Outside, the second bell tolls—lower, heavier. Caziel flinches.
“It is time. Do not make them come collect you.”
He palms the blade he gave me and tucks it into the belt at me waist. His fingers find my wrist—warm, steady. I think he means to let go, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls a small charm from beneath his collar. It catches the low light, hanging off a thin gold chain. It’s small, about the size of my knuckle, but bright enough to seem alive. A droplet of deep red glass, banded in gold filigree fine as molten lace. Through its center runs a narrow seam, a perfect straight line where the light bends differently, as if something invisible moves inside. The split is not a flaw. It is deliberate, a channel. At the base, a single bead of black volcanic stone anchors the pendant, rough against the smooth heat of the glass. It looks ordinary until it catches the light, and then the red flares like something breathing.
When he presses it into my palm, it feels warm—almost pulsing. A living thing pretending to be jewelry.
“Take this,” he says.
“What is it?”
“Protection. Of a kind. I carried this during my own first battle,” he says. “I never knew why I kept it. Now I do.”
He doesn’t explain further, and I don’t push. The pendant’s weight is solid when he slips it over my head, settling against my skin like it belongs there.
“It stays close,” he murmurs. “Even if I can’t.”
I almost tell him to stop talking like he’s not coming with me. Like he’s already on the other side of some line I haven’t crossed yet, but I don’t. I’m scared if I open my mouth, I’ll ask him not to let me go at all.
He lingers for a heartbeat, then reaches for a length of fabric from the footlocker. The cloth is soft, the kind they use for sparring, but this feels different. Slower. Reverent. His fingers move with precision, smoothing each turn, checking the tension, like it matters more now than it ever did before.
I can’t look at him. I’m afraid if I do, everything I’ve been holding in will spill out—every cracked part of me I’ve patched over to survive here. I focus on the wrap. On the way his thumbs press into the base ofmy palm before each pass. On how steady he is while I feel like I might shatter. Without speaking, he kneels in front of me. A prince on his knees. His fingers work with slow precision wrapping my wrists, smoothing each turn, testing the tension. The silence between us is louder than the bells.
“You don’t need to be unbreakable,” he says quietly. “You are stronger than you think,Sæl. Trust your gut and look for the arch.” The words land in my chest like a spark in kindling. When both wrists are bound, he stands. His hand lifts, brushing a stray piece of hair from my face. The touch is gentle, deliberate.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
“You have every right to be afraid,” he says. “Don’t mistake that for weakness.”
He cups the back of my neck with one hand and leans in—forehead to forehead. My breath catches. In a voice I feel more than hear, he murmurs something in Daemari,
“Nai’thar emberan vey.”
The words hum through my skin like the bell did earlier. Not a command. Not even a promise.
A bond.
“What does it mean?” I ask, breathless.
He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze.
“Flame doesn’t forget who it touches.”
I nod, but the motion feels too small for what is in my throat. Caziel swears in a language I don’t understand and finally closes the space between us. His fingers are warm on my skin as he hauls me against his chest. Not burning. Not blazing. But steady, like the low ember of a forge that never goes out. I should pull away, say something biting, regain whatever control I thought I had. Instead, I let him hold on wrapping my arms around his body too.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper.
His grip tightens, just a little. “No one ever is.”
I look up at him. At his too-sharp face and eyes that shouldn’t hold so much softness. There’s tension in his jaw, the same strain I’ve seen in the training ring. But he’s not fighting me now. Not correcting. Notcommanding. He’s just here. And I want—Gods, I want— Something flickers between us. Not just heat. Not just fear. Longing.
I take a step closer before I realize I’ve moved. He doesn’t flinch. His eyes drop to my mouth for the briefest second, and it’s all I can do not to close the distance. It would be easy. Just tilt my face up. Just lean in. But I don’t and neither does he. The moment stretches, coils—then softens. Caziel releases me. Slow. Measured. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he moves too fast. His fingers brush my cheek. Just barely. A ghost of touch.
A knock cuts through the stillness—three sharp raps against the stone arch. Sarai slips inside before either of us speaks. Her hair is slicked back, her breathing fast, cheeks flushed pink from running. A small silver pin gleams in her hand.
“You need your hair up,” she says, “Tight. Out of your face.
