Chapter Leora
LEORA
The morning light bathes the room in shades of gold.
I wake to a warmth that has everything to do with the heavy, solid weight of the arm draped over my waist. The air smells of salt, the wild thyme from the garden, and the rich, dark aroma of roasted Kaffa beans.
I shift, turning onto my side.
Imas is asleep.
It is a sight I still cannot reconcile with the Lord I met in the slave market.
Back then, even his stillness was a weapon, a coiled tension waiting to strike.
Now, his face is relaxed, the sharp, predatory lines softened by the first truly peaceful sleep he has likely had in five centuries.
His platinum hair is sprawled across the pillow, a river of silk against the white linen.
His lashes, pale and long, rest against charcoal skin that looks less like armor and more like flesh.
He looks young. He looks mortal.
I reach out, my fingers hovering over the scar on his shoulder—the place where the stone sliced him when he saved my life in the ritual chamber. It is a jagged white line now, a permanent record of the moment he chose me over his god.
His eyes open.
They are not the violet of a storm anymore. They are the violet of the first light of dawn—clear, calm, and utterly focused on me.
"You are staring," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.
"I am memorizing," I counter.
A slow smile spreads across his face. It is a transformation that still takes my breath away. "You have a lifetime for that, wife."
He pulls me closer, burying his face in the crook of my neck. He inhales deeply, his breath warm against my skin. "You smell like the sea."
"And you smell like Kaffa," I say, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Did you start the brew?"
"I did. The silence woke me before the sun." He pulls back to look at me, his thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. "It is still strange. Waking up and hearing only the waves."
"Do you miss it?" I ask, the question a shadow of an old fear. "The power?"
Imas looks at his hand—the hand that used to command shadows, now resting gently on my hip.
"I miss the convenience," he admits dryly. "Lighting a fire with a thought was easier than using flint and steel. But the noise..." He shudders, a subtle ripple of muscle under my hand. "No. I do not miss the screaming."
He sits up, the sheet falling to his waist. His back is a landscape of muscle and old scars, a map of a violent life. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
"Stay," he commands softly. "I will bring the cups."
I watch him walk to the small kitchen area of our one-room house. He moves with the same feline grace he possessed in the high halls of Lliandor, but the predatory edge is gone. He is just a man moving through his home.
He returns with two steaming mugs of earthenware. He hands one to me and climbs back into bed, sitting with his back against the headboard.
We drink in silence. It is a companionable, rich silence, filled with the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams.
"I was thinking," he says, staring into the dark liquid of his cup.
"About what?"
"About the garden." He gestures vaguely toward the open window. "The soil is good. We could plant fire-melons. Or herbs."
"And?" I prod, sensing there is more.
He turns to look at me. His expression is intense, the violet eyes darkening with a specific, possessive heat.
"And I was thinking about the vision I had," he says. "Last night. When I was inside you."
My cheeks heat. The memory of our mating—the desperate, worshipping fervor of it—is still vivid in my blood.
"The child," I whisper.
"A daughter," he says firmly. "With your hair and my skin. Running through the garden."
I smile, shaking my head. "No. A boy. With your eyes and my stubbornness."
Imas frowns, a playful crease appearing between his brows. "A boy would be trouble. If he has your stubbornness, I will never know a moment's peace. He will try to overthrow me by his third winter."
"And a girl wouldn't?" I raise an eyebrow. "If she is anything like her father, she will have the neighborhood boys wrapped around her finger before she can walk."
He laughs. It is a low, rusty sound, one he is still learning how to use.
"Perhaps one of each," he concedes, reaching out to rest his hand on my stomach. The heat of his palm seeps through the thin linen of the sheet. "In time. When we are ready."
"When we are ready," I agree.
I cover his hand with mine. The idea of bringing a life into this world—a world where Dfam and humans can live in peace, where children are not born to be vessels or slaves—fills me with a profound, aching hope.
"Finish your Kaffa," I say, setting my mug on the bedside table. "I want to show you something."
He raises an eyebrow but drains his cup. "What is it?"
"Come outside."
I get out of bed and pull on a simple dressing gown. Imas pulls on his breeches, leaving his chest bare.
We walk out into the garden. It is a wild tangle of green, overgrown and chaotic, but vibrant with life. The sea crashes against the cliffs below, sending a fine mist into the air.
I lead him to a patch of earth near the wall where a single, withered stalk of a Paradise blossom struggles to survive. It is brown and brittle, choked by weeds.
"Watch," I say.
I kneel in the dirt.
Imas stands over me, his shadow shielding me from the sun. "Leora, it is dead."
"No," I say. "It is just lonely."
I close my eyes. I reach for the place inside me where the dam used to be. The Purna magic is there, a well of deep, resonant blue water. It’s not the jagged lightning of Chaos. It is not the crushing weight of Order. It is a connection.
I place my hands on the earth on either side of the withered stem.
I do not command it to grow. I do not force my will upon it.
I feel it.
I feel the dryness of its roots. I feel the exhaustion of fighting the weeds. I feel its faint, thready pulse of life, waiting for a reason to persist.
I push.
I push the memory of the rain in Lliandor—not the gloom, but the life-giving water. I push the warmth of Imas’s skin against mine. I push the feeling of safety.
Live, I think, not as an order, but as an invitation. It is safe to grow here.
My palms tingle. A soft, humming vibration travels up my arms.
"Leora," Imas breathes.
I open my eyes.
The brown stalk is turning green. Color flushes through the plant like blood returning to a limb. The leaves unfurl, stretching toward the sun. A bud forms at the apex, tight and shy, and then, in a burst of accelerated time, it opens.
A brilliant, yellow bloom explodes into existence, its petals vibrant and dewy.
It is life, restored.
I sit back on my heels, exhausted but exhilarated.
Imas drops to his knees beside me. He stares at the flower, then at my hands. He takes my fingers in his, turning them over, inspecting them as if they are artifacts of a lost age.
"You created life," he whispers. "With a thought."
"I just reminded it how to be," I say. "It wanted to live. It just needed help."
He looks at me. The awe in his eyes is terrifying in its intensity.
"You are amazing," he says, his voice thick. "You are the sun. You are the rain."
He pulls me into his arms, crushing me against his bare chest. We kneel there in the dirt, amidst the wild grass and the blooming flower, holding onto each other.
"We won," he whispers into my hair.
The words hang in the salt air.
We did not win a throne. We did not conquer a kingdom. We defeated the narrative that said we had to be enemies. We defeated the god who fed on our pain.
I pull back to look at him. The scars on his body are history. The ring on his finger is a promise. And the man behind the violet eyes is free.
"Yes," I say. "We won."
I stand up, pulling him with me. The sun is higher now, turning the ocean to a sheet of blinding diamonds. The path leads down from our house to the beach, where the world is wide and open.
"Come," I say.
I take his hand. His fingers interlace with mine, a perfect, locking fit.
I do not look back at the dark elf lord he was, nor the slave girl I used to be. They are the past, left behind in the shadows of the north.
I look at Imas. I look at the light.
"Where are we going?" he asks, a smile touching his lips—a smile that belongs only to me.
"Forward," I say.
I squeeze his hand, and together, we walk out of the garden and into the sun.