He reached for a flask on his table, tugged the cork out, and downed a few gulps of bloodwine. The bitter warmth slid down his throat, but still his eyes stayed locked on her. He imagined—just for a breath—her eyes opening, her lips calling his name, her body arching beneath his hand.
The thought scorched him—set him aflame and shamed him.
Too pure. Too beautiful. Too sacred for the war in my blood.
Still watching her, his thoughts drifted. The hum of her breathing lulled something in him he hadn’t realized was fraying. The buzz of adrenaline from the discovery in the cavern and the journey here still thundered in his blood. He drank again, deeper this time, chasing the scorch as if it might cauterize whatever was unraveling inside him. He scratched at the nape of his neck.
His body slackened, but his mind refused the surrender of true sleep. He closed his eyes, floating, half-absent, before his will dragged him upright again.
By the time his gaze sharpened, more time had passed. The faint sounds of night life flitted from outside the tent. Raucous laughter, music, the clinking of flasks, and theclangof men sparring. The air stilled—no longer raining.
He reached out—and found the bed empty.
His blood froze.
Gone.
Resh snapped into a sitting position, pulse pounding. A rustle from behind made him spin.
She crouched by his satchel, her movements too fluid, too silent. Entirely out of place in his tent, wearing her robe of starlight and moonbeams. Like a vision had stepped out from one of his battle-worn dreams.
Her clothing made no sound as she moved; her floor-length silver hair shimmering in the fading glow of the Polis lantern on his desk. Every inch of her called to him: the way the fabric draped over her hips, the enticing dip of her waist, even the curve of her tiny wrist as she tapped the supply chest before her.
Resh forgot how to breathe as he watched her rummage through his things. She tugged open one of his saddlebags and pulled out a shiny, glittering orb—a rare star map, one of his most prized treasures.
He stood quickly. “Wait—careful with that, it’s fragile—”
Before he could take a step, he froze.
Completely.
His body locked in place, pulse racing, lungs turning to stone. Adrenaline flared. His hand ached to reach for his blade, but the connectionbetween his mind and body had been severed. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t twitch a muscle.
She turned toward him, holding the map with both hands. Her head tilted. Soulful slanted eyes narrowed—not in malice, but in study. The quicksilver within churned with wisdom that did not belong on such a youthful face.
A ripple of magic thrummed through her fingers. She stepped closer, lifted one hand, and traced a glowing symbol in the air. It hovered briefly, then faded.
Reshstillcouldn’t move. He tried and tried but couldn’t. Even his lungs barely obeyed, each ragged breath burning in his gullet.
Drowning. He was drowning. Suffocating.
Her hand rose, brushing his chest, sliding upward to his collarbone. A gasp. Her lips parted, and her fingers fluttered like startled bird wings. She leaned in. Her brow furrowed.
“Solen ir ma tohr ga na,” she murmured, tracing his neck—his jaw, his cheek, then the center of his forehead.
Understanding rose like a sunrise in her gaze.
“Kailorien,” she whispered—histrue name. On her tongue, it sounded like a promise and a warning all at once.
How did she know? Howcouldshe know?
Somethingpulsedbetween them.
The runes carved into his back, chest, and right arm flared to life in warning. The magic hissed as it awakened—coming to its host’s defense, colliding with the woman’s spell.
But the tide of the Resh’Agar’s might did not prevail. It broke on the rocks of her will. The woman’s face shifted, her eyes narrowing, her delicate brow furrowing. She stared at his chest as though she could see through his armor to the symbols beneath.
A moment of stillness as she fought the surge.
