Maybe he isn’t the monster you believe him to be.
I clenched my fists around the bandages and gathered up the supplies, then forced myself back toward the council room.
When I stepped inside, the air felt heavier, the silence taut. Veyrion hadn’t moved. His eyes opened when I entered, glacier-bright and unflinching, as if he’d known I would come back.
I set the supplies down and peeled the soaked cloth away. As I cleaned the first gash, he hissed through his teeth, shifting slightly.
“Don’t move,” I said—more command than request.
His mouth curved faintly, as if the idea of me ordering him amused him, but he didn’t protest. He only leaned back against the stone, eyes shuttering, jaw clenched against the pain.
“Where were you?” I asked quietly.
His gaze flicked toward the firelight. “Out beyond the Frostmere Pass. There was a breach in one of the old sanctums.”
“A leviathan’s spine,” he said quietly.
The image hit sudden and terrible—the creature thrashing, the strike of its massive body that could have cleaved him in two.
“I was trying to impress a commander who didn’t even remember my name,” he added, voice dry, almost amused at the cruelty of it.
I tied the bandage tighter than necessary.
“I stabbed one in the eye once,” I said.
His brow lifted.
“Slightly hungover,” I added, because honesty seemed important. “Which I do not recommend when facing ancient embodiments of oceanic wrath.”
That got his attention. “You—” His mouth twitched.
“Yes."
A beat.
“And then I vomited over the side of the ship.”
The silence lasted half a heartbeat before Veyrion laughed—low, warm, unrestrained. The sound rolled through his chest beneath my palm. “You felled a leviathan and christened the deck in the same moment?” he asked.
“I prefer to think of it as balance,” I muttered.
“Next time,” he said, still smiling faintly, “I’d very much like to witness that.”
I tied the bandage off with finality. My hand lingered against his skin—fever-warm, startling. Alaric had always been cool to the touch. Veyrion burned. His warmth curled up my arm and settled low in my stomach.
His chest rose beneath my hand. Slow. Controlled. Alive in a way that made something inside me lean closer before I yanked it back.
His shoulders—braced with pain and pride—eased a fraction beneath my touch. A subtle surrender. He closed his eyes for a beat, and for the first time, he looked like someone who’d been carrying too much for far too long.
Just like Eira said.
His breath caught when I pulled the thread through, jaw tightening, but he didn’t move. His eyes tracked every motion, unflinching.
“Where did you learn this?” he asked, voice low, rough with pain but edged with curiosity.
The question twisted in me. I almost snapped that it wasn’t his concern—that he didn’t deserve the story. But he hadn’t asked like an interrogator. Not demanding. Not mocking. Just… wanting to know.
So I told him.
