43. The Gift #3
“My statement is unchanged,” she countered. “You are mine. Runes, body,” her fingers stroked along the strong line of his jaw, “bad temper, godlike wrath and all…”
A low sound rumbled from him, part amusement, part warning. His palms feathered downwards then gripped her tight, bracing her hips, holding her close. “Careful, little one. You call a storm with words like that.”
“I’m not afraid of storms,” she murmured, smiling.
He tilted his head, gaze dropping to her mouth. “No. You’re the one who stands in the center of them.”
His thumb traced her hip bone in those tiny circles she’d grown to yearn for.
“Very well. I’ll send a missive—because you ask it. Not for her sake.”
“For her,” Auryn corrected.
His smile deepened, the kind that bared a hint of teeth. “For you. Always for you.”
Kailorien rose without another word, crossing to a tall, narrow case leaning against the wall. The lacquered black finish caught the light, its metal fittings dull with age. A smaller package with intricate wrapping lay on top of it.
“This is for you,” he said, lifting both items into his hands and turning back toward her.
Auryn’s brows arched. “What is it? This looks too big to be a trinket or bauble.”
He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Do you not like my gifts?”
She smiled, mischief lighting her eyes as she glanced towards another wall where a display case stood proud, gleaming with rows of little things—figurines, glass orbs, statuettes, and mysterious magical contraptions.
“If I did not, would I take such good care of them?”
That earned her the slow curl of his mouth, the one that made her pulse stutter. “Then you will take better care of this than anything I have ever given you.”
He set the case on the table, undid the clasps, and let the lid fall open. Inside, nestled in deep midnight velvet, was a bow like no other—sleek, elegant, the curve of its limbs etched with runes that caught the light like frost.
Kailorien turned the case so the velvet caught the lamplight, the long, curved form of the bow gleaming against it.
The wood wasn’t anything she recognized—pale in some places, dark as ink in others, the grain like flowing water frozen mid-current.
Faint runes shimmered beneath the surface, as if part of the wood’s veins.
Her breath caught. “This doesn’t look like the bow the Council decreed for me to use in the Rite.”
“Leave the Council to me,” he said, without a flicker of hesitation. “This is yours now. I commissioned it before their scheming began, but now…” His gaze found hers, unwavering. “Now I know my instinct was leading me to this moment.”
She reached for it, fingertips brushing along the limbs. The surface was warm, the magic inside it humming in her bones.
“It’s made of Roanwood, a tree that only grows beyond the reach of the Shields.
Very sensitive to magic but can only be shaped during certain star alignments,” Kailorien continued.
“The tree will not bend for lesser hours, and the grain won’t hold.
When it does, the wood is especially receptive to magic, glyphing, rune work. Anything you pour into it will stay.”
Her hands closed around it, feeling the bowstring’s taut promise, the perfect balance in the grip.
“It’s…alive,” she whispered.
“It will be,” he said, “in your hands. I drafted the schematic myself—lighter draw weight, suited to your build.”
Auryn tested the draw. It was smooth, the tension singing straight up her arms into her shoulders. No shudder, no give. And the magic beneath the runes?
The Resh’Agar’s.
His magic.
Her eyes stung.
“I don’t have words,” she said.
“I didn’t make it for your words,” he teased.
She hesitated, then unwrapped the second gift. A black kasara spilled into her lap like ink, soft yet sturdy. An archer’s armor. She didn’t unfold it all the way —only far enough to catch the embroidery on the shoulder. The Resh’Agar’s sigil. Sewn in silver thread.
Her throat tightened.
“You have many gowns,” he said, “but your training leathers are worn. I wanted you to have something practical. Durable. Something that’s…yours.”
“You’ve had these made for me all this time?” she asked, her voice quieter now, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the runes sleeping in the grain.
“Even before the Rite was set. I am not a Runetongue like Zarrek, and it took me some time to ensure the bow’s Runesgram was safe.” He paused. “I knew you would need it.”
She looked up at him, brow furrowing. “How could you know?”
His gaze was steady, something unreadable shifting in its depths. “Because I was made to know what you need.”
The weight of that—of him—settled in her chest. She lowered the bow, fingers still curled protectively around it. “It’s perfect.”
“No,” he murmured, stepping closer until the air between them was only heat. “It will be perfect when it’s yours in truth—when it carries your marks, your will, your magic. When it answers to you and you alone.”
Her lips curved. “And if it refuses me?”
“It won’t,” he said, the words edged with that quiet, absolute Kailorien-like certainty that always shook her. “No more than I would.”
Something in the Bond hummed then—an echo between them, bowstring to bowstring, pulse to pulse. She drew in a breath and felt it mirrored in him, the steady rhythm syncing without effort.
Her fingers flexed around the grip. “I’ll make it worthy.”
His hand brushed hers, his thumb lingering over her knuckles before retreating. “You already have.”
The moment stretched, threaded with the low hum of connection, until the soft knock at the outer door broke it.
Lu’ma stepped in, dark eyes taking in the scene. In her hands, a neat stack of correspondence.
She signed, 'Messages, Your Radiance. This Nameless would remind Your Radiance to eat.'
“You haven’t eaten yet?” Kailorien asked, disapproving.
“You were sleeping so peacefully,” she teased. “I’ll eat now. Lu’ma already brought the trays.”
Auryn set the bow back into its velvet cradle with care, her mind still ringing with Kailorien’s words.
Lu’ma placed the missive stack beside her, and Auryn sifted through the envelopes one by one.
Most of them were from the ceremony. Empty compliments, letters to curry favor, offers of Gleams, bribes.
Auryn turned the last envelope in her hands, the familiar Companion stationery catching the light.
The handwriting inside the wax seal was inexperienced—unsteady. She didn’t open it.
Liora. Did she really send me this directly? A Companion reaching out to the Sokar without Zeera’s approval. Foolish girl.
She set it aside, deciding she would read it in the morning. If nothing else, it affirmed her earlier request to Kailorien—the girl would need subtle protection to survive here.
A pair of warm hands settled on her shoulders a moment before soft lips pressed against her ear. Auryn leaned back into Kailorien’s embrace, closing her eyes.
“When you’ve eaten, come to bed,” he murmured.
“Soon,” she promised. “I won’t keep you waiting.”
She watched him cross to the sleeping alcove, the shadows folding around his tall frame as he vanished from her sight.
Lu’ma moved toward the bathing chamber, gathering the towels and empty flasks. Auryn followed, her sleeping robe soft and warm against her skin. She waited until Lu’ma’s hands stilled before speaking.
“Lu’ma,” she asked, “do you fear the Resh’Agar?”
The Attendant’s dark eyes lifted, her face still as stone. She signed without hesitation. 'Yes. Everyone fears the Arm of the Void.'
Auryn frowned. “But you’ve known him for years now. You’ve seen him beyond his fearsome title. Beyond his role in Doctrine. Surely—”
Lu’ma’s hands stilled over the towels. Her signs were slow. Less formal, yet still cautious. 'Yes. And because This Nameless has known him, the fear is greater.'
Auryn blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Lu’ma looked up at her then, dark eyes steady and unreadable.
'This Nameless does not fear what he is.'
A pause.
'This Nameless fears the path on which he leads Your Radiance…and what Your Radiance will give to follow it.'
The signs hung in the warm, fragrant air, heavier than the scent of Sahtra on the walls. The words pressed into Auryn’s chest like a weight she couldn’t shift, even as she told herself she understood neither the fear nor the warning.
But felt it all the same.