“If you want me to pray,” he murmured, “I will.”
Another pause. Longer. A crack of rawness in his voice now.
“If you want me to beg—then I will do that too.”
He looked up again.
“Just wake.”
Night slipped to day again, and still Kailorien hadn’t moved from her side. Her shoulder had stopped twitching. The bleeding had long since ceased. The worst of the swelling had healed, and the seams of her body—once torn and jagged—were now stitched together with threads of silver light.
Yet she did not wake.
He wiped her brow. Held her hand like a prayer. Wrapped himself around her body to anchor her. To give her something solid when the rest of the world would slip away from her.
Near the dawn of the second day, a low sound escaped her lips.
Not a word.
Not even a breath.
A soft hum. A fragile noise, like the wings of a moth catching on glass.
Kailorien sat up. “Auryn?”
Her brows knit. Her lips parted, but no words came.
“Auryn'reh,” he whispered, brushing her hair back, careful not to startle her.
“…Kailorien…” she whispered, the word slurred and dreamy.
He cupped her cheek with trembling fingers.
She shifted, eyes cracking open just enough to catch the dim glow of his mana against her skin.
One slow blink.
Then another.
“…Your eyes…” she breathed. “Always like…the sky…”
Kailorien choked on the ache in his throat. “I’m here. You’re safe. You’re going to be alright.”
Her gaze drifted. She turned her face into his palm, a flicker of hurt crossing her features. “I fell, Kailorien.I failed.”
“Not yet, Auryn’reh,” he shook his head. “You are alive. You lit all of the flames as the Doctrine demanded. You will heal, and you will rise.”
"To what end?"
He balked, for he'd never heard her sound so resigned. So defeated.
"To take your place as Sokâr," he replied. "Unchallenged."
She made a bitter sound. "They will always challenge me, whether I hit the target or miss it."
A moment as he considered it. Considered everything at stake before them both. At this turn on the path, there was no going back. No faltering.
"Then miss," he said.
