The men didn’t speak, but theystared.Not at Resh or Zarrek. Ather.Some gawked. Others whispered. Resh tucked the hood of his cloak over her silver hair.
“As if that’ll help,” Zarrek said.
One of the Reskala warriors signed something crude to another—something about a “new Companion for the Resh’Agar.” Zarrek shot him a look full of meaning. The warrior paled, as did his comrades. One of them knocked the original speaker on the head with his arm, signing in Krystopolitan—'madness has taken you.’
Resh faced forward, too far in deliberation to focus on them. Though there were plenty of inns and accommodations, he wanted to avoid unnecessary entanglements and had ordered his men to camp out around the town. He and Zarrek rode their horses to the Commander’s tent.
When Resh dismounted, Astenos reared his head, tossing his wild black and indigo mane in the air. He stared down at Resh with fiery glowing blue eyes, mana pulsing in long winding veins through his onyx body. Twenty-four hands tall at the shoulder, the beast terrified most of his men. He obeyed only Resh, and Zarrek was the only one who could take his reins and lead him anywhere.
Cradling the woman with one hand against him, Resh patted the horse’s plated shoulders. He gave him a mental nudge to follow Zarrek, then turned away, relieved to be back in a secure location after so many days spent in uncertainty.
Inside his tent, Resh hesitated. The interior was simple—bedroll, travel satchel, weapon rack, a small table with charts and old scrolls. One corner served as a makeshift cot for injured men when needed.
He glanced at the cot. Then at the bed. Then at his charge.
“Well, I can’t put you on the floor; now, can I?” Resh muttered.
He moved to the bed, adjusted the furs, and carefully laid her down. She didn’t move.
A few men saluted outside. The tent flap popped as Zarrek entered behind him. He examined the arrangement. Raised a brow.
“It’s not a stray pup, Resh.”
“I wouldn’t put a dog in my bed,” he countered.
“Stop acting like it’s harmless.”
Resh tucked the cloak tighter around her shoulders. “She’s barely breathing.”
Zarrek exhaled and ran his hand up the back of his shaved head. “Just don’t leave it unguarded. I’m posting three men outside.”
“Fine.”
Zarrek left. The tent flap rustled closed. Resh pulled up a stool beside the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. He stayed there for a long time. Listening. Watching. Waiting.
The Polis lantern flickered, casting long shadows against the tent’s canvas. The sounds outside had quieted—no more voices, no more horses. Just the hush of night falling over the Moores.
Resh sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the bed. His body ached. His mind throbbed. But it wasn’t lack of sleep or exhaustion.
It washer.
She still hadn’t moved. Strands of her hair scattered across his pillow like a spilled libation—an offering and an omen both. His gaze lingered. Not on her face this time. Her throat. The delicate hollow just above her collarbone. The gentle rise of her chest beneath the cloak. The fine bones of her ankle, where the fabric of her clothes had slipped aside.
Resh knew desire. He was bred to embody it.
But this was different.
This wasn’t lust he could slake in ritual sweat and whispered indulgences. This was want—yearning—in its cruelest form. The kind that slipped beneath one’s skin and made a man forget his purpose.
Resh reached out, tucking the edge of the cloak back around her shoulder where it had fallen. His fingertips brushed the silk of her sleeve. A chill swept through him. His hand trembled. He curled it into a fist and drew it back to his chest as if it had been burned. Then—half-laughing at himself, half-drowning in something else entirely—he rose and stepped away.
Not mine. Not now. Perhaps not at all.
He stood in the silence for a long time, watching her.
“Don’t wake up yet,” he bid. “If I see those silver eyes again, I may forget myself.”
As he observed the slow rise and fall of her chest, the thrum of his own blood surged as if his heart echoed hers. He should meditate. Rest. This was delirium. Delusion. He hadn’t slept in too long. But his body pulsed with restlessness—an ache deeper than hunger.
