Chapter 22
For a while after Ren leaves, I just stand in the centre of Zevran’s quarters and breathe. The stillness leaves too much space for everything else. My mind races as it replays every terrifying detail of what just happened…
And under all of it, the ache.
Withdrawal creeps back the way it always does when adrenaline drains and my body remembers what it wants.
At first, it’s just a tightness in my jaw, tension gathering at the hinge.
Then a restless energy crawls under my skin, making me want to move, to pace, to do anything except lie still with this hollow expanding in my chest.
I cross to the window. The view looks out over the arena’s interior superstructure, metal and stone layered in defensive geometry. Somewhere above, Cardinals Benedict and Marcus are still going over evidence in my compromised suite, while other contenders are sleeping in beds they think are safe.
I turn away from the glass.
Zevran’s quarters are sparse. No decorative touches, no personal artifacts except for a single potted plant on a shelf near the weapons rack. Green leaves spill over the rim, small yellow buds coiled tight and waiting to open.
I stop, staring at it. The image of the Lord of Mars watering flowers sends a ripple of emotion through my chest.
“The atrium,” I say quietly. “At the palace. All those plants … are you the one taking care of them all?”
He follows my gaze to the plant, and a brief flash of embarrassment crosses his face, his cheeks flushing.
“Someone has to tend them.” His voice is careful, neutral. But the defence lacks conviction.
I think of the careful labels in shaky handwriting, the thoughtful placement of each pot, the way the space felt treasured despite the rest of the palace’s militant functionality. All those plants arranged with the same meticulous attention he brings to tactical maps and weapon maintenance.
“My mother must have liked that,” I say softly, thinking of our own garden at home.
My heart drops at the thought of Mother – so much has happened, I haven’t had any time to think through the idea Lord Lucien mentioned …
that she’s probably out there, gathering support for me.
I push the thought away again, a mixture of hurt and sadness bubbling up in my chest.
Zevran’s quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is rougher.
“After my parents died, I needed something to distract myself … something I could control that didn’t involve weapons or death or…
” He stops, then continues quieter. “The atrium gave me that. Proof I could nurture, create beauty instead of just … violence.”
The confession settles between us, more vulnerable than anything he’s said before.
I move toward the bed. It’s larger than mine, the frame low and solid, covered in dark red linens.
I collapse on the edge, my hands curling into the blanket as I try to slow my breathing.
The hunger under my sternum sharpens, turning from ache to need.
My power stirs in response, heat gathering along my ribs where bruises from the attack are starting to surface.
The healing magic doesn’t turn inward. It never does.
It sits in my chest, bright and useless unless I pour it into someone else.
I need to heal someone.
Across the room, I can hear Zevran move. A quiet shift of weight. The sound of a breath held too long.
I turn toward him. He’s standing near the tactical displays now, shirtless, one hand braced against the desk as if he needs the support.
In the low amber light, I can see the luminescent veins under his skin, brighter than they were earlier.
They pulse faintly with each breath, sickly silver threading across his chest and shoulders. Our eyes meet again.
“What does this mean?” I blurt out without thinking. “You bringing me here. Mars will see it as a betrayal.”
He hesitates as he considers his answer. “It means … Cyra, I…” He sighs. “I care about my people, my kingdom … but I also care about keeping you alive,” he says finally. His gaze holds mine across the dim space. “The politics can sort themselves out later.”
“And if they don’t?” I ask weakly.
“Then I’ll deal with the consequences.” His expression shifts, walls lowering slightly. His grey eyes soften as he looks at me. “More importantly … are you okay?”
There’s careful concern in his voice, and the way he’s watching me – like he can see past the calm exterior I’m trying to hold together – see right to the fear still rattling around inside my ribcage.
I open my mouth to say yes, to default to the lie that’s always easier.
But nothing comes out. A tremor runs through me, delayed shock finally breaking through the adrenaline. The memory of shadow over my mouth, the helplessness of being held by something I couldn’t fight. Lord Lucien materializing out of darkness like a nightmare given form…
Zevran sees it. The crack in my armour.
He pushes away from the desk, moving toward me despite the pain I can see in the way he moves.
My legs are in motion before I register the decision.
I’m off the bed, crossing the space between us, and then I’m pressing into him.
My arms wrap around his torso, my face against his chest, and I’m holding on like he’s the only solid thing in a world that just proved it can dissolve into shadow and violence at any moment.
His arms come around me, careful at first, then tighter. One hand settles between my shoulder blades, the other cupping the back of my head. He’s warm and safe. His heart beats steady against my ear.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’re safe.”
I don’t cry. I just breathe him in and let myself be held. Let myself acknowledge that I’m not okay.
We stand like that for a long moment. His thumb traces slow circles against my spine. The tension in my shoulders gradually loosens.
“I couldn’t touch it,” I whisper finally. “The thing that restrained me, the shadow. I tried to use magic, I tried to fight, but I … couldn’t. I was just … helpless.”
His arms tighten fractionally. “Shadow magic?” I expect him to pry, but he doesn’t. “You survived, Cyra,” he says, voice low and fierce. “You’re not helpless.”
I pull back just enough to look up at him. His face is closer than I expected, grey eyes dark in the low light. There’s pain there still, the luminescent veins pulsing faintly beneath his skin.
“How bad is it?” I ask, voice rougher than I intend. “Your pain?”
He glances down at his chest, then back at me. “I’m fine, it’s you I’m worried about.”
He shifts, but he can’t stop his hand from instinctively moving over his ribs, fingers pressing into flesh as if he can pin the illness in place.
The craving inside me sharpens.
“Let me help,” I say weakly. “Please.”
He looks away for a moment, toward the window where reflected city lights blur across the glass. When he looks back, his expression is guarded.
“You promised, our last night on Mars, that you’d tell me if it ever became too much. If the dependency ever started to control you instead of you controlling it,” he says. “Are we past that point, Cyra?”
I look down at my own hands, at the faint tremor that hasn’t quite left my fingers.
“Tonight was … a lot,” I admit. “Honestly, I—I don’t know where the line is anymore. I just know I don’t feel whole unless I’m healing, and that … scares me.”
He studies me for a long moment, as if grappling over whether this is honesty or justification.
“You’re still a good person, Cyra. Your healing helps people … but it doesn’t help you. We need to find a cure.” His voice is resolute.
“My Mother tried for years to find a cure. If she couldn’t find one … I’m not sure one exists, Zevran.”
“With all due respect, Cyra, your mother also isn’t the leader of an entire kingdom, with resources that reach across the entire system.” Zevran smirks. “When we’re done all of this – when the Conclave is over – we’re going to find a cure. For now, though … I’ll steady you.”
I nod once. The hunger under my ribs spikes in answer, like it heard the permission.
He steps back and sits on the edge of the bed with a careful breath. In the soft light, the lines of strain along his shoulders are stark.
“The worst of it’s in my shoulder this time,” he says quietly.
I sit down next to him on the bed. Up close, I can see the pattern of his illness more clearly.
The luminescent veins fan out from his neck, glowing under his skin in unhealthy silver white.
The flesh around them is inflamed, mottled red and grey.
Old scars from combat cross the newer marks, pale lines cutting through the glow.
I press my palms to his shoulder.
The connection hits like stepping into deep water, and my power surges up to meet it.
The magic pours from my chest into my hands, desperate for the outlet it has been denied.
Relief slams through me as it finds one.
A chill moves down my arms and into him, bright and fierce, and the crescent sigil under my nightclothes stirs, then flares, a low silver glow pressing against the fabric.
Under my palms, his fever-hot skin begins to cool. The tight ropes of muscle along his spine unwind, tension releasing in small increments. I feel minute shifts along his vertebrae as his body finally lets go of the constant guard it has been holding.
He exhales, long and unsteady. The sound runs through me.
The high rises with the healing, smoothing the rough edges inside my chest. The hunger loosens, stretching into pleasure.
My limbs feel lighter, my thoughts clearer and further away all at once.
I want to chase that feeling, to pour more and more magic into him until there’s nothing left but this weightless ease.
I draw more power up without thinking.
“Cyra.” His voice is closer now. “Careful—”
“I can keep going,” I say too quickly. “You still need—”
His hands close over mine, firm and warm. He doesn’t break the contact. He just holds my hands in place, steadying the flow.
“Cyra,” the command in his tone cuts clean through the haze. “That’s enough for tonight.”
I force a breath in. Then another. I loosen my focus, let the stream of magic drop from a rush to a steady trickle, then to nothing. The sigil’s glow fades from a sharp burn to a faint warmth.
When he finally lets go, I ease my hands away. The room feels clearer, the angles sharper. I’m tired, and the high has started to ebb into a heavy, manageable exhaustion, but I’m not scraped out the way I was after the Furnace.
He turns to face me.
“How do you feel?” I ask.
“Like I can stand in front of the Houses tomorrow without collapsing,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
I manage a small sigh. “The craving’s still there,” I admit. “But it’s quieter. I can think around it again.”
He studies my face, searching for signs I’ve given too much. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
“Good,” he says. “Then it was worth it.”
I sink back onto the mattress, my spine resting against the headboard.
He stays sitting on the edge of the bed for a while, the glow under his skin a memory instead of a threat.
Silence settles between us, steady rather than awkward.
The tactical displays cycle through their patterns.
Somewhere outside, the arena hums through its night routines.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Zevran says at last. “You should take the bed.”
“Don’t,” I say. The word comes out sharper than I mean. I soften it. “I’d feel safer with you next to me.”
His brows rise slightly. “Safer?”
“Someone walked into my room tonight using shadow magic and Uranus tech,” I say. “They held me with darkness I couldn’t touch. I don’t want to be alone.”
He nods once. “I understand.”
He moves to a chest near the weapons rack and pulls out a folded blanket and a thin sleeping shirt. “Here. You can change in the washroom.”
I take them and cross to the large washroom. The mirror shows a face paler than usual, dark circles under my eyes, hair tangled. I splash cool water on my skin and let the chill sharpen my thoughts. That’s when I do a double-take: my eyes. They’re different. There’s less green, and more … gold.
Maybe it’s just the lighting in here, I lie to myself. I’m too exhausted to consider it any further.
When I return, Zevran has set a clay pitcher of water on the nightstand, along with a small plate of dried fruit and a vial of painkillers. He’s changed into loose training pants, still shirtless, the veins now only faint lines beneath his skin.
We settle into the bed. He takes the side closest to the door, instinct placing himself between me and any threat. I slide under the covers on the other side, the mattress dipping slightly under our combined weight.
Close enough to share warmth. Close enough that we can’t pretend this is simple.
I ease onto my side, facing him. He lies on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
“Zevran?” I say quietly.
“Mm?” he murmurs.
“I’m sorry for lying,” I say. “About who I was. About Mother. About all of it”
His eyes stay on the ceiling. “I know.”
“But … I’ll never be sorry for healing you,” I add. “Even if it feeds the addiction. I’m not sorry you’re not in pain.”
He’s quiet for a long time.
Then his hand finds mine in the dim light. His fingers curl around mine, steady and warm. He doesn’t pull me closer. He just holds on.
“One day … we’ll find a cure,” he says.
We fall silent again as his promise sinks in.
“Cyra, I … I don’t know what this is,” he says, voice lower. “I should hate you. You’re the daughter of the man who murdered my parents … you lied to me…”
“But?” I dare to ask.
“But … you walked into the Furnace for me,” he says. “You keep stepping between me and pain.” He turns his head to look at me, grey eyes dark in the low light. “I just need some time to figure this all out.”
He lifts his free hand slowly, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingertips are warm against my temple, as heat follows the touch down my throat.
We fall asleep like that. Two imperfect people, lying in the same bed, fingers intertwined. Still damaged. Still wary. Still needing more than either of us knows how to give.
But at least, for tonight, it’s honest.