We sit there, close enough that I can see the grey of his eyes, smell the sandalwood and leather on his skin. Neither of us moves.
“Can I ask you something?” I say finally.
“Anything,” he says.
“Do you want this? The Conclave, the chance to become Solar Sovereign? Or is this just another duty you’re being forced into?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “That’s harder to answer than you might think.”
“Tell me anyway,” I say.
He stands and moves back to the window. “I became Lord of Mars at thirteen – too young, with a body already failing me. The pressure was …iscrushing. But Mars needs me, so I carry it.” He pauses. “I don’t want the weight of the entire system on my shoulders. But if I’m the best choice – if the alternative is tyranny again – I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“What if there’s someone better?” I ask.
“Then I’ll support them and go home.” He turns to face me. “But if there isn’t, I’ll rule fairly. For everyone, not just Mars.”
The conviction in his voice reminds me why I’ve started to care forhim. He doesn’t want power for its own sake. He wants to protect people, to prevent the kind of suffering that comes from corrupt leadership.
Everything my father wasn’t.
“Let me heal you,” I say.
He studies my face for a long moment. “Are you sure?”
“I want to. You need it. I need it. And tomorrow we’ll both need to be at our best.”
He nods slowly, then reaches for the hem of his shirt. “Before we do this, I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you’ll tell me if it ever becomes too much. If the dependency starts controlling you instead of you controlling it.” He pulls the shirt off in one fluid motion, forcing my heart to flutter. “I won’t let that happen to you.”
I can’t bring myself to admit it may be too late. “I promise.”
He settles onto the edge of the bed next to me. The lamplight catches old scars across his chest – some surgical, some from combat – pale lines that tell stories I don’t yet know. But what captures my attention are the luminescent veins beneath the surface – angry, inflamed lines that pulse with each heartbeat, brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
“It’s worse,” I observe.
“The stress, the anticipation … it affects everything.” He takes in a breath.
I place my palms against his chest.
The magic rises before I’ve fully decided – two days of denial making it wild, greedy. It pours through my palms, and the world sharpens: the grain of his skin, the slow thrum of his pulse beneath my hands. The crescent moon flares cold against my ribs, ice spreading through my sternum.
The magic flows beautiful and slow, silver-bright and staining. It chases the luminescent veins through his body, soothing the inflammation, quieting the pain signals. His breathing deepens. The rigid tension in his shoulders melts away.
The withdrawal symptoms fade as the magic works through me. The nausea recedes and the tightness in my skin eases. For these fewmoments, I feel whole again, complete in a way that terrifies me because I know it can’t last.
I want to keep going, to pour more magic into him, to chase this euphoria until it consumes everything else. But I remember his words about losing ourselves to our needs, and I force myself to pull back.
The veins fade to barely visible lines. I lift my hands away, hollow and aching – but manageable. Functional.
We both stand, as if distance will help us think clearly.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” He reaches for his shirt. “You?”
