A private room.
Thane’s room.
I try to push up onto my elbows, but the moment I move, a deep, sharp ache knifes through my ribs. I barely muffle the groan. A chair scrapes against the floor.
And then, he’s there.
Thane steps into view, already watching me. He kneels besidethe bed, his hand brushing against my temple as he pushes my hair back. His touch is gentle, careful, like he’s afraid I might break. And then, he takes my hand. Steady. Real. His thumb skims over my knuckles before he squeezes.
He looks wrecked. Like he hasn’t slept. His jaw is tight, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betray him. Something dark lurks in them. Something coiled, restrained.
I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “How long?”
Calryx speaks first.“Let’s see . . . the Warlord had one sleepless night, two arguments with the healers, and exactly twelve hours of hovering. So . . . long enough.”
I let out a breath—half a laugh, half a wince. She tries to sound annoyed, but I hear the strain beneath it.
Then, after a beat, her tone shifts—still teasing, but gentler now.
“Don’t scare him like that again, Virelya.”She huffs.“Ifor one was never concerned.”
“You’ve been out since yesterday afternoon,” he says, his voice low, measured. “The healers gave you a sleeping elixir after the healing.”
I blink, disoriented, trying to piece together everything. Healing magics aren’t gentle. It burns. It tears. It forces the body to relive every pain, every wound, as it repairs itself.
I vaguely remember a healer’s hands pressing against my ribs, the raw white-hot agony of flesh mending itself, muscle pulling back together, bone reforging.
I exhale slowly, letting my head fall back against the pillow.
“It’s over,” I murmur, mostly to myself.
Thane doesn’t respond. His grip on my hand lingers—just for a second. Then, almost reluctantly, he lets go.
I glance at him again. He doesn’t move. His posture is stiff now, arms crossed, his shoulders tight—like he’s holding something in check. Like if he doesn’t, he’ll unravel.
I study him, taking in the taut lines of his shoulders, the muscle ticking in his jaw. Something’s wrong. Not just wrong—off.
I shift slightly, testing my body, trying to assess how much strength I have left. The pain is there, but it’s dull now. Manageable.
“Thane—”
“You screamed.”
The words strike like a blade, sharp and unyielding. I go still.
Thane’s expression doesn’t change—stone-cold, unreadable. But his fingers tighten where they rest against his biceps, a fleeting crack in his control.
“You screamed,” he says again, quieter this time. “During the healing.”
I don’t remember that. But I don’t doubt it. I try to shrug, but the movement pulls at my ribs. “Healing isn’t exactly pleasant.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “It wasn’t just pain.”
I hesitate. Because he’s right. I didn’t just feel the wound—I felt the battle again. The cold sting of the Kethraki’s claws. The heat of my own blood spilling down my skin. The desperation of those last few moments in the air, the sheer force of will it took to hold on, to not let the darkness pull me under.
But what good does it do to say that? Telling him won’t help. It’ll only make him more upset.
“It’s over,” I say again. “I’m fine now.”
