I break apart in his arms.
“I know, love,” Vale murmurs. “I know.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Ican’t bring myself to bathe. Something about sinking into water—bare and exposed—feels like too much.
Instead, I wipe away the blood as best I can while Vale fetches a simple dress. He holds it steady as I step into it and fastens it for me with careful hands. The motions are practiced, grounding. Necessary.
I know Soria is outside the door, restless, waiting to be let in. I need her—but not yet.
Now dressed and far from composed, I lean into Vale’s arms. He lets me stay there for a moment, wiping the tears from my face. Then, not even an arm’s length between us, he stills.
He looks at me—really looks at me—and his eyes narrow.
“What is it?” I ask.
“The cut at your throat,” he says slowly, as if choosing each word. “It hasn’t healed.”
I step toward the mirror and lift my chin until it catches the light. The mark is there—thin, red, unmistakable. When I touch it, fresh blood wells beneath my fingers. The air around me feels… wrong. Heavy. As if something unseen is listening.
A knock sounds at the door. I nod, and Vale goes to answer.
I wet a fresh cloth from the pitcher and do the thing I always leave for last—tending to myself. I still my breath and gently dab at the mark. I am so accustomed to caring for others, to minimizing my own hurts. This time, I don’t rush. I yield to the moment. I honor the body Ace and Vale would have stepped in front of without hesitation.
The door opens.
Odrin enters, and Soria rushes in behind him. Where he stops to speak with Vale, she comes straight to me. We wrap our arms around each other, and something inside me finally breaks loose—splintering in the safety she offers.
When we part, my gaze drifts back to the men.
Vale is holding the knife.
Odrin must have given it to him—wrapped now in a thick hide, handled with care. I hadn’t heard their exchange, but the way they hold it draws my attention all the same.
Vale tilts it so I can see.
“If I had to wager,” he says quietly, “this bears the same mark as the blade that nearly took my life.”
Odrin’s expression darkens.
“We believed it cursed,” Vale continues. “Old magic, perhaps. Whatever it is—it doesn’t behave as a normal weapon would.” His eyes return to me. “Mira’s wound should have healed.”
Soria tightens her grip on my hands, searching my face, my skin, for the mark she cannot see. I touch my throat to guide her, but still she looks confused.
Vale steps closer.
“It’s gone,” he says.
“What’s gone?” Odrin asks.
“The cut.” Vale’s voice is steady, but something beneath it is not. “If it were going to heal, it would have done so instantly. It was there moments ago.”
I sink into the nearest chair, my fingers tracing the place where pain and blood had been—now smooth beneath my touch.
The room falls silent.
No answers.
