We walk through Glimner’s east market together. No escort. No weapons. Just us. And still—no one touches us. It’s not fear, not entirely. It’s reverence. Like we’re something sacred.
We stop at a food stall. Real meat. Real smoke. The kind that curls around your throat like a lover’s sigh. Aria moans when she bites into hers, and I nearly lose my composure right there on the sidewalk.
“You trying to start a riot?” I tease.
She licks grease off her thumb. “Let them riot.”
And maybe that’s the key.
We rule not with fear, but with appetite.
With presence.
With the kind of love that doesn’t need declarations—just shared bites, matching scars, and the kind of silence you earn by surviving the worst and choosing to stay anyway.
Back in the tower, we debrief like monarchs. Feet up, wine in hand, skin pressed together like armor left out to rust.
“There’s talk,” she says.
“There always is.”
“They’re calling us legends now.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Took them long enough.”
She smirks. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re still here.”
“I’ll always be.”
And in that moment, I believe her.
Because Glimner may rest.
But we never will.
We don’t get peace.
We are peace.
Sharp-edged. Bloodstained. Built to last.
The walls in our quarters aren’t lined with armor anymore.
They’re lined with sound.
Low, resonant, ancient.
The kind of sound that comes not from lungs, but from marrow—from whatever remains in the body after blood and breath and fear are all wrung out.
Aria’s lips purse, brow furrowed in focus as she tries again.
“Aaaaaa…” Her tone rises too sharp, cracks at the edge.
I chuckle.
She groans and drops her chin to her chest. “I sound like a dying servo-mule.”
