“One of the first times I came home from battle, I was covered in blood.” He wrung out the cloth. “I was young, only three decades old. But it was my firstrealtaste of killing. Of war.”
No reaction.
He continued anyway.
“Merrick was with me. We fought together, side by side, and when we came home… we were emptied out. Exhausted. Something had settled under our skin, and we didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.”
He ran the cloth over her arm, wiping away the dried flakes of crimson.
“But my mother—” A dry, quiet chuckle. “She knew what was needed. She took one look at us, these two warriors who thought they weregrown, and promptly marched us to a bath. My sister helped. Between the two of them, they cleaned us up, fed us, and put us straight to bed.”
He shook his head. “Ridiculous, really. A future High Lord and his—” He paused, exhaling through his nose. “Well. Merrick’s not my brother by blood, but he might as well be. And there we were, being cared for like a couple of whiny toddlers.”
He shifted, reaching for a bottle of scented soap. He poured a small amount into his hands, lathering it between his fingers before beginning to work it into her tangled hair.
“My sister always had a knack for knowing exactly how to help. She spent the next day making joke after joke, trying tomake either one of us laugh. Merrick broke first, which, if you knew Merrick, wouldn’t be surprising at all.”
He breathed out through his nose, rinsing the soap away before reaching for another bottle, this one filled with an oil that would cleanse the scent of blood completely.
“The point of the story, Isara.” His fingers slid through her hair, combing out the tangles. “Is that ifI—a certifiablemonster—can manage to be here, pissing you off after doingmuch, much worse…”
He tipped her head back, rinsing the oil away. “Then a stubborn fireling such as yourself should bemorethan capable of getting through this.”
A flinch.
Better than nothing.
Ashterion rose from the water, his movements fluid as he reached for a towel. He pulled her up with him, steadying her as he wrapped the thick fabric around her, drying her with a gentleness he hadn’t known he was still capable of.
She remained silent, compliant, her limbs moving only as he guided them. It was an odd thing, seeingherlike this.Lettinghimdo this.
Once she was dry, he dressed her with the same clinical detachment, slipping a tunic over her head, pulling it down over her arms, tugging thick but comfortable pants up her legs.
Ashterion sat her gently on the cushioned stool before the vanity, her body slack, her gaze unfocused, but there. Somewhere, beneath the bruises and the silence. He grabbed a leather tie from the tray beside the basin and reached for her hair.
It was softer than he expected. Damp from the bath, the copper strands clung to his fingers as he began sectioning them out, working mostly by muscle memory. His fingers were far from nimble, but steady—twisting, tucking, pulling.
“I should apologise in advance.” He made a sound low in his throat. Almost a laugh. “This is going to be terrible.”
Still, he kept braiding. One strand over the next. A slow, almost meditative rhythm.
“My sister made me learn.” A smile finally found its way to his lips. “Said I’d thank her for it one day. That was a lie, for the record. I haven’t used this bloody skill in over five hundred years.”
A twitch. Small. But real.
Her lips curved—barely—but enough for him to see it. The faintest flicker of life returning to her face.
Then, hoarse but clear, “Where is she now?”
He froze. He hadn’t expected it, hadn’t prepared for it, and that was why the truth slipped free before he could stop it.
“She died,” he said quietly. “A long time ago. Centuries now.”
He watched her reflection in the mirror. Her head lifted. Her eyes were tired. But not empty.
“I lost brothers,” she said, with the tone of someone who already carried too much. “Back in Braerlith.”
His hands stilled in her hair. For a moment, the entire room felt as though it had held its breath. He released his own in a slow, quiet stream.
