24. The Hands That Guide #3
Footsteps. Quick. Heavy. Metal and leather on crystal. The rhythm of a warrior discarding battle at the sound of home. She heard His Quintessence dip the mattress as he sat on the bed, the low rasp of his voice breaking all formality.
“I’m here.”
A beat of silence. Then a rustle of blankets. Lu’ma’s cheeks heated. She had grown to recognize the sound of lips meeting. Of hands caressing flesh. Attendants were trained to understand such things, and to stay quiet and separate from the event so as to avoid interruption of their Hosts.
The Resh’Agar whispered something. Private. Meant only for his Sokar.
Her Radiance answered in equally hushed tones.
“You know I don’t like it when I lose your heartbeat,” she protested.
A pang bloomed deep in Lu’ma’s chest. She clutched the trays tighter.
The Resh’Agar’s voice softened. “Then I won’t go far. Not until you sleep.”
There was a pause. Auryn grumbled something unintelligible and he chuckled, the sound rich and full. A sound of vulnerability. Something that did not belong in Krystopolis. And yet here, perhaps—between Her Radiance and His Quintessence—it could find sanctuary.
There was a rustle—bedsheets, another kiss. Then slow, steady footsteps once more. Lu’ma retreated back a half step, just enough to blend again into the deeper shadow near the corridor and place the trays on an empty table.
The Resh’Agar stepped into view. He was lacing the last ties of his shirt, dark hair drawn high in a war-knot, his armor only half-fitted.
Yet his eyes were far from the battlefield ahead.
The blue of them lingered in that curtained bed, still with Her Radiance.
He paused, just for a moment. Looked back toward the bedchamber.
Lu’ma saw the truth in his face. This wasn’t duty.
This wasn’t formality. This was that feeling she could not yet comprehend.
Love—a word she knew in name but not in breadth. So rare was it that none of her training could aid in understanding it. In fact, her teachings had warned her away from it. Most common sense, tradition, and cultural wisdoms did.
Love corrupted. Made one too possessive. In a world where strength ruled kingdoms and bonds only manifested as mutually beneficial contracts, such a thing was taboo. Those who claimed to love were shunned, reviled, exiled. Shamed.
Yet, there was another side to it as well.
Love implied life was precious, that it meant more than Breeding, hierarchy, favor, and intrigue.
If she believed that theory, then what she’d done in the corridors last night was wrong.
Yet it was not. She’d defended Her Radiance.
Her Host. Not only that, but Attendants who stood in each others way were dispatched.
Their lives were meaningless. Empty. Only important for as long as they could serve.
Her brow furrowed.
Everything she knew of the world could not coexist with what Her Radiance had shown her. Not with how His Quintessence treated his Sokar either. None of it made sense.
She exhaled slowly, silently, and pressed one hand to her chest.
Safe to report: His Quintessence shows the Sokar favor.
Not safe to report: This Nameless feels strange when His Quintessence speaks like this. And when Her Radiance smiles.
Reflection: When Her Radiance smiles…
It makes me wonder if I am more than Hands.
As His Quintessence moved toward the chamber entrance, Lu’ma stepped back with silent precision to avoid startling him.
Their eyes met in the antechamber. The Resh’Agar’s gaze sharpened, noting the hem of her robe.
Something else caught his attention, too, though Lu’ma couldn’t fathom what that might be.
The warrior in those eyes—the god of battle—returned without delay. Whatever softness had been in his gaze was gone, locked behind iron instinct. He stopped before her, his raptor gaze roaming over each and every inch of her.
“What happened?”
Lu’ma did not flinch at the razor in his tone, keeping her eyes downcast as was appropriate.
Caution: Surprise is inappropriate. This is the Resh’Agar. He has lived for centuries in this city. If anyone can scent blood, he can.
Conclusion: Perhaps now is the time for some truth.
She looked up, met his eyes without fear, and signed simply, 'Your Quintessence. They had Her Radiance’s hair.'
A breath caught in his throat. Not audible. But visible in the way his broad chest expanded and his weight shifted between his booted feet.
The Resh’Agar went still. Absolutely, completely still.
His hand clenched around the edge of his chestplate until the metal whined.
“Was it handled?” he finally asked, voice low.
Lu’ma nodded once. 'Yes. Fully.'
He looked as though he might say more. Might ask how. Might demand names.
But instead, he nodded. And murmured, “You did well.”
Then turned to look back toward the bed, where Auryn lay with one hand curled at her heart, the other still tangled in the folds of her pillow.
“I’ll double her Reskala escort. From now on, Lu’ma, you follow where she goes. No exceptions. If you must, you will cite my Decree.”
Lu’ma did not sign anything in return.
She simply watched him go, the quiet weight of what might have been still lingering in her lungs.