“Your Majesty, I—”
“Go.”
She hauls Arther up, and they vanish down the corridor like ghosts, leaving us alone.
Keiren turns to me, light still burning in his eyes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re hurt.” His hand hovers over the bruises blooming on my arms, the shallow slice along my collarbone.
“They’re just scratches,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He drops to his knees, scoops me into his arms, and carries me out of the wreckage. I don’t resist.
Back in my room, I sit on a stone at the edge of the pool while Keiren kneels before me, gently cleaning the cuts on my hands and neck. His movements are careful. Reverent. The thin black fabric of his nightshirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he leans closer.
A king, kneeling for me.
“What happened to him?” I ask as he dips the cloth again and dabs at the bruising blooming along my wrist.
“He’s old,” Keiren murmurs. “Older than me. Sometimes he forgets. Relives things. Mae usually gives him a tonic and locks his door. She must have missed him tonight.”
When he finishes, he hands me a small vial. I swallow with effort, my throat protesting. His gaze flicks to the darkening marks along my neck. Slowly, he lifts his hands—and then stops.
“May I?”
I hesitate, then nod.
His palms cradle my throat, warm and steady. He murmurs in a language I don’t recognize, low and reverent, and heat blooms beneath his touch. The ache fades. My body stills, like something frightened finally finding itself soothed.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes lowered. “I promised you’d be safe here, apart from the Trials.”
When he pulls away, the cold rushes back in. The absence of his hands feels louder than it should. For a girl who hates being touched, the emptiness is unsettling.
“I’m sorry too,” I say.
“No.” His voice sharpens—not angry, just firm. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Take responsibility for things that were never yours to carry.”
The words hit deeper than the bruises. I turn away and climb into bed, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones.
After a moment, the mattress dips. He sits on the edge—close, but not touching.
“I won’t be around much as we near the final Trial,” he says quietly. “The closer it gets, the more I’m… pulled away. Preparations. Wards. Things I can’t neglect.”
So that’s it. The reason for the distance. The silence.
“I thought I’d done something wrong,” I admit.
His jaw tightens. “No. This is the last thing I want to do. But I won’t risk distracting you—or myself.”
I nod, though my chest aches.
He stands. “You should sleep.”
Panic flickers through me, quick and sharp. “Wait.”
He stills.
