The last part comes out barely above a whisper, and I catch a glimpse of something raw in his expression before he looks away.
"Do you miss it?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes find mine, surprised. "Miss what?"
"The sleep. The peace of it."
Another long pause. When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral, but I hear something underneath—surprise, maybe, as if he’s never considered the question before.
"Some," he admits. "When the weight of being awake feels too heavy to bear."
The honesty in his admission cuts deeper than any dramatic declaration. Here is a man who has known such pain that unconsciousness seemed preferable to waking life. What must that do to someone’s soul? How do you find reasons to keep going when existence itself has become a burden?
"But not today?" I ask softly.
Something shifts in his expression—surprise giving way to something that might be wonder. As if the thought hadn’t occurred to him until this very moment.
"No," he says finally, and there’s something almost amazed in his voice. "Not today."
We eat in companionable silence after that, but it’s a different quality of quiet than before. Less oppressive, morereflective. The weight of unspoken history still settles around us, but it no longer feels crushing. Instead, it’s become something we can examine together, piece by piece, without fear of judgment.
I find myself watching him more openly now, studying the way morning light catches the silver threads in his dark hair, the careful precision with which he handles even the roughest fare. There’s grace in his movements despite his size—economy of motion that speaks of centuries spent honing his physical control.
He’s handsome, I realize with a start. Not in any conventional human sense—his features are too sharp, too alien for that. The gray-green tint to his skin, the ember glow of his eyes, the tusks that flash when he speaks. But there’s something compelling about the way he carries himself, the careful restraint he maintains over his considerable power.
Heat rises in my cheeks at the direction of my thoughts. This is hardly the time or place for such observations. We’re bound together by necessity and magic, nothing more. The circumstances that brought us together were desperate, not romantic.
But even as I tell myself this, I can’t quite make myself believe it. There’s something in the way he looked at me this morning when I thanked him for staying through my nightmares. Something that spoke of more than simple duty or magical obligation.
"The mark," I say suddenly, needing to focus on something practical before my imagination runs completely wild. "Do you feel it all the time?"
Krath glances down at his palm where the spiral pattern rests invisible beneath his skin. I can see him considering the question, weighing how much to reveal.
"It pulses," he says finally. "A second heartbeat that echoes yours."
The intimacy of that description makes my breath catch. "Does it hurt?"
"No. It’s... warm. Constant." He looks up at me, and I catch something vulnerable in his expression before he looks away. "Present in a way that makes solitude impossible."
There’s something in his tone—not quite complaint, but a kind of wonder. As if the concept of never being truly alone is both foreign and precious to him.
"Do you feel it differently?" he asks.
I consider the question, pressing my hand to my branded wrist. The mark sits quiet now, but I can sense its presence—a low hum of power that connects me to something larger than myself. To him.
"It feels alive," I say finally. "Not painful, just... aware. As if it’s listening."
"That’s how it should be. The sharing of life force creates harmony between..." He stops abruptly, as if he’s said more than he intended.
"Between what?"
"Compatible individuals," he says carefully, but I catch the way his eyes flick away from mine.
There’s more to this than he’s telling me. The way he speaks about the mark, the careful language he uses—it suggests knowledge he’s not ready to share. Or perhaps knowledge he’s not ready to acknowledge.
"Is that what we are? Compatible?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us is prepared to examine. Krath goes very still, his hands clenching slightly around his crude breakfast.
