'This Nameless accepts any punishment,'she finished.
Silence. Then he stepped closer and knelt. Lu’ma balked, taking a step back, but he caught her wrist then lowered his head until his brow touched her scarred fingers.
“Lu’ma,” he murmured. “You have been a wall in a city that forgot how to build them. There is no punishment here. Only gratitude.”
She pressed her other hand to her heart, hands shaking as she signed.Gratitude—service—forever. Then told him of the message, of Zeera, of the empty cradle, of the coals that still breathed.
His jaw set. A rune at his collar brightened.
“Who else knows?”
She signed, 'This Nameless has not spoken of it.'
He nodded. “Then we watch. Lu'ma, you are not as invisible as you believe. Too many would target you to hurt the Sokâr."
Lu'ma blinked, tilting her head,'Target This Nameless? An Attendant?'She shook her head.
"You know Zeera's proclivity for unjust punishment. She cannot reach Auryn, but shecanreach you."
Understanding dawned, and Lu'ma tensed. 'The Godblind?'
His Quintessence nodded. "From now on, please take care. You are under my protection, but all Zeera needs is a reason, no matter how small, to strike." His brow furrowed. "Zarrek must know as well. I will speak with him. No more messages to the Choir. If they reach for you, they answer to me.”
Relief struck sharp. She signed, 'Yes, Your Quintessence. This Nameless belongs to Her Radiance, and so to the Arm of the Void.'
He took the tray and linens. Their fingers brushed. And she thought, 'He is tired. Not from battle, but from carrying love the world wants to twist into a weapon.'
At the threshold to his chambers, he paused. “Wake me if anything feels wrong.”
She nodded. An easy promise.
When he was gone, she sat in the alcove. The chamber breathed around her, the fluxhearth warm and bright. She remained still in the silence until the Polis lanterns dimmed. Thinking. Lost in wonder. Disbelief.
Safe to report: Nothing. No more reporting.
And somehow, that thought left a hollow in her chest. A restlessness. A splintering until her thoughts turned strange. Unfamiliar.
This Nameless…
I…
I expected to be killed. Or punished. Reassigned at the very least. Yet His Quintessence kneeled instead. Kneeled to a nameless pair of Hands that could have taken the thing most dear to him. Once.
She rose, smoothed her shawl, and walked back to her chamber in the Resh’Agar’s wing.
The smell of flowers gone to rot still lingered on her tongue.
And so Lu’ma lifted her chin and began her watch.
Sleepwould not come.
Lu’ma lay in the large bed in her chamber, staring at the curtained canopy. Her hands moved, restless, against her stomach. Twining, wringing, sometimes signing small things. Unable to stay still, she rose on bare feet. Adjusted her shawl. Then moved down the hall, silent, certain. The training courtyard smelled of stone, loam, and sap from the trees surrounding it. The ring waited in chalk and black sand. Above, the hum of the Shields droned.
She drew her dagger and stepped into the ring, Zarrek’s voice echoing in her mind as she moved through the forms he’d been teaching her for months.
First Measure. Hollow Palm. Still Fire.
Her shoulders resisted. Uncertainty gnawed at her ribs. But the rhythm found her as she pushed through anxiety into movement. Sweep, place, lift, breathe. Old habits chewed her anger thin. The sand whispered. Her jaw loosened. Her wrists remembered carrying bowls, laying shawls over thin shoulders. She moved again.
