“Come sit in the broth with me,” he begged. “I swear I’ll behave...”
Her grip on his collar tightened. “You never behave,” she admonished.
“No,” he murmured, kissing the hollow of her throat, “but I’ll try harder this time. Just… come with me. Be near me. Let me feel something real before the walls close in again.”
She leaned her forehead against his, eyes fluttering shut. “There is no place I would rather be.”
4
Bond, Rekindled
Kailorien caught her hand and swept her into motion, guiding her out of the Umbral Archives with an urgency bordering on madness. His steps were sure, but his grip was tense and too tight—like he expected her to change her mind at any moment.
She squeezed back and followed without a word.
Even when they passed brown-robed Attendants carrying trays of oils and scrolls.
Even when stray eyes followed their path.
Through the side halls. Through shadow-drenched archways long abandoned. And into the Resh’Agar’s wing, colored crimson, black, and gold. The crystal changed texture beneath her bare feet, Polis shifting to marble. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, and his hand stayed wrapped around hers like a second pulse.
When they reached his private quarters, the door closed behind them with a soft scrape of crystal against stone. He raised his hand, letting a flare of mana illuminate the Polis-lanterns in the room.
A single crystal-carved bed stood in one corner of the massive chamber, draped in black silk curtains, onyx sheets, and golden pillows. A fur rug adorned the floor. Weapons of all shapes and sizes hung along the walls, and tables and shelves bordered the room, covered in trinkets, statuettes, and reference tomes of magic. One circular table stood beside the fluxhearth, covered in journals, books, and scrolls.
When Auryn shivered, Kailorien walked to the table and picked a crimson stone out of a sealed jar. It shimmered red-gold as he tossed it into the hearth. With a snap of his fingers, a heating rune flared to life over it, the magic pulsing and glowing with an orange light. The stone hissed as it bonded with the rune and blazed awake. Within moments, the chamber was filled with an infectious, cozy warmth.
Steam curled from the adjoining chamber—spiced, subtly floral. Scented oils, likely prepared in anticipation of the Resh’Agar’s evening bathing ritual.
Auryn lifted a brow.
“The Resh’Agar enjoys his luxuries. Phiros stones and rare oils. Good thing you have an unlimited stipend.”
“I’ve earned a luxury or two after spending years in a blighted swamp,” he said, reaching for the fastenings of his chest plate. His voice was quieter now.Rougher.More himself.
She stepped forward and helped him undo the clasps. One by one, the pieces came away. The weight of war peeled from his frame. Until it was just him. Just Kailorien. Warm, bare above the waist, breath held.
Auryn’s hands skimmed his chest, the planes of his torso, the faint pink scar above his ribs from a battle he’d never spoken of. She leaned in, pressing her lips there. A kiss. A blessing. A brand.
“Into the broth,” she murmured, the corners of her mouth lifting.
He chuckled hoarsely.
“I’ll never hear that word the same way again.”
Kailorien reached for the tie at her waist, but his fingers paused.
She looked up at him then reached for his hand and guided it. He worked through clasps, hooks, and buttons with the same expertise he showed in battle. In moments, her dress loosened, slipping from her shoulders like falling moonlight, pooling at her feet. She stood beforehim without shame, body pale and quiet, wrapped in fluxlight and the years he had not been there to hold her.
He exhaled like he’d been struck.
“You’re still…” He shook his head.
“Still…?” she asked.
He stepped forward.
“Still like a dream.”
