The ice fought back, winter magic recognizing its antithesis. Where the two forces met, steam rose thick enough to obscure them both. She felt each crystal of ice like a splinter in her own flesh, felt them crack and dissolve under the onslaught of whatever lived in her chest. The warmth wasn't gentle—it burned through Malachar's magic with savage purpose, reclaiming territory that had been taken.
Eliam's breathing had gone ragged. She could feel his heartbeat through her palm, too fast, struggling with the invasion of foreign magic even if it was trying to heal. His skin grew fever-hot where her hand touched, the temperature spreading outward in visible waves.
"What are you?" The question came out rough, wondering.
She didn't know. The warmth had never acted like this before—so directed, so violent in its protection. It recognized him, reached for him always, but this was different.This was the warmth turning into something with teeth, devouring the ice magic like a starved thing finally fed.
The wound beneath her palm began to close. She could feel it happening—flesh knitting together from the inside out, ribs realigning, the puncture sealing itself with unnatural speed. The ice magic gave one last surge of resistance, spreading frost across the water's surface, then shattered completely under the warmth's assault.
The healing moved to his shoulder without her directing it, the warmth flowing through his body to find every trace of winter's touch. It burned through the frostbite, restored circulation to damaged tissue, sealed the ragged puncture with the same savage efficiency.
Golden flowers began blooming in the water around them.
They rose from nothing, materializing on the surface like memories made solid—small, delicate things with petals that caught the moonlight. Not sunset tears this time but something else, something she'd never seen before. They floated in expanding circles, releasing a faint perfume that smelled of summer afternoons and honey.
"Briar." Eliam's voice held warning now. He'd turned enough to see her face, and whatever he found there made him reach back, his hand covering hers where it still pressed against his now-healed shoulder. "That's enough."
But the warmth wasn't listening to her anymore. It poured out faster, seeking hurts that went deeper than flesh—exhaustion, old wounds that hadn't healed properly, the constant drain of maintaining his power. It wanted to fix everything, make him whole, make him hers in a way that terrified her with its intensity.
Her vision started to gray at the edges. The warmth was taking too much, pulling from reserves she didn't have after days of torture and starvation. She felt herself listing forward, her forehead coming to rest against his back.
"Stop," she whispered, though she wasn't sure if she was talking to the warmth or herself.
Eliam twisted in the water, his arms coming around her just as her legs gave out. He pulled her against his chest, one hand tangling in her wet hair, the other pressing flat against her chest where the warmth originated.
"Look at me." Command threaded through his words, the kind that had once compelled obedience through their bargain. Now it just focused her attention and drew her gaze to his. "You need to pull it back. The magic. Call it home."
"I don't knowhow—"
"Yes, you do." His hand pressed harder against her chest, and she felt him push his own magic through the touch—not fighting the warmth but guiding it, showing it the way back. "It's yours. It answers to you."
The warmth resisted, wanting to continue its work, to pour everything she was into him until there was nothing left to give. But slowly, reluctantly, it began to recede. The golden flow thinned, then stopped, settling back beneath her ribs.
The flowers on the water began to dissolve, petals scattering into golden dust that sank beneath the surface.
She was shaking. Her whole body trembled with exhaustion, and only Eliam's arms kept her from sliding under the water. He adjusted his grip, pulling her more firmly against him, and she became suddenly aware of their position—her shift transparent, his skin bare against hers, the mineral water hot around them.
"Your wounds," she managed, needing something practical to focus on.
"Healed." He showed her his shoulder, the skin perfect and unmarked where the puncture had been. "Whatever that was, it worked."
Whatever that was, because neither of them knew what had just happened, what the warmth truly was or why it acted with such violent protection when he was threatened.
"You came for me," she said, the words soft against his collarbone. The truth of it, the impossibility of it, kept circling back.
"Yes."
"Why?" She pulled back enough to see his face, needing the answer.
His hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb tracing the bruises the collar had left on her throat. For a moment, she thought he might actually answer, might finally say the words that would explain the contradiction of casting her out then coming to save her.
Instead, he kissed her.
For one desperate moment, she let herself sink into it. His mouth moved against hers with an intensity that made her breath catch, and the warmth in her chest responded instantly, reaching for him with recognition that went bone-deep. Her fingers curled against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, and for that brief moment nothing else existed—not the hunt, not the betrayal, not the days of terror.
Then reality crept back in.
She pulled away, not violently but firmly, turning her head so his lips met her cheek instead of her mouth.
