He nodded. “That’s what it was. The same voice.”
The questions in her eyes unsettled him. He would have spared her from the words, but after sharing his breath, his heart, his mana with her, keeping this a secret seemed like more negligence.
“Sweetfire,” he breathed, holding her close. “Will you…wait? Will you let me think on what happened before we discuss it?”
She hesitated, but nodded. Her grip tightened on him. “You never ask me for a single thing. How could I deny you this?”
As he carried her into the warmth of his chambers, the door sliding shut behind them—
—the Bond between them pulsed once.
A prelude.
A promise.
23
Thrice Surrendered
Impatience guided Kailorien back to the Resh’Agar’s wing. Urgency. Fury at the dozens of failures that had brought them to this point.
He didn’t wait. Not after finding her exhausted and trembling. Not after watching her cling to pride for more than a week while her affliction burned through her resolve like dry leaves. And especially not after smelling his brother all over her and knowing that the horrible stab of pain in his chest had been Shu’Khan’s attempt to give her raw mana.
Mana could never—should never—be transferred between bodies. If there was one inviolable rule of nature in the world, it was this. Even inEstâr,the mana from the Companions wasn't drawn into his own body, but into Vargrún and the Master Rune directly.
This truth made Shu’Khan’s actions a violation. Attempted murder. Though, knowing his demented brother, it had been an act of sick curiosity. He saw all that transpired within the Lattice. Somehow, he’d seen Kailorien attempt to breathe for Auryn in the past and tried to mimic it without understanding what it meant.
I hardly understand it myself. How is this even possible?
The voice called it Breathweaving.
To Kailorien, the word ‘miracle’ was enough. This Bond between him and Auryn. The way their hearts beat in sync. The way their breaths matched.
A miracle.
The moment the doors to his chambers sealed behind them, Kailorien pulled her into his arms. No hesitation. No restraint. His hands slid to her waist, then lower, gripping the threadbare hem of her dress. He glared at the fabric like it wronged him. Evidence of the neglect she’d experienced for so long. Not only the Lattice’s, buthis.
Neglected your Bonded.
Neglected.
Horrible thing.
It smelled like the Sovereign's Sahtra, and he needed it off of her.
Now.
“This,” he grumbled, voice hot against her neck, “is completely unacceptable.”
Auryn barely had time to speak before he tore the fabric—clean and practiced, like peeling rind from fruit. The dress gave beneath his hands, parting down the side seam with one swift pull.
He pressed his mouth to her shoulder as the cloth slipped from her frame, casting it aside with a flick of his wrist. His hands worked with calm fury, nudging the shoulder straps aside, opening each hidden clasp and loop with the precision of a man undoing every insult, every deprivation she’d faced for decades, stitch by stitch.
“I’ve seen you wear this for a week,” he muttered against her chest. “One more day, and I would’ve lodged a formal motion to have it outlawed in the Lattice.”
She huffed a soft, breathless laugh, resting her forehead to his. “I suppose it couldn’t have survived another mending.”
The chamber was warm and comfortable. A set of phiros stones was already crackling in the fluxhearth. Even standing in just her underthings, Auryn didn’t shiver from the cold.
