It was the absence of a ring.
Her left hand was bare. No glint of white-gold. No trace of the vow Kael had marked her with.
He felt the crack of it in his chest.
It could be nothing, strategic. Practical. But gods, it didn’t feel like nothing. Not after the dream. Not after the way she had reached for him, wanted him. Not coerced, but tender. Willing. Hungry.
And now?
Now he feared she’d bury it under shame. That she’d pretend it never happened.
She faltered, Serenya’s blade catching her off guard, knocking her off balance. A beat later, Maris was flat on her back. Serenya extended a hand with a slight grin, and Maris took it, panting softly as she rose.
Alarik’s steps carried him forward before he even realized he’d moved.
Maris’s skin glistened with sweat, breath catching as she tipped her water skin back and drank. Her throat worked in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, her leathers clung to every hard-earned curve of her frame like a second skin. Alarik’s fingers curled at his sides.
He couldn’t stop staring.
Not in the absence of the white-gold ring on her finger. Not at the flicker of heat behind her eyes when she glanced his way.
Not the goddess-touched Veil Breaker. Not the bearer of ancient sigils or wielder of holy storms.
Just Maris. Alive. Breathing. Shining with something fierce and untamable.
He stepped forward, voice low. “Mind if I take the next round?”
Serenya raised a brow, glancing between them, clearly catching the spark. “Don’t break anything, either of you, I can't take an extra day on this nauseating ship,” she muttered before walking off with a knowing smirk.
Maris didn’t meet his gaze right away. She twisted the cap back on the flask, shoulders rolling as she adjusted her stance. “I thought you were brooding,” she said, tone teasing, but laced with nerves.
“Brooding’s too quiet for me,” Alarik murmured, circling her slowly. “I had other things in mind.”
She turned to face him, chin lifted, jaw tight.
A beat passed between them. The world seemed to narrow to the groan of wood, the cry of gulls overhead, and the wild drumming of his own cursed heart.
She lunged first.
He blocked it.
Her body twisted close, closer than it should’ve in a match. Their blades locked, crossed and crackling, her breath mixing with his.
“You’re tense, I thought you be more… at ease today.” he said, voice thick.
“You’re in my space.”
“It’s a spar, Maris.”
“It was a dream, Alarik.” She cut.
Their swords strained, neither giving way. But she wobbled, just slightly, and he stepped in, their feet brushing. “Was it only that?” he asked, quiet now.
She faltered, frustration rolling off her. He stepped closer still.
“I would’ve stayed there forever,” he said, barely louder than a breath. “If you’d asked me.”
His hand trembled against the hilt.
