Hismagic.
Her eyes stung.
“I don’t have words,” she said.
“I didn’t make it for your words,” he teased.
She hesitated, then unwrapped the second gift. A black kasara spilled into her lap like ink, soft yet sturdy. An archer’s armor. She didn’t unfold it all the way —only far enough to catch the embroidery on the shoulder. The Resh’Agar’s sigil. Sewn in silver thread.
Her throat tightened.
“You have many gowns,” he said, “but your training leathers are worn. I wanted you to have something practical. Durable. Something that’s…yours.”
“You’ve had these made for me all this time?” she asked, her voice quieter now, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the runes sleeping in the grain.
“Even before the Rite was set. I am not a Runetongue like Zarrek, and it took me some time to ensure the bow’s Runesgram was safe.” He paused. “I knew you would need it.”
She looked up at him, brow furrowing. “How could you know?”
His gaze was steady, something unreadable shifting in its depths. “Because I was made to know what you need.”
The weight of that—ofhim—settled in her chest. She lowered the bow, fingers still curled protectively around it. “It’s perfect.”
“No,” he murmured, stepping closer until the air between them was only heat. “It will be perfect when it’s yours in truth—when it carries your marks, your will, your magic. When it answers to you and you alone.”
Her lips curved. “And if it refuses me?”
“It won’t,” he said, the words edged with that quiet, absolute Kailorien-like certainty that always shook her. “No more than I would.”
Something in the Bond hummed then—an echo between them, bowstring to bowstring, pulse to pulse. She drew in a breath and felt it mirrored in him, the steady rhythm syncing without effort.
Her fingers flexed around the grip. “I’ll make it worthy.”
His hand brushed hers, his thumb lingering over her knuckles before retreating. “You already have.”
The moment stretched, threaded with the low hum of connection, until the soft knock at the outer door broke it.
Lu’ma stepped in, dark eyes taking in the scene. In her hands, a neat stack of correspondence.
She signed, 'Messages, Your Radiance. This Nameless would remind Your Radiance to eat.'
“You haven’t eaten yet?” Kailorien asked, disapproving.
“You were sleeping so peacefully,” she teased. “I’ll eat now. Lu’ma already brought the trays.”
Auryn set the bow back into its velvet cradle with care, her mind still ringing with Kailorien’s words. Lu’ma placed the missive stack beside her, and Auryn sifted through the envelopes one by one. Most of them were from the ceremony. Empty compliments, letters to curry favor, offers of Gleams, bribes. Auryn turned the last envelope in her hands, the familiar Companion stationery catching the light.
The handwriting inside the wax seal was inexperienced—unsteady. She didn’t open it.
Liora. Did she really send me this directly? A Companion reaching out to the Sokâr without Zeera’s approval. Foolish girl.
She set it aside, deciding she would read it in the morning. If nothing else, it affirmed her earlier request to Kailorien—the girl would need subtle protection to survive here.
A pair of warm hands settled on her shoulders a moment before soft lips pressed against her ear. Auryn leaned back into Kailorien’s embrace, closing her eyes.
“When you’ve eaten, come to bed,” he murmured.
“Soon,” she promised. “I won’t keep you waiting.”
