“Good.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“It means you’re alive,” I clarify.
His hand rises slowly, resting against my waist, firm despite the tremor beneath it.
“Elara,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “this is unwise.”
“So is ritual combat with internal hemorrhaging,” I reply.
His fingers tighten slightly.
“You are choosing this now,” he says.
“Yes,” I answer.
There is no rush, no desperation in the way we move toward one another. Only awareness—of risk, of timing, of everything waiting beyond the sealed door.
I lower myself carefully onto the edge of the cot, mindful of his injury. My hands map the lines of his shoulders and chest with intention, avoiding the bound side, grounding him in sensation that is not pain.
He inhales sharply as my mouth brushes the corner of his jaw.
“This is not sedation,” he murmurs.
“No,” I whisper against his skin. “This is clarity.”
His hand slides up my spine, steady and possessive but not demanding. When he pulls me closer, it is deliberate, not urgent. The weight of him is warm and solid beneath me, his heartbeat slower now under the influence of the sedative but still powerful.
We move with care—no sharp motions, no reckless pressure. My palm presses flat against his chest while his fingers trace the line of my waist as if confirming I am not an illusion conjured by shock.
“You will fight in hours,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“And I will stand where they can see me,” I continue.
His eyes darken.
“That will provoke them.”
“That is the point,” I reply.
He exhales slowly and pulls me down into a kiss that is not frantic, not a battlefield reflex, but something anchored and resolute. It tastes faintly of iron and antiseptic and something wholly his.
When we finally separate, breath mingling in the dim light, I rest my forehead against his.
“I am leaving the League,” I say clearly.
There is no tremor in my voice.
He studies me, searching for doubt.
“There is no return path,” he says.
“I know.”
“You will be hunted.”
