Nothing. You say nothing. You just hold on and hope the morning brings something worth surviving for.
She stirs against me. A small sound—not quite a word, not quite a protest. Her fingers tighten on my ribs, then relax. She’s dreaming. I hope it’s not about what happened in that cavern. Not about the drowned thing wearing her dead lover’s face.
My hand moves of its own accord. Brushes hair back from her face. Traces the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheek. She leans into my touch even in sleep, and a tightness settles behind my ribs that has nothing to do with her arm across my chest.
You’re in trouble.
Years I’ve kept myself apart. Years of sleeping alone, eating alone, shouldering the burden of this coast and everyone on it without letting anyone close enough to become a vulnerability. Years of penance for the man I used to be.
A few days. That’s all it took for her to crack every wall I built.
She opens her eyes. For a heartbeat, confusion crosses her face—where am I, whose bed is this—and then memory floods back. I watch her process it. The siege. The dive. The beach.
“Morning.” Her voice comes out rough. Scraped raw by salt water and everything else.
“Morning.”
Neither of us moves to pull away. She’s still pressed against my side, her head still using my shoulder as a pillow, and I find I have no desire to change that arrangement. My hand is still resting against her face. Her fingers are still curled against my ribs.
“How long have you been awake?” she asks.
“Few minutes.”
“Watching me sleep?” A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “Should I be concerned?”
“Probably.” I let my thumb trace her cheekbone. The gesture feels natural now—touching her, learning her. “You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Soft. Like a cat with a chest cold.”
Her laugh is quiet, startled out of her. “That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever received.”
“Wasn’t a compliment. Tactical observation.” I pull her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple. The gesture feels natural in a way that should terrify me. “The keep won’t rebuild itself. We need to move.”
“I know.” But she doesn’t move either. Her hand slides up my chest, settles over where my heart is beating faster than it should. “Zoric.”
“Aviora.”
“Last night. On the beach.” She meets my gaze directly. No deflection, no armor. “That wasn’t just adrenaline. Not for me.”
The words settle somewhere deep. I’ve spent years training myself not to want things. Not to need them. Wanting makes you weak. Needing makes you dead.
“Not for me either.” The admission costs something. I’m not sure what yet.
She rises onto her elbow, her hair falling around her face, and kisses me. Slow. Deliberate. Nothing like the frantic collision on the beach. This is exploration. Declaration. Her mouth movesagainst mine with a patience that makes my blood heat, and when she finally pulls back, her eyes are darker than before.
“Good.” She rolls away, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Now let’s go count the dead.”
The keep is worsein daylight.
I knew it would be. Darkness hides the full scope of damage—makes it easier to pretend the cracks aren’t that deep, the flooding isn’t that extensive, the losses aren’t that permanent. Morning strips away the mercy of shadows and shows you exactly what you’ve lost.
The lower three levels are gone. Not damaged—gone. Water has claimed them completely, black and still and carrying the debris of everything stored there. The armory. The food stores. The vault where I kept the salvaged gold that paid for Dreadhaven’s upkeep.
All of it. Swallowed by the sea.
“How bad?” Aviora stands beside me at the third-floor landing, looking down at water that reflects the greenish light of the few torches still burning. Her shoulder brushes mine. Neither of us steps away.
