He glances down at his chest, then back at me. “I’m fine, it’syouI’m worried about.”
He shifts, but he can’t stop his hand from instinctively moving over his ribs, fingers pressing into flesh as if he can pin the illness in place.
The craving inside me sharpens.
“Let me help,” I say weakly. “Please.”
He looks away for a moment, toward the window where reflected city lights blur across the glass. When he looks back, his expression is guarded.
“You promised, our last night on Mars, that you’d tell me if it ever became too much. If the dependency ever started to control you instead ofyoucontrollingit,” he says. “Are we past that point, Cyra?”
I look down at my own hands, at the faint tremor that hasn’t quite left my fingers.
“Tonight was … a lot,” I admit. “Honestly, I—I don’t know where the line is anymore. I just know I don’t feel whole unless I’m healing, and that … scares me.”
He studies me for a long moment, as if grappling over whether this is honesty or justification.
“You’re still a good person, Cyra. Your healing helps people … but it doesn’t helpyou. We need to find a cure.” His voice is resolute.
“My Mother tried for years to find a cure. If she couldn’t find one … I’m not sure one exists, Zevran.”
“With all due respect, Cyra, your mother also isn’t the leader of anentire kingdom, with resources that reach across the entire system.” Zevran smirks. “When we’re done all of this – when the Conclave is over – we’re going to find a cure. For now, though … I’ll steady you.”
I nod once. The hunger under my ribs spikes in answer, like it heard the permission.
He steps back and sits on the edge of the bed with a careful breath. In the soft light, the lines of strain along his shoulders are stark.
“The worst of it’s in my shoulder this time,” he says quietly.
I sit down next to him on the bed. Up close, I can see the pattern of his illness more clearly. The luminescent veins fan out from his neck, glowing under his skin in unhealthy silver white. The flesh around them is inflamed, mottled red and grey. Old scars from combat cross the newer marks, pale lines cutting through the glow.
I press my palms to his shoulder.
The connection hits like stepping into deep water, and my power surges up to meet it. The magic pours from my chest into my hands, desperate for the outlet it has been denied. Relief slams through me as it finds one. A chill moves down my arms and into him, bright and fierce, and the crescent sigil under my nightclothes stirs, then flares, a low silver glow pressing against the fabric.
Under my palms, his fever-hot skin begins to cool. The tight ropes of muscle along his spine unwind, tension releasing in small increments. I feel minute shifts along his vertebrae as his body finally lets go of the constant guard it has been holding.
He exhales, long and unsteady. The sound runs through me.
The high rises with the healing, smoothing the rough edges inside my chest. The hunger loosens, stretching into pleasure. My limbs feel lighter, my thoughts clearer and further away all at once. I want to chase that feeling, to pour more and more magic into him until there’s nothing left but this weightless ease.
I draw more power up without thinking.
“Cyra.” His voice is closer now. “Careful?—”
“I can keep going,” I say too quickly. “You still need?—”
His hands close over mine, firm and warm. He doesn’t break the contact. He just holds my hands in place, steadying the flow.
“Cyra,” the command in his tone cuts clean through the haze. “That’senoughfor tonight.”
I force a breath in. Then another. I loosen my focus, let the stream of magic drop from a rush to a steady trickle, then to nothing. The sigil’s glow fades from a sharp burn to a faint warmth.
When he finally lets go, I ease my hands away. The room feels clearer, the angles sharper. I’m tired, and the high has started to ebb into a heavy, manageable exhaustion, but I’m not scraped out the way I was after the Furnace.
He turns to face me.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
