And I would then be away.
I bowed my head and whispered, not knowing if the gods heard those who were unsure. “Show me the truth,” I murmured. “Not the easy path. Not the one I want. Just the one that’s right.”
The wind stilled.
I rose, brushing dew from my knees, and made my way back through the sleeping halls. The palace was silent, wrapped in shadow. I moved like breath through the corridors, trailing my fingers along cool stone, unsure if I was ready to feel what I already knew.
When I reached our rooms, the bed was empty.
My heart skipped, not with alarm, but with the ache of recognition. I saw the faintest glint of water through the stone arch at the far end of the chamber. Beyond it, past the gauze-draped threshold, lay the private bathing chamber. He must have woken after I left.
I stepped inside quietly.
There he was.
Auren sat in the water, alone, half-lit by the soft silver-blue shimmer of moonstone lanterns hung above. The water stilled around him. His back was straight, shoulders bare above the surface, his hair curling damp at the nape of his neck. He was facing away, hands resting on the curved rim of the basin asthough he, too, were trying to hold still a moment that had already begun to pass.
My throat tightened.
It was ending. And he felt it too.
The bond no longer flickered between us—it thrummed. It was not a thread now but a second pulse. Not a whisper but a shared breath. Our hearts, I felt, beat in unison.
He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He knew I was there.
I crossed the tiles soundlessly and knelt beside the bath, folding the linen off my shoulders. I dipped the cloth into the warm water and wrung it out, my fingers shaking slightly. Then, with slow care, I reached forward and began to wash him.
His skin was smooth beneath the cloth. Hot from the water, solid beneath my hand. I swept gently along the curve of his shoulder, down the slope of his spine. My fingers lingered just long enough to remember him by. His breath hitched once—but he didn’t speak.
I had meant to thank him.
For the kindness in his silence. For the days he gave me without demand. For the softness of his touch when I had flinched from it. For never once hurrying me toward a bond he so clearly needed.
But even as I thought it, I knew I didn’t need to say it.
He knew.
He felt it.
That was the nature of the bond. There was nomore hiding. No cleverness in speech. No mask I could wear that would shield me from him.
The cloth paused. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard against the sting behind them.
I would not cry. Not here. Not now. Not even when he gave me his goodbye.
The cloth moved in slow circles across his chest now, over the curve of his shoulder, the hollow of his throat. Water clung to his skin in rivulets, catching on the dips and lines of muscle, tracing all the places I had come to know. My other hand rested lightly on his arm, and I let myself lean in, closer, not for anything more than the warmth of him.
The moment stretched, heavy and golden, like the last slant of sun before dusk. Not a word passed between us. But every sweep of the cloth was a goodbye.
He exhaled quietly when I drew it down the length of his back one final time. Then he shifted, rising from the water with grace that made my throat tighten.
He stepped out, and I reached for the linen waiting on the carved stool beside us. I draped it over him with reverence, drying his skin with the care of a scribe preserving the last page of a sacred scroll.
He said nothing as he dressed, only gathering the folds of hisseretaround him with quiet precision. It was plain ivory cloth, the simplest of garments. But when he turned to me, it looked as if he wore the silks of the Khorin Isle, woven with moonlight and status.
He swallowed.
Then he stepped closer, took my hands in his, and held them like something breakable.
