When I turn, Taron sits on the left side of the bed with his legs crossed. He’s shirtless, his violet hair still damp, hanging in twisted strands across his forehead. The room’s dim light catches on his pale skin, highlighting a deep-blue bruise swelling across his ribcage.
“I’m fine,” he insists before I can comment. “It happens when I overexert my talents.”
“I … don’t understand.”
“It’s a rebound effect. Triggered when a Luna is crushed under the force of their own manipulations.”
“Sounds painful.”
“I’ll survive.” He looks down at the swollen bruise, wincing as he shifts on the bed, clearly not fine at all.
The bruise swells, the skin taut and angry, pulsing with a deep, mottled purple that seeps out into yellowed edges. Tiny red streaks creep outward like veins, a clear sign of inflammation settling in.
“I’ll just drink this.” Taron uncorks the grade-one healing tonic he used on my wound and tips it back like a shot.
“I guess that works.” I shuffle around the bed to my side and sit down. It’s a creaky old thing with groaning springs.
My throat feels dry. The air in here is too thick, too close, like it’s pressing in on me from all sides. I shift around to face Taron.
“Thanks,” I say. “For taking care of me.”
“Can’t compete without a teammate, can I?” His tone is casual. “It’s a good thing you had those healing tonics. Really good stuff.”
“You think so? I made them myself. Alaric taught me. My, uh, old boss from the apothecary.”
“That’s cool. Do you enjoy it?”
“I do. I’m not a Flora, of course, so I’ll never be as good at it.”
“That doesn’t matter. At least you have something you’re passionate about.” I catch the way his voice hardens ever so slightly, a subtle crack in his usual stoic demeanour.
“Doyouhave anything you’re passionate about?”
Taron’s jaw twitches. “Not any more,” he says, and the wall between us slides back into place.
A sadness for him creeps up on me, unexpected and aching. I shift a little closer so our knees are almost touching. He doesn’t move away.
There’s so much I still don’t know about Taron. And yet, sitting here in the quiet, a hair’s breadth apart, I feel that pull between us again. The urge to put my hand on his knee and squeeze.
Instead, I say, “Do you … knowwhywe’re doing all of this? I know Madame Vera wants the wish, but do you know why?”
Taron’s face hardens at the question.
“Please,” I press, quickly, before he shuts down. “I could’ve died today. And tomorrow … we don’t even know what the final trial entails. I need to know why I’m risking my life here.”
Taron sighs, his shoulders slumping.
I grab his arm. “Please.”
“She wants … to resurrect someone. An ancestor.” His eyes flick towards mine, holding them as he gauges my reaction. “She doesn’t know where they’re buried. So, she’s going to use the wish to find out.”
“All this,” I whisper, “for a burial location?”
Taron doesn’t answer. A muscle jumps in his jaw, like he’s clamping down on whatever else he might have wanted to say.
“This ancestor of hers,” I ask, remembering the Necroseals hidden under the floorboards. How Madame Vera referred to them asheirlooms. “Are they … someone important? For her to go to such lengths to resurrect them?”
His lips press into a hard line and he shakes his head. “We should get some sleep,” he says. “We’ll need our energy for tomorrow.”
