Her gaze sharpened. “Wait, when you say ‘we’…”
“I’m coming with you.” There was no hesitation, no room for rebuttal.
Elora blinked, her mind tripping over the words.He’s... coming with me?She recoiled, suffocated by everything she’d lost, by how much of herself had been carved away piece by piece. Tehvan, being there, felt like another weight pressing down, another reminder of all the things he’d failed to stop.
But alone? Could she really do this alone?
Her throat worked around a lump that refused to budge. “Why?” It came out differently than intended, less accusation, more confusion.
Tehvan sighed. “Because I promised you freedom. When we get to Al’tera, I’ll give you space. I’ll let you live your life however you want without me hovering over you. But I need to know you’re safe. I... I can’t let you go through this alone.”
But you already did.The thought cut deeper than she wanted it to.
Her nails gripped the blanket, tension coiling tighter with every heartbeat. Seven days. Could she survive that long?
“You really think I can make it a week?” she whispered. Her gaze dropped to her lap, voice a fragile thread.Because I’m not sure I can.
Tehvan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I know it’s hard—”
“Hard?” She laughed, hollow and bitter. “The trials were hard. Watching Arria die was hard. Losing everything I thought I knew? That was beyond hard. But this—” Her voice cracked. “This is surviving on borrowed time. Every second I stay here, I lose more of myself. And you’re telling me towait a week?”
His face crumpled, guilt written in every line. “If I could move it sooner, I would. But this is it, Elora. This is the only chance we’ll get.”
She closed her eyes, forcing down the rising tide of panic. One week.Just one week.It sounded manageable. Just like how having Thorn stab her and drain her blood was manageable. Just like trading her dignity for scraps: selling her stories, her time, her choices, for a few damn apricots was manageable.
Sure. Completely manageable.Another week of being used, of being someone else’s tool, someone else’s property.
Sadia stood, lightly swatting Tehvan on the arm and pointing towards the door. “You need to go.”
He shook his head. “I can’t just—”
“She needs a warm bath,” Sadia cut in gently but resolutely. “And she doesn’t need you here for that.” Her tone softened. “You’ve done what you can. Let me help her now.”
Tehvan knelt in front of her, his hand hesitating just above hers, before placing it gently over her trembling fingers. She couldn’t prevent herself from flinching, her muscles seizing, wanting to pull away. “We’ll talk soon, Elora. I promise.”
She turned her head, staring at the steam from the brew, the cracks in the countertop, anywhere but his face.Just go.She was unable to say it, not out loud, but her silence spoke volumes.
After a long beat, he exhaled and left. The door closed with a soft click. For a moment, only the distant hiss of the potion simmering on the stove filled the room.
Sadia gathered fresh linens and a small jar of lavender-scented salve. “Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” she murmured.
Sweetheart.Gerard’s voice echoed in her mind, dripping with mockery, with control.I have all the authority here, sweetheart.
Her body tensed so sharply that pain jolted up her spine. She forced a slow breath, pushing it down, shoving the memory back into the dark. This wasn’t Gerard. This was Sadia.
But the word still clung to her body like filth. Like everything else.
Bathing sounded… foreign. Like something that belonged to someone else’s life. Not this one. Not now. Part of her wanted to refuse—what’s the point?—but the clinging stickiness of sweat, dirt, and something worse made her shudder.
She nodded numbly.Fine. Just get it over with.
Sadia guided her toward the basin, her touch gentle and unhurried. Yet even that small contact sent a ripple of discomfort through Elora’s body. The rising steam from the bath carried the subtle aroma of chamomile and mint. Normally, that would’ve been soothing. Now it felt wrong, like putting a flower on a grave.
This isn’t going to wash it away.
As Sadia unfastened her dress, Elora’s face burned with shame. Not at Sadia—her hands were careful, her touch impersonal—but at herself.
The fabric slipped from her shoulders, gathering at her waist, and suddenly she was too exposed, too raw. Her skin prickled, like her whole body was under scrutiny, even though Sadia’s gaze never lingered.She’s not him. She’s not him.But her body didn’t understand the difference.
