28. Selis
Selis
The graveyard is the kind of place the world forgets on purpose.
Quiet. Seeped in rot and reverence.
And Naera—she’s crying . Not loudly. No gasping or sobbing. Just the steady kind of weeping that sinks into the bones of a place like this.
Part of me wants to reach for her. To do something, say something. Anything.
But I don’t. Because what the fuck is there to say? I don’t know how to mourn the dead like she does. I only know how to make more of them.
The wind lifts, tugging at her dress. Her hair shifts across her cheek like it’s trying to hide her from this place. The dried moonflowers rustle against the stones with a brittle, papery sound.
They sound like bones rattling.
And even as she mourns, she’s too quiet.
I hate it.
I’ve seen her fierce. Furious. Alive with anger and spark. But this silence? This stillness wrapped around her like a shroud? It’s worse than screams.
My boots crunch soft over frost-laced earth as I step closer. I’m careful not to crush the flowers. Not because I care about the flowers. But because she might .
I crouch beside her. Not too close. Just enough that she knows I’m here.
No empty words. No platitudes. Just… “You knew her?”
She nods, eyes on the gravestone. “We weren’t allowed to speak much. But Lira was kind… she always had a smile.” A pause. “She liked to hum when we were supposed to be praying… Quiet, like she didn’t want Selene to hear.”
I exhale through my nose.
I hate how tender her voice sounds when she talks about the dead.
This whole place is twisted. A shrine to girls no one ever intended to save. And still—she sits here like it matters. Like someone should remember.
I’m not good at comfort. Never have been. I was raised with blades and orders and silence, not… softness. But when she glances at me—eyes bright but raw, like she’s been holding too much salt behind them for too long—I want to be good at it.
For her.
Just once.
And that terrifies me more than any blade ever has.
Without thinking… I reach out. Not for her hand. Just her sleeve. A light brush at her elbow. A reminder. I’m here.
She doesn’t flinch or pull away. And that’s almost worse than if she had.
Because it means she trusts me. Even now. Even after everything.
“She sounds like my brother,” I say, before I even realize I’ve opened my mouth.
Naera turns slightly. Her wide eyes find mine, wet but patient. She doesn’t speak. She just… waits .
“Lior,” I add.
The word sounds strange in my mouth. Like it doesn’t belong anymore. Like saying it aloud might bring him back.
Or make me shatter.
“He was the same. Always smiling. Always trying to make me laugh when I had no reason to.” I swallow.
I stare down at the grave we’re crouched beside, but I’m not seeing it anymore. I’m seeing a fire. A pile of splintered beams. The outline of a boy half-buried in ash. Fingers curled like he was still reaching for me.
I don’t know why I tell her.
It’s not a story I give away. Not to mercenaries. Not to lovers. Not to the walls of whatever rented room I end up sleeping in.
But Naera’s cried in front of me. Prayed in front of me. Fallen apart in a way that didn’t make her look weak—only real .
And somehow, that makes me feel like I owe her something back.
That shouldn’t matter.
But it does now.
So I keep going.
“They buried him in the back of a pauper’s field. No marker.” My voice is rough now. Lower. “I never visit it. Not after the first time.”
She just… stills. Then, gently, she reaches up. Her fingers brush my cheek. Careful. Tender. Like I might bolt if she gets too close.
And that’s when I feel it.
The tear. Just one. Hot against the cold. Betraying everything I swore I’d buried with him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice barely more than breath. “I know how much you loved him.”
I snort, a sharp breath through my nose meant to sound amused, but it crumbles before it finishes .
But then I remember the way she woke from the dream sobbing with his name on her lips… The way she stared at me like she already knew something no one else ever had.
Maybe she does.
Maybe she saw all of it.
The thought unsettles me—cracks something loose inside my chest.
“Don’t go getting all tender on me,” I mutter, trying to shove the moment back into a box it doesn’t fit in.
I stand, then reach down and pull her to her feet. Her hand fits into mine like it’s always been there, waiting.
I don’t say it out loud, but something in me feels lighter. Not healed. Not whole. But freer.
Because Lior isn’t a name I’ve said aloud in years. And now it’s out in the air, drifting between us like ash.
I hold Naera’s hand longer than I should, longer than makes sense, and when I look down— really look at her—I notice the dress.
It’s the one the Guild put her in. All fine silks and trailing fabric and puffed sleeves that catch the wind like banners.
Pretty. Useless. There’s no warmth in it.
No weight. The kind of dress made for display, not survival. She must be cold.
Would’ve been smart to loot some cloaks before we ran.
I reach out before I can think better of it, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. My fingers graze her cheek—still damp with salt, still flushed from crying—and she leans into the touch, just slightly. Like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.
It does something to me. Twists something warm and ugly behind my ribs.
But then I look lower, and I freeze.
Her feet .
Bare. Red with cold. Toes curling instinctively against the frost-hardened earth. Her ankles are dusted in dirt and frost from where we ran. How didn’t I notice?
How didn’t I fucking notice?
Something bitter slides down my spine. Not guilt. Not quite. But something close enough to make my hands itch.
I’ve dragged her through godless places, through blood and ice and worse—and never once thought to ask if she was comfortable or not.
I bite down hard on whatever curses try to rise and shift closer to her, like proximity might undo what neglect already did.
“You’re freezing,” I say, rougher than I meant to.
Naera looks down, blinking like she’s just now noticing too. “It’s not bad,” she lies.
And I almost believe her, except I can see the tremble in her knees, the way her body leans closer to mine without meaning to. Seeking heat. Seeking anything.
I shake my head and strip the gloves off my hands, then shrug out of my cloak. “Here,” I mutter, pushing the sleeves toward her arms. “Put this on before your teeth start chattering like cursed bells.”
“I—Selis, you’ll be cold.”
“I’m always cold,” I snap, too fast. Then, quieter, “Let me do something right.”
She hesitates. Just a second. Then she lets me wrap her in the cloak, lets me press the gloves into her palms and watch as her fingers disappear into the warmth.
Her light blue eyes flicker up to mine.
“...Thank you… ”
But she doesn’t need to thank me. Because Lior is still between us, a ghost that doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. And Naera… she’s still standing. Still choosing to stay close.
That’s thanks enough.
“We should build a fire,” I say at last.
I hate fire. Always have. I’ve watched it devour everything I loved. It’s loud and greedy and never stops once it starts.
But I hate seeing her freeze more.
Don’t know when that changed, but here we are and now I have to deal with it.
Naera blinks at me, already swaddled in my cloak like a stubborn, half-thawed moonbeam. Her lashes are crusted with a sheen of frost, and she doesn’t argue—not this time. Just nods, silent, trusting.
Too trusting.
I scan the tree line. The woods curl tight around the graveyard like a fist. The statue of Selene looms behind us, and even with her face worn smooth by weather, I can feel her staring. Judging. Waiting.
“We should get some space between us and the graves,” I add. “Just in case.”
“In case?”
“In case anyone from The Garden comes sniffing this way,” I mutter. “We’re too damn close. That damned carriage practically spit us out at the gates.”
Naera’s mouth parts in surprise, but I’m already moving. I don’t want to talk about how close we are. I feel it in the dirt. In the way the trees lean. Like The Garden’s breath is fogging up the air around us.
I offer her my hand again .
She takes a step—and stumbles. Her legs won’t cooperate. Too long in the cold. Too soft from everything we’ve just torn through. She hisses and catches herself on my arm.
“Shit.” I catch her before she falls. “You’re worse off than I thought.”
“I can walk,” she says.
I raise an eyebrow. “Sure you can, starlight.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue, but I don’t wait for her to finish. Instead, I turn my back to her and crouch.
“Get on.”
There’s a long, startled pause behind me. I can feel her blinking.
“What?”
“You heard me. Unless you want to crawl.”
“I—Selis, that’s not—”
“Just shut up and get on,” I growl, without heat. “I’ll get us clear of this rot faster if I’m not dragging you like a half-dead deer.”
Naera hesitates, and then she climbs on. Awkwardly at first, arms winding around my shoulders, breath catching as her body folds against mine.
She’s lighter than I expect. All silk and frost and stubborn warmth pressed against my back.
Her cheek brushes my temple. “You’re warm.”
I roll my eyes, adjusting my grip beneath her thighs. “Don’t get used to it.”
She laughs. Quiet and tired.
I carry her through the trees, boots crunching softly over frostbitten roots, until the graveyard is behind us and the Garden’s shadow feels just a little less thick .
We find a spot beneath a shelf of rock, half-sheltered from the wind. Good enough. I set her down gently, and her fingers linger on my shoulders.
“You alright?” I ask, voice quieter than I mean it to be.
I’ve never cared how someone answers that before.
But when she says, “I’m alright,” it hits me that I needed her to be.
I nod, then get to work. Breaking branches. Clearing a space. Building a fire I don’t want to light.
But I light it anyway.
For her.
***