A Phoenix Reborn
T he cavern settlement of Thalassi thrummed with quiet celebration as the Vaelorii soldiers returned, battered but victorious.
Their triumphant laughter echoed off the damp stone walls.
It mingled with the sound of trickling water and the hum of bioluminescent lanterns that cast the chamber in shades of green and blue.
Kisan staggered as he crossed the threshold of the central hall, his body swaying under the tonnage of his exhaustion.
Now silent and lifeless, the spinel artifact hung from his belt, a worn-out talisman.
Every step caused pain in his limbs, his metanoids sluggish as fokk from their massive output during the skirmish, depleting his energy reserves.
His breaths were shallow, his skin hot despite the cool cavern wind.
Samira was at his side in an instant.
She caught his arm, her grip firm as she steadied him. ‘Kisan,’ she said, her voice laced with urgency. ‘You’re burning up. What the hell is wrong?’
‘It’s the mask,’ he rasped, though his body betrayed him. ‘When I wore it in the past, it connected to a chest piece with infinite recyclable xentium energy. All I had were my metanoids, which need to be re-energized. They’re overworked and unstable, sending erratic pulses through my system. I’ve got a whopping fever.’
‘Symptoms to look out for?’
‘High temperature, my vision is blurring. I can’t stay on my feet.’
Worse, his skin ink shimmered in unpredictable, burning patterns, a telltale sign that his body was initiating a complete biological reboot.
‘I’ll be fine -.’
His knees buckled, and he almost collapsed, the cavern floor rushing to meet him.
‘ Nada , you’re not. The beds in the clinic are too full. Let me help you to my quarters.’
Kisan grunted in response, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
‘Lean on me,’ she urged him, her voice steady despite the strain of supporting his bulk.
They navigated the uneven terrain, her strength keeping the burly Rider upright.
The mask’s severe toll meant his robust frame was now trembling with exhaustion.
With each step, his legs dragged, and his hand clutched Samira’s shoulder for balance. The heat of his palm radiated through the fabric of her tunic.
They reached a narrow incline, the jagged stones threatening to trip him. Kisan stumbled, his knee buckling beneath him. Samira braced herself, pulling him up with surprising force.
‘Damn it,’ he muttered, frustration lacing his voice. His glowing eyes, most times narrowed and keen, now dulled with fatigue as he glanced at her. ‘I’m delaying you.’
Samira shook her head, her moon-dust-flecked eyes fierce. ‘You’re not slowing me down. You fought for all of us. Now let me help you.’
He tried to protest, but another wave of dizziness overtook him and swayed.
She caught him, wrapping her arms around his torso as she steadied and braced him along the cavern wall. The glow of the moss outlined the chiseled planes of his face, and his jaw clenched in silent frustration.
‘You’re stubborn, you know that?’ she said, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
He exhaled, a laugh escaping him regardless of his exhaustion. ‘Takes one to know one.’
They continued, her guiding him with care through the labyrinth of tunnels.
By the time they reached the arched entrance to her home, the Rider was leaning heavy into her, his breathing labored.
Despite the burn in her muscles, she inhaled, pushed the door open with her shoulder, and guided him inside.
‘Almost there,’ she murmured, soothing his fraying endurance.
Glowing orbs suspended from the ceiling lit the room, their radiance casting shadows on the smooth stone walls.
Samira steered him toward the bed, layered with plush, woven blankets. He collapsed onto the edge of the divan, his head falling forward as he caught his breath.
Samira knelt before him, her hands gentle as she removed his armor, leaving him in his undersuit.
Her fingers brushed against his sweat-slicked skin. His ink flickered, and their glow was dim and unsteady.
‘Lie down,’ she murmured, pushing on his shoulders as she urged him back into the pillows. He resisted for a beat, his pride flaring, but the exhaustion won. He sank into the bed with a groan, his body relaxing into the softness.
Samira straightened, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. His eyes fluttered open, meeting hers with a vulnerable intensity that tightened her chest.
‘ Sante ,’ he said, his voice rough but sincere.
‘Stay still,’ she insisted, her tone brooking no argument. ‘Rest, heal your metanoids.’
‘ Fokk —.’
His growl broke off as a surge of agony tore through him.
His spine arched, every nerve alight with pain and power.
A golden light emanated from his skin, soft at first, then brighter, until the entire room glowed with an ethereal radiance.
His wounds sealed, the torn flesh knitting itself back together with almost surgical precision.
The scars of battle faded, replaced by smooth, unbroken dermis.
The luminosity intensified, pulsing like a heartbeat. The heat radiating from him warmed the air around them.
Samira gazed at him, her breath caught in her throat.
He appeared otherworldly, a phoenix reborn in the heart of her humble home.
The light was blinding, yet she couldn’t look away.
The golden cocoon enveloped him, a dramatic and visceral reminder of the power he carried—and the cost it exacted.
Finally, the glow began to fade.
His body relaxed, his breathing evening out as the energy dissipated.
He blacked out, and his face, once tense with pain, was now slack in sleep, his chest rising and falling in shallow, measured breaths.
With a sigh, Samira pulled a blanket over him.
She lingered, her fingers brushing against his wrist to check his pulse. Her gaze traced the sculpted lines of his face, softened now by sleep.
Despite his strength and power, he seemed so vulnerable in this moment—so achingly mortal.
Samira sat in the quiet dimness of her chamber, her eyes fixed on Kisan as he slept.
The bioluminescent glow from the walls painted his features in a soft, otherworldly light.
His face, most times so intense and guarded, was now relaxed.
His jaw and cheekbones mellowed in repose. Dark hair clung damply to his forehead, a few strands curling against his temple.
She marveled at his presence, her thoughts tangled with awe and emotion.
It’d been years since a man lay in her bed.
Not in the least, him.
This man, who stormed into her world in pursuit of a stolen mask, had done so much more than reclaim what was his.
He’d fought beside her people with a ferocity that left no doubt of his commitment.
Kisan gave everything, driving himself to the brink, his strength and power unmatched even among the Vaelorian warriors.
Her eyes trailed down to the luminescent lines of his tattoos, which pulsed as if still recovering from the battle.
They appeared alive, a testament to the energy coursing through him, and she couldn’t help but feel a pang of admiration for the resilience he embodied.
He’d faced every challenge thrown his way—her betrayal, the fight for Thalassa, the searing toll of the mask—with unyielding courage.
Her gaze lingered on his chest, rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.
Beneath the blanket was the outline of his burly frame.
Her eyes skimmed over the broad shoulders that bore considerable strain. Damn, the muscular arms that had shielded her and her people.
Her mouth even watered at the taut lines and ripples in his abs, which spoke to years of discipline and hardship.
Her clit pulsed at the memory of his strength, of how he’d moved in the heat of battle, a force of nature cutting through the enemy ranks.
She shifted in her seat, her heart pounding as it hit her how much she cared for him.
The emotion crept up on her, unexpected and undeniable, growing from admiration to an attraction more potent.
She wanted him to stay, to be more than just an ally in this fight. She desired to know the man beneath the armor, to unravel the mystery of his guarded soul.
Samira’s gaze drifted back to his face, her lips curving into a small smile.
Even in his exhaustion, she admitted an intensity about him, an unshakable, irresistible essence.
She remembered how he gazed at her earlier, warily, longingly.
His touch then lingered just a moment too long, as if he, too, was struggling to deny what simmered between them.
Her fingers itched to reach out, brush back the strands of hair framing his face, and savor the heat of his skin beneath her stroke.
However, she held back, knowing he needed rest and that she couldn’t afford to allow herself to fall too deep just yet.
Still, the pull of him was undeniable. The man who’d come for his mask had stayed for considerably more, and with every passing moment, he was claiming a larger piece of her heart.
Samira leaned back, exhaling, her gaze never leaving him.
She would let him unwind for now, but she knew her feelings could not be ignored for long.
Kisan woke with a start.
Where the bloody hell was he?
He knifed up in bed, groaning as his sore body reminded him of his recent exploits.
‘Kids, let him sleep,’ he heard a gentle whisper.
He cranked one eyelid open to see Samira leaning on the jamb of the doorway.
His heart lurched at her beauty, his gaze following her every move.
She waved her finger at two adorable children, who sneaked up to the bed he was lying in with curious eyes.
The boy, with dark curls and mischievous energy, was the first to approach. He tiptoed closer, holding a carved wooden animal in his tiny hand.
‘Who is he, Mama?’ he asked, his voice just above a whisper.
‘A friend,’ Samira replied, her tone soft but firm. ‘He helped us.’
The girl, quieter but no less curious, stood behind her brother, her silver and gold eyes studying Kisan with intent concern. ‘He looks hurt,’ she muttered.
‘He’s healing,’ Samira said, brushing a hand over her daughter’s hair. ‘Give him time. Now leave, my loves.’
They nodded and ran off, ducking under her arm.
Her eyes followed the two small figures as they darted down the hall.
A smile tugged at her mouth as she turned back to him.
‘You’ve got a fan club,’ she said, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of the bed.
Her tone was light, but her eyes lingered on his face, scanning him for signs of pain.
‘Sorry if they woke you,’ Samira said.
‘ De nada ,’ he rumbled through dry lips.
He licked them, groaning at how weak his body still was, falling back against the soft cushions, aching all over.
His mind scrambled to piece together where he was, how he’d gotten here, and why he felt like he’d gone a few rounds with a war skiff.
‘They’re yours?’ Kisan croaked, his voice hoarse.
‘My children, yes.’
Samira’s hand found the corner of the blanket and adjusted it over him. ‘Liora and Malik. They’re curious about you. Most people are, though they don’t barge into rooms like that.’
Kisan winced and shifted, his muscles protesting. ‘Where am I?’ he rasped.
‘You’re in my home,’ she said matter-of-factly, picking up a small bowl from the bedside table. The aroma of spiced broth filled the air as she stirred it. ‘To be exact, my bed.’
His eyes flew open, and his body shot up despite the pain. ‘Yours?’ The disbelief in his voice was palpable. ‘You put me in your bed?’
Samira pressed a firm hand to his shoulder, pushing him back down. ‘Don’t get all worked up about it, Rider. I’m not.’
‘So where are you sleeping?’ His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his tone. ‘Don’t tell me you’re camping on the floor.’
She rolled her eyes and handed him the bowl. ‘I’m sharing a room with my aunt until you’re back on your feet. There’s plenty of space.’
Kisan’s jaw tightened, and the tension in his face became clear. ‘I can’t take your bed, Samira. That’s—’
‘You can, and you will.’ Her voice brooked no argument. ‘Now eat.’
He stared at her, muttered something, and took the proferred dish.
The broth was warm, rich, and spiced in a way that reminded him of distant stars and forgotten comforts. He welcomed how much it soothed him with an ache.
It’d been a while since he’d been in a home, received tender attention, and had a woman watch over him, let alone spend time with children.
Samira eyed him, her head tilted. ‘You’re not used to being taken care of, are you?’
Kisan paused mid-bite, his eyes flicking to hers.
‘Not like this,’ he admitted in a gruff rasp. ‘I’m more familiar with people running the other way.’
Her mouth curved into a small smile. ‘Well, I don’t run.’
‘ Nada , you don’t,’ he murmured, his voice carrying a note of something unspoken.
Samira stood and busied herself straightening the room, though her gaze returned to him often.
‘You’ll be up and out of here soon enough,’ she muttered. ‘Back to storming through caverns and terrifying the enemy.’
‘You make me sound like a bloody terror,’ Kisan rasped, his lips twitching.
She turned to him, her brow arching. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Maybe.’ He leaned back, his aqua eyes meeting hers, a flicker of humor in their depths. ‘But not to you or with you.’
An arc of unchecked emotion charged the air, and their gazes locked.
Kisan’s heart rate picked up. Fokk, she was beautiful .
The room fell into a quiet lull for a moment, the sounds of the bustling underground city fading into the background.
Samira canted her face away, and he noted the vulnerability in her face.
She was feeling this, feeling him.
He was, too, his soul finding unusual peace and rest in her intimate space, surrounded by her family.
‘ Sante ,’ he growled. ‘For everything.’
She shrugged, but her eyes swiveled back to his, soft, open, which sent a lurch through him. ‘You’re welcome, Rider. Now finish that bowl, or my aunt will have my head for not feeding you well.’
He chuckled and obeyed, but as the warmth of the broth seeped into him, so did the realization that Samira’s care was something he could get addicted to.