I stop, staring at it. The image of the Lord of Mars watering flowers sends a ripple of emotion through my chest.
“The atrium,” I say quietly. “At the palace. All those plants … are you the one taking care of them all?”
He follows my gaze to the plant, and a brief flash of embarrassment crosses his face, his cheeks flushing.
“Someone has to tend them.” His voice is careful, neutral. But the defence lacks conviction.
I think of the careful labels in shaky handwriting, the thoughtful placement of each pot, the way the space felt treasured despite the rest of the palace’s militant functionality. All those plants arranged with the same meticulous attention he brings to tactical maps and weapon maintenance.
“My mother must have liked that,” I say softly, thinking of our own garden at home. My heart drops at the thought of Mother – so much has happened, I haven’t had any time to think through the idea Lord Lucien mentioned … that she’s probably out there, gathering support for me. I push the thought away again, a mixture of hurt and sadness bubbling up in my chest.
Zevran’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “After my parents died, I needed something to distract myself … something I could control that didn’t involve weapons or death or…” He stops, then continues quieter. “The atrium gave me that. Proof I could nurture, create beauty instead of just … violence.”
The confession settles between us, more vulnerable than anything he’s said before.
I move toward the bed. It’s larger than mine, the frame low and solid, covered in dark red linens. I collapse on the edge, my hands curling into the blanket as I try to slow my breathing. The hunger under my sternum sharpens, turning from ache to need. My power stirs in response, heat gathering along my ribs where bruises from the attack are starting to surface. The healing magic doesn’t turn inward. It never does. It sits in my chest, bright and useless unless I pour it into someone else.
I need to heal someone.
Across the room, I can hear Zevran move. A quiet shift of weight. The sound of a breath held too long.
I turn toward him. He’s standing near the tactical displays now, shirtless, one hand braced against the desk as if he needs the support. In the low amber light, I can see the luminescent veins under his skin, brighter than they were earlier. They pulse faintly with each breath,sickly silver threading across his chest and shoulders. Our eyes meet again.
“What does this mean?” I blurt out without thinking. “You bringing me here. Mars will see it as a betrayal.”
He hesitates as he considers his answer. “It means … Cyra, I…” He sighs. “I care about my people, my kingdom … but I also care about keeping you alive,” he says finally. His gaze holds mine across the dim space. “The politics can sort themselves out later.”
“And if they don’t?” I ask weakly.
“Then I’ll deal with the consequences.” His expression shifts, walls lowering slightly. His grey eyes soften as he looks at me. “More importantly … are you okay?”
There’s careful concern in his voice, and the way he’s watching me – like he can see past the calm exterior I’m trying to hold together – see right to the fear still rattling around inside my ribcage.
I open my mouth to say yes, to default to the lie that’s always easier.
But nothing comes out. A tremor runs through me, delayed shock finally breaking through the adrenaline. The memory of shadow over my mouth, the helplessness of being held by something I couldn’t fight. Lord Lucien materializing out of darkness like a nightmare given form…
Zevran sees it. The crack in my armour.
He pushes away from the desk, moving toward me despite the pain I can see in the way he moves.
My legs are in motion before I register the decision. I’m off the bed, crossing the space between us, and then I’m pressing into him. My arms wrap around his torso, my face against his chest, and I’m holding on like he’s the only solid thing in a world that just proved it can dissolve into shadow and violence at any moment.
His arms come around me, careful at first, then tighter. One hand settles between my shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of my head. He’s warm and safe. His heart beats steady against my ear.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’re safe.”
I don’t cry. I just breathe him in and let myself be held. Let myself acknowledge that I’m not okay.
We stand like that for a long moment. His thumb traces slow circles against my spine. The tension in my shoulders gradually loosens.
“I couldn’t touch it,” I whisper finally. “The thing that restrained me, the shadow. I tried to use magic, I tried to fight, but I … couldn’t. I was just …helpless.”
His arms tighten fractionally. “Shadow magic?” I expect him to pry, but he doesn’t. “You survived, Cyra,” he says, voice low and fierce. “You’re not helpless.”
I pull back just enough to look up at him. His face is closer than I expected, grey eyes dark in the low light. There’s pain there still, the luminescent veins pulsing faintly beneath his skin.
“How bad is it?” I ask, voice rougher than I intend. “Your pain?”
