grime.
But in a blink it cleared, pristine and untouched once more.
I ran the bar of soap over my arms again. My stomach. My shoulders. There wasnothing leftto scrub. But I did it anyway. Then I reached for my hair, my fingers working through the tangled mess, lathering it again. The water turned cloudy, strands floating weightless around me.
Again the bath cleaned itself and warmed up, wrapping around me as I let my body sink lower, let the magic—whateverthe hell was in this tonic—continue to work its way into my leg, into my ribs, into every bruise and ache.
I didn’t want to get out.
Didn’t want to step back into that room where Ashterion was waiting.
Didn’t want the weight of his stare, the calculation in his gaze.
The tub was safe.Quiet.
So, I stayed.
Long past when I should have, long past when I had already scrubbed myself raw, long past when the pain in my body had dulled to an ache instead of the overwhelming pain I’d grown accustomed to.
Butfinally,I knew I couldn’t linger any longer. I swallowed, forced my muscles to move, thenbraced. One hand gripping the ledge of the tub. Myfootpressing lightly against the edge.
A slow inhale. Ipushed. Pain flared. A bone deep ache, butonly an ache.Not the unbearable, splintering agony it had been before.
