Chapter 9
Iclutch the bedframe until the tremor eases.
No one can know who I am. They would destroy me if they found out.
The withdrawal is no longer subtle. My hands shake as I try to fold another robe into my bag, half-packed beside me. Sweat beads along my hairline, my skin hypersensitive to every brush of fabric.
It’s been two days since I last healed His Grace.
Ever since the northern outpost attack last week, our nightly sessions have been unpredictable, sometimes cancelled last minute, sometimes rescheduled.
The last session was exactly forty-eight hours ago.
Two days of my body screaming for the release only magic can provide.
I press my palms flat against the bed, trying to steady the tremors. The crescent moon sigil on my chest pulses with a dull ache – not the bright luminosity of active magic, but the hollow emptiness of denial. My stomach churns as I swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat.
A corridor bell chimes somewhere in the palace: twelve hours until we leave for Talis.
I wish Mother were here. Though she never experienced this addiction herself – her healing magic never demanded the way mine does – she spent years searching for a solution.
Someone at the Conclave might remember her. Might know her. Perhaps I’ll finally find answers.
I reach for the leather strap on my bag, trying to loop it through the buckle. It slips. I try again, but my hands won’t cooperate. The tremor makes the metal slide through my fingers.
A soft knock at my door makes me freeze.
“Come in,” I call, quickly wiping the sweat from my forehead.
Lord Zevran steps inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He’s changed into simple clothes – dark trousers and a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. Even in the casual clothing, I can see the stiffness in his movements. He stays near the door, watching me with careful attention.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, noting my packed belongings and the fact that I’m still fully dressed despite the late hour.
“Too much to think about.” I gesture helplessly at the bag.
He moves closer, slow and stiff. Two days without healing has taken its toll on both of us. I watch his eyes scan my face. “You’re pale.”
“I’m fine. Just…” I reach for the strap again, but another tremor runs through my hands. The buckle clatters against the bedpost.
“Cyra...” He crosses the room in three strides and reaches for my wrist. His fingers find my pulse, racing and erratic. “Are you ill? What’s wrong?”
I pull my hand back. “N-Nothing. Just … nervous about the Conclave.”
“No. This is something else.” His voice is firm but not unkind.
The directness of it strips away my defences. I sink onto the edge of the bed, no longer able to stand without the room tilting.
A look of recognition crosses Lord Zevran’s face. “When was the last time you healed someone?” he asks quietly.
I look down at my trembling hands. “Two days. Since our last session.”
“Two days.” He sits beside me carefully. I look up to see an expression of understanding slowly dawn across his face. “And you feel like this every time you don’t heal for a period of time?”
I nod, unable to meet his eyes.
“How often do you need it?”
I don’t answer at first, eyes glued to my trembling hands shaking in my lap. I breathe … in, out.
He was bound to find out eventually.
“Every day. Sometimes more, if I can.” The admission comes out reluctantly. “I’ve been helping servants. Small injuries. Nothing serious.” I try to downplay everything, afraid of the judgment that will follow.
“Because you need to use the magic.” Lord Zevran says – not accusatory, just fact.
I furrow my brow.
“No, because it helps them—”
“And because you need it.” He takes the travel strap from where it fell, loops it through the buckle one-handed, and sets the bag aside. “Cyra … if your body is dependent on using your magic...”
“I know what it sounds like,” I say, sharper than intended. “But I’m helping people. How can that be wrong?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then his hand moves – slowly, deliberately – to cover mine where it rests on the bed between us. His palm is warm.
“It’s not wrong to help people,” he says quietly, his eyes on our joined hands. “But if you can’t stop … that’s not choice anymore. That’s compulsion.”
The shame wells up inside me. Compulsion is the same word whispered about the Sun King’s addiction to his powers in old stories … the same monster that’s been passed down to me.
I look at where his hand covers mine. I should pull away. I know I should. But the gentleness in the gesture undoes something in me. No one has touched me like this – not out of need, not for healing, but just … because.
“Cyra…”
A sharp knock at the door shatters the moment.
We both freeze. His hand releases mine immediately.
“Travel writs for His Grace,” a guard’s voice calls.
I stand quickly and move to the window, putting the width of the room between us. His Grace opens the door just wide enough to accept the packet, his voice formal and distant. “Thank you. That will be all.”
The latch clicks shut. We stand on opposite sides of the room, the performance lingering even though we’re alone again. Neither of us moves to close the distance.
He sets the writs on the desk without looking at them. “That’s what it will be like,” he says quietly. “At the Conclave. Distance. Formality. Even when we’re alone in the same room.”
I turn back to face him. “I understand.”
He moves to join me at the window, looking out at the palace grounds below. Outside, a shuttle engine spools up on the departure pads. The window panes hum and settle. “Once we’re there, I can’t show any dependence on you. The other House leaders will be looking for weaknesses.”
I furrow my brow. “You think they’ll see me as a weakness?”
“I think they’ll see my reliance on a healer as proof that I’m unfit to rule.” His voice grows frustrated. “It doesn’t matter that you help me function better – they’ll interpret it as confirmation that I can’t handle the pressures of leadership.”
The politics of it make sense, but the thought of maintaining cold formality with him makes my heart sink. “So, we pretend we barely know each other?”
“We maintain the proper relationship between a House Lord and his advisor. Professional, respectful, but nothing that suggests…” He pauses, reaching for the window frame to steady himself. I catch the wince he tries to hide – his left shoulder spasms, just for a moment, before he forces it still.
“Nothing that suggests what?” I press.
“…Nothing that suggests I’ve grown to care about your wellbeing beyond your usefulness to Mars.” The admission comes out quieter than his usual commanding tone.
I look away, focusing on my packed bag. Heat flushes up my neck and into my cheeks, and it feels like there’s a magnetic pull in the air between us.
Another wave of nausea hits, stronger this time. I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees and breathing through my mouth.
“How bad is it right now?” he asks, taking me by the arm to help me sit back on the bed.
“Bad enough.” I press my palms against my stomach. “But I can manage until we reach Talis.”
“Can you?” His concern is evident. “If it’s already this severe after two days…”
“I’ll find someone,” I say. “A crew member with an injury, another passenger who needs help…”
“We don’t have to schedule a session in the Atrium,” his voice sounds softer. Less guarded. “You can heal me right here, right now.”
I turn to look at him. “You need it too, don’t you?”
“Yes. The anticipation of the trials, the stress…” He doesn’t try to hide it now. “Two days is pushing the limits of what I can endure and still function properly.”
An offer – mutual need, mutual solution. But there’s something else in his eyes now, a wariness.
“You’re wondering if that’s all I want from you,” I say quietly. “If I only see you as a way to feed this … compulsion.”
“…Do you?” The question is direct, unflinching.
“No.” I meet his eyes. “I won’t lie and say I don’t need the healing. But you’re not just a source of healing magic to me.”
He goes still, then exhales – slow, deliberate, like he’s physically restraining himself.
We sit there, close enough that I can see the grey of his eyes, smell the sandalwood and leather on his skin. Neither of us moves.
“Can I ask you something?” I say finally.
“Anything,” he says.
“Do you want this? The Conclave, the chance to become Solar Sovereign? Or is this just another duty you’re being forced into?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “That’s harder to answer than you might think.”
“Tell me anyway,” I say.
He stands and moves back to the window. “I became Lord of Mars at thirteen – too young, with a body already failing me. The pressure was … is crushing. But Mars needs me, so I carry it.” He pauses.
“I don’t want the weight of the entire system on my shoulders.
But if I’m the best choice – if the alternative is tyranny again – I’ll do whatever it takes. ”
“What if there’s someone better?” I ask.
“Then I’ll support them and go home.” He turns to face me. “But if there isn’t, I’ll rule fairly. For everyone, not just Mars.”
The conviction in his voice reminds me why I’ve started to care for him. He doesn’t want power for its own sake. He wants to protect people, to prevent the kind of suffering that comes from corrupt leadership.
Everything my father wasn’t.
“Let me heal you,” I say.
He studies my face for a long moment. “Are you sure?”
“I want to. You need it. I need it. And tomorrow we’ll both need to be at our best.”
He nods slowly, then reaches for the hem of his shirt. “Before we do this, I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you’ll tell me if it ever becomes too much. If the dependency starts controlling you instead of you controlling it.” He pulls the shirt off in one fluid motion, forcing my heart to flutter. “I won’t let that happen to you.”
I can’t bring myself to admit it may be too late. “I promise.”
He settles onto the edge of the bed next to me.
The lamplight catches old scars across his chest – some surgical, some from combat – pale lines that tell stories I don’t yet know.
But what captures my attention are the luminescent veins beneath the surface – angry, inflamed lines that pulse with each heartbeat, brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
“It’s worse,” I observe.
“The stress, the anticipation … it affects everything.” He takes in a breath.
I place my palms against his chest.
The magic rises before I’ve fully decided – two days of denial making it wild, greedy. It pours through my palms, and the world sharpens: the grain of his skin, the slow thrum of his pulse beneath my hands. The crescent moon flares cold against my ribs, ice spreading through my sternum.
The magic flows beautiful and slow, silver-bright and staining. It chases the luminescent veins through his body, soothing the inflammation, quieting the pain signals. His breathing deepens. The rigid tension in his shoulders melts away.
The withdrawal symptoms fade as the magic works through me. The nausea recedes and the tightness in my skin eases. For these few moments, I feel whole again, complete in a way that terrifies me because I know it can’t last.
I want to keep going, to pour more magic into him, to chase this euphoria until it consumes everything else. But I remember his words about losing ourselves to our needs, and I force myself to pull back.
The veins fade to barely visible lines. I lift my hands away, hollow and aching – but manageable. Functional.
We both stand, as if distance will help us think clearly.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” He reaches for his shirt. “You?”
I manage a small smile. “Better too.”
The lamp gutters. He turns the wick down, all business again. “Cyra … at the Conclave, the healing sessions will have to be more clinical. Witnessed by others, probably. No privacy like this.”
The thought makes my stomach drop. “Witnessed?”
“The Cardinals will want to observe, to ensure no unfair advantages.” His expression grows apologetic. “It won’t be comfortable. And if they see how much you need it, how the withdrawal affects you … people could use that as leverage.”
Letting strangers watch me work is one thing. Letting them watch what it does to me is another.
“Then I’ll hide it better.”
“Can you? For however long the trials last?” He pulls his shirt on. “I’m not trying to discourage you. I just need you to understand what you’re walking into.”
“I understand.” I meet his eyes. “I’m still coming. Not just because I need the magic, but because I believe you might actually win this. And I want to be there when you do.”
The creases around his eyes soften. “Even knowing what it will cost me?”
“Especially knowing that.” My voice is steady now. “Because someone who doesn’t want power but accepts it anyway for the right reasons … that’s exactly who should be Solar Sovereign.”
We stand there for a moment, neither of us speaking, both aware that tomorrow everything changes.
Another bell chimes in the corridor – eleven hours to departure.
“We should sleep,” he says finally. “It’s a long day ahead.”
He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle. “Cyra?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
He pauses, the creases by his eyes softening. “Please … I think I’d like you to simply address me as ‘Zevran’ from now on.” He holds my gaze. “And … whatever happens in those trials … you have my trust. Completely.”
The words should comfort me, but instead they make the guilt worse. How can I accept his trust when it’s built on such fundamental lies about who I am?
“You have mine too, Zevran,” I say, and at least that part is true.
He nods and slips out.
I change into my nightclothes and settle onto the bed, pulling the covers around me. The lamp flickers lower, casting long shadows across the packed bag, the empty doorway.
Tomorrow we’ll walk into the Conclave together – him with an illness he can’t cure, me with an addiction I can’t control and a bloodline I didn’t choose. One slip, and it’s over.
Not just for me. For him. For everyone depending on Mars’s stability.
During the Conclave, servants will gossip. The advisors will scrutinize. The House leaders will probe for weakness. We can’t make any mistakes. And somewhere in that crowd might be someone who knew my mother…
Outside, another shuttle engine spools up. The sound vibrates through the walls, a reminder that time is running out.
I close my eyes and try to breathe through the fear.
Tonight, for these last few hours, I can hold onto the warmth of knowing that whatever’s growing between Zevran and I is real, even if it’s too fragile and dangerous to fully explore.
Even if it might not survive what’s coming.