10. Selis
Selis
I wake to silence.
No birdsong. No rustling. Just her.
She’s not asleep.
I know it before I even open my eyes—feel it in that quiet, charged way the air hums when someone else is holding their breath. I shift without thinking, propping myself up on one elbow.
And there she is.
Knees drawn tight to her chest, arms wrapped around them, staring into the trees like she’s trying to see something already lost. Her glow hasn’t gone completely—just a faint sheen now, soft and dim like the coals of a dying fire.
Not enough to blind. Just enough to make her look unreal in the half-light.
Physically, she looks better than yesterday.
Less gray around the mouth, her posture steadier.
Rest did her good—even if we both still look like we crawled out of a battlefield.
Because we did. We’re crusted in blood, mine and not mine, hers and gods-know-what else.
The blanket I threw over her is stiff in places.
My ribs still ache like they’re being chewed from the inside out.
We’ll need to find somewhere to clean up soon.
There are hot springs in this region—if we’re lucky. A few steam-fed pools tucked between the trees. I passed one once, years back, on a job that ended with three corpses and a severed ear in my pocket.
If we’re not lucky? A river. A freezing one.
My bones already hate the thought.
But it’s not the physical mess that makes my jaw clench.
It’s her face.
She’s got that look again—still and brittle. Her mouth is drawn into a tight line, the kind you get from biting the inside of your cheek too long. Her hands grip the edge of the blanket like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.
And she’s trembling.
Not dramatically. Not sobbing or gasping or shaking in some theatrical way. Just a slow, steady tremble, like the ground inside her won’t stop shifting.
I should leave it alone.
She’s not my problem beyond staying alive. She’s my job. My target. A means to an end wrapped in moonlight and prophecy and too many damn questions. I should throw her the day's first insult, double-back for the cuffs, leash her, and then start walking.
But something about the way she’s looking at the trees—not like they scare her, but like she already knows what’s waiting in them—scrapes at something raw and buried under my ribs.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, before I can remind myself not to care.
Naera blinks. Once. Slow. Like she’s surfacing from something miles below. She doesn’t look at me.
"I think I saw you die," she says.
No drama. No trembling. Just… that.
Like it's fact .
Like she watched it happen already.
I raise a brow, tension curling behind my ribs. “Funny. I don’t remember dying.”
She still doesn’t look at me.
"You took the blade. I was on the altar." Her voice is low. Dry. “You screamed my name.”
I freeze.
Not visibly. Not if I can help it. But inside, something halts. Catches. I’ve heard dreamers before. Hallucinating seers, grief-drunk witches. They ramble. Their voices warp. Their stories tangle like weeds.
But this isn’t that. She says it like it already happened .
I force a scoff, but it falls thin and brittle.
“I think you’ve got your visions backward, sweetheart. I’m the one dragging you to the altar, remember? Don’t think healing me bought you any favors.”
Finally, she turns. Her eyes meet mine—dark, quiet, sure in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“You weren’t dragging me,” she says. “You were standing between me and the blade.”
The words land like a blow to the ribs.
I don’t like it.
I don’t like how certain she sounds. I don’t like the shape of what’s building between us, slow and ruinous.
I push to my feet, brushing the dirt off my palms with more force than necessary. “Dreams lie. The gods lie. I’ve buried enough to prove it.”
I feel her eyes on me even as she rises—slower than I did, more careful. Like she’s afraid I’ll shatter if she moves too fast.
“They didn't lie last time,” she says softly .
I hate how that lands. Like a stone in the stomach. Like she knows something I don’t. Like she always has.
I turn my back to her.
“We leave shortly,” I say. “Keep up. And if you dream of me dying again, try not to look so sad about it.”
No answer.
But when I glance back, just once, she’s still watching me.
Not afraid.
Not even angry.
Just watching , like someone already grieving something they haven’t lost yet.
***
The road is narrower today. Or maybe I’m just more irritated by it.
The trees hang close, low branches scraping my shoulder like they’ve got something to say. My boots crunch hard over half-frozen leaves, every step louder than it needs to be.
Naera walks behind me, silent. Her steps are light—too light—like she’s still half in whatever damned dream she woke up from.
Good. Let her stew in it.
Let her tremble a little more next time she decides to tell me I die for her.
I jerk the chain once—not hard, just enough to remind her she’s still tethered to reality.
To me .
She didn’t complain when I placed the cuffs over her wrists once more, and she doesn't complain now.Which somehow pisses me off more.
"You always this quiet after a prophecy?" I mutter over my shoulder. "Or just when it makes me look noble?"
She says nothing.
I clench my jaw, shoulders coiled tight.
I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in mercy. And I sure as hell don’t believe in dying for someone who glows in her sleep and sees things she shouldn’t.
But the image won’t leave me.
Me—screaming her name.
Me—bleeding.
Me— choosing it .
Choosing her…
What a joke.
The idea claws at the inside of my skull like something rabid. I’ve taken blades for coin before, but not for someone . The very idea of throwing myself on the altar for a woman I chained like a dog… it’s ludicrous .
I clench my jaw hard enough to ache, and I set a faster pace.
Let her scramble to keep up. Let the wind steal her voice if she tries to speak again.
The forest grows denser. The trail twists downward, slick with frost.
I should warn her.
I don’t.
Her foot catches on a root. The breath leaves her body in a short gasp—and then she’s falling. The chain yanks, sharp and sudden. Reflex kicks in before thought. I turn. Grab her arm. Pull.
She crashes into me with a muffled gasp, all wild breath and stumbling weight.
Her wrists are still bound, pinned between us; otherwise, we're suddenly chest to chest.
The only thing holding her up is my grip on her cloak. The only thing keeping me steady is spite and spine and the teeth I grind together.
Her breath fans against my throat. Too warm. Too soft. She’s glowing again—faint, flickering—but enough to make her look like something half divine and half temptation.
Her hands twist in my cloak without meaning to. She doesn’t lean away. Neither do I. Our faces are inches apart. Her eyes lock with mine, wide and too open.
I can feel it. That pull. That stupid, soft gravity that keeps dragging me toward her like I’ve already been marked.
“Careful,” I rasp, voice lower than it should be. “Your gods might be watching.”
She blinks up at me. Her lips part. Her voice comes quiet—almost guilty.
“You’re shaking,” she says.
I hadn’t noticed. And I hate that she did.
My grip loosens like it burns. I let go. Fast. She stumbles a little without my hold, but stays upright.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I growl. “You’re just heavier than you look.”
She gives me a look—half hurt, half something else. Something more dangerous than hate.
I turn fast, chain clinking as I move. “Keep up.”
She does. No apology. No reply.
But the heat lingers like the memory of a flame that almost caught.
And damn me, I keep wondering what would’ve happened if I’d let it burn.