“But you survived.” Her hands pause on the bandage. “That’s more than most can claim.”
“Most people who catch the Arbiter’s attention don’t survive the first hour. I’ve had years of practice.”
“Practice at what?”
At being the flaw in the system. At existing in the space where divine ice can’t quite reach. At refusing to let the Arbiter’s will become reality.
“At not dying.” It’s not a complete answer. It’s all I’m willing to give.
She accepts it with a slight nod and finishes the bandage in silence, her fingers pressing the edges firmly against my skin. The contact lingers—or maybe I’m imagining that. Maybe I want it to linger, and that’s the problem.
Dangerous. She’s dangerous in ways that matter more than combat.
“You should rest.” She sits back on her heels, packing her supplies.
“I don’t?—”
Her silver gaze meets mine, and I feel it like a physical weight. “Your body needs actual recovery, especially after taking wounds like these.”
“Four hours.” The words come out before I can stop them. “You take first watch. Wake me if anything moves.”
She nods, and I close my eyes.
Sleep doesn’t come easily. Not because of the wounds—those are already healing, flesh knitting beneath the bandages she applied. Not because of the danger—I’ve slept in worse situations, in places far less sheltered than this frozen street.
It doesn’t come easily because I feel her watching me. Feel her presence three feet away, steady and alert. Feel the weight of her attention like a physical touch against my skin.
Tomorrow will be worse.
And I’ll kill them too. However many it takes. Whatever it costs.
Because somewhere between Caelreth and this frozen street, the mission stopped being about stopping the Arbiter. It started being about keeping her. Caging her. Making sure nothing touches what I’ve decided belongs to me—whether she knows it yet or not.
That’s a problem I don’t know how to solve.
I’m not sure I want to.
FIVE
ZEPHYRA
Iwatch Tyr from my position by the waystation’s single window, tracking the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even unconscious, there’s nothing soft about him. No vulnerability in the slack of his features or the stillness of his hands. He sleeps ready—ready to wake at the first sign of threat, ready to kill before his eyes fully open.
The bandages I wrapped around his ribs have held. No fresh blood seeping through the cloth. His hand, too, seems stable—the gash across his palm already knitting with a speed that makes my own healing abilities look pathetic by comparison.
Dragon physiology. I’ve read about it, studied the theoretical frameworks, but seeing it in action is different. He took wounds that would’ve killed a mortal man. Two hours later, he’s mending like the injuries were inconveniences rather than threats.
Must be nice.
Outside, the ley-roads pulse with blue light. The magic’s restless tonight—surging and ebbing in patterns my Auric Veil can barely track. Every few minutes, a section of the crystalline walls flares brighter, then dims. Discharge building.The corruption’s worse than I expected. Worse than any report suggested.
We can’t stay here long. The waystation’s wards are failing, ice pressing inward with patient inevitability. Another few hours and this shelter will become a tomb.
Wake him. Move.
Instead, I keep watching.
Don’t.
