I look at where his hand covers mine. I should pull away. I know I should. But the gentleness in the gesture undoes something in me. No one has touched me like this – not out of need, not for healing, but just … because.
“Cyra…”
A sharp knock at the door shatters the moment.
We both freeze. His hand releases mine immediately.
“Travel writs for His Grace,” a guard’s voice calls.
I stand quickly and move to the window, putting the width of the room between us. His Grace opens the door just wide enough to accept the packet, his voice formal and distant. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The latch clicks shut. We stand on opposite sides of the room, the performance lingering even though we’re alone again. Neither of us moves to close the distance.
He sets the writs on the desk without looking at them. “That’s whatit will be like,” he says quietly. “At the Conclave. Distance. Formality. Even when we’re alone in the same room.”
I turn back to face him. “I understand.”
He moves to join me at the window, looking out at the palace grounds below. Outside, a shuttle engine spools up on the departure pads. The window panes hum and settle. “Once we’re there, I can’t show any dependence on you. The other House leaders will be looking for weaknesses.”
I furrow my brow. “You think they’ll see me as a weakness?”
“I think they’ll see my reliance on a healer as proof that I’m unfit to rule.” His voice grows frustrated. “It doesn’t matter that you help me function better – they’ll interpret it as confirmation that I can’t handle the pressures of leadership.”
The politics of it make sense, but the thought of maintaining cold formality with him makes my heart sink. “So, we pretend we barely know each other?”
“We maintain the proper relationship between a House Lord and his advisor. Professional, respectful, but nothing that suggests…” He pauses, reaching for the window frame to steady himself. I catch the wince he tries to hide – his left shoulder spasms, just for a moment, before he forces it still.
“Nothing that suggests what?” I press.
“…Nothing that suggests I’ve grown to care about your wellbeing beyond your usefulness to Mars.” The admission comes out quieter than his usual commanding tone.
I look away, focusing on my packed bag. Heat flushes up my neck and into my cheeks, and it feels like there’s a magnetic pull in the air between us.
Another wave of nausea hits, stronger this time. I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees and breathing through my mouth.
“How bad is it right now?” he asks, taking me by the arm to help me sit back on the bed.
“Bad enough.” I press my palms against my stomach. “But I can manage until we reach Talis.”
“Can you?” His concern is evident. “If it’s already this severe after two days…”
“I’ll find someone,” I say. “A crew member with an injury, another passenger who needs help…”
“We don’t have to schedule a session in the Atrium,” his voice sounds softer. Less guarded. “You can heal me right here, right now.”
I turn to look at him. “You need it too, don’t you?”
“Yes. The anticipation of the trials, the stress…” He doesn’t try to hide it now. “Two days is pushing the limits of what I can endure and still function properly.”
An offer – mutual need, mutual solution. But there’s something else in his eyes now, a wariness.
“You’re wondering if that’s all I want from you,” I say quietly. “If I only see you as a way to feed this … compulsion.”
“…Do you?” The question is direct, unflinching.
“No.” I meet his eyes. “I won’t lie and say I don’t need the healing. But you’re not just a source of healing magic to me.”
He goes still, then exhales – slow, deliberate, like he’s physically restraining himself.
