Chapter 6 Syrrah
Syrrah
The seas belong to the wind, the land to the wolves, and the sky to the Gods. But a Raider takes what they will and asks permission of none.”
— INSCRIBED ON THE BONES OF THE DEAD AT THE BATTLE OF THE TIbr SEA
Heat floods my cheeks at Rooke’s question. I busy myself with the waterskin, trying to hide my embarrassment, but his soft chuckle tells me I’m failing miserably.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, his voice gentler than I’ve heard before. “I can assure you, I’ve stolen many a fair maiden’s kiss.”
His words sink into my chest like a splinter, sharp and unexpected.
He’s kissed women before. Will kiss women after.
Of course he has. So why does the thought unsettle me? I have no claim to him. I don’t want one. Can’t want one.
I hand back the waterskin, finally meeting his gaze. “I told you—healers must remain pure. It’s one of our most sacred vows.”
“And what a waste that is.” He moves closer, his presence making my pulse quicken. “Though I must say, for someone so pure, you learn remarkably fast.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Not at all.” His finger traces my jawline, featherlight. “I’m admiring. You’re incredibly responsive, Syrrah. And there’s something intoxicating about knowing I’m your first taste of freedom.”
A shiver runs through me, an unwilling, traitorous response. The warmth of his touch lingers, seeping beneath my skin, settling low in my belly. My breath stutters, my pulse betraying me, hammering just beneath where his fingers brushed.
It’s nothing. A meaningless touch. But my body doesn’t seem to know that.
Heat pools at the base of my spine, curling, twisting, dragging me toward him in ways I don’t fully understand. I don’t want this. I don’t want to feel this.
I step back, breaking the connection, shaking off the hold he nearly had over me. “Is this how you convince all your maidens? With pretty words and gentle touches?”
“Only the interesting ones.” His grin turns wicked. “Is it working?”
“No. You remind me of a peacock preening for compliments.”
His laughter is rich and full-bodied, like the finest wine poured straight from an ancient cask. “Ouch,” he says, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “So, I’m all feathers and no substance?”
“I’m saying you’d make a lovely centerpiece,” I reply, tilting my head, giving him a slow, assessing once-over. “Something to admire before carving up and serving with a side of roasted root vegetables.”
His grin turns sharp, wolfish. “If you want a taste, Innocence, all you need do is ask.”
A spark of heat flares in my chest—not from his words, but from the confidence in them. The certainty, as if he knows it is only a matter of time before I’ll ask.
I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms. “You speak as if you’re well practiced in such things. Strange, given how rare women are in your world. How exactly have you kissed so many if there are so few to go around?”
His grin deepens, a glint of mischief flashing in his eye.
“You see, Syrrah,” he says smoothly, “some men win their fortunes with brute force, others through careful strategy.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “And then there are men like me—who rely on charm, quick hands, and the occasional well-timed getaway.”
Something about the way he says it—the way the words roll off his tongue like truth dipped in honey—makes my stomach tighten.
“So, you’re a thief then?” I ask, arching a brow.
“If you insist on putting labels on things.” He reaches up as if to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, though he never quite touches me.
A deliberate move, leaving just enough space for me to decide if I want him closer.
“I am known as a Raider. But from women I steal only moments. Only memories. And only when freely given.”
A ridiculous, arrogant answer. And the worst part is… I don’t think he’s lying.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, looking away, pretending I don’t notice his smirk.
He steps closer, voice dropping into something dark and teasing. “You enjoy it.”
A blush creeps up my neck, hot and unrelenting.
I hate how easily he unsettles me, how he wields charm like a blade, cutting through the quiet, orderly life I’ve always clung to.
He is chaos personified, wild and unpredictable, and yet there’s something magnetic about him, something I can’t look away from even though I know I should.
I lift a brow, pretending unaffected boredom. “Maybe I just like playing with my food.”
His eye darkens with amusement, and his grin slips, becoming primal in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. “Promises, promises.”
My breath catches, and for a moment, the world tilts on its axis.
Everything about him feels too big—his presence, his words, the weight of his gaze pressing against me.
I should turn away. I should say something sharp and clever, discourage this flirtation before we stray into a path I cannot pull back from.
But I don’t. Because deep down, a small, treacherous part of me wonders what it would feel like to fall. To leap into the unknown and let him catch me—or let him ruin me completely.
He leans in, his breath mingling with mine as he stops but an inch from my lips.
“Shall we kiss once more?”
I want to. How I want to.
“My vows,” I murmur, fighting to keep from swaying toward him. “I—”
A scraping of stone echoes its way toward us.
Rooke jerks back, his hand moving to the sword at his hip. We both freeze, straining to hear. After a beat he relaxes, though his hand remains on the sword’s hilt.
“Come,” Rooke says, pressing his other hand to my back. “Let’s leave this Gods-cursed place before something decides to play with the both of us.”
We move forward, walking through the caves. The torch casts dancing shadows on the walls, but I notice the darkness becoming less absolute—hints of natural light must be filtering down from somewhere ahead.
We walk for some time before Rooke breaks our easy silence.
“Tell me about your world. What was your life like, before all this?”
I trace my fingers along the rough cave wall, gathering my thoughts. “I was given to the healing temple when I was seven, after my mother and brother died. Father said it was an honor, but….” I swallow hard. “I think he couldn’t bear to watch another child grow only to risk losing them too young.”
“So he locked you away instead?”
“It wasn’t like that. Not exactly.” But even as I defend it, I hear the hollowness in my words. “The temple is beautiful. Gardens full of healing herbs, libraries of ancient texts, halls where we learned to mend both body and spirit.”
I pause, leaning closer to the cave wall to examine some moss.
“But?” Rooke prompts.
“But we were kept apart from the world. No festivals, no markets, no….” I hesitate, remembering the sounds of laughter and music drifting over the temple walls on feast days. “No life. Just endless lessons and rules and vows. May I have your dagger?”
He hands it over. “What kind of vows?”
I gently pry the moss from the wall, considering how to explain my former reality.
“Purity of body and spirit. No marriage, no children, no physical contact beyond what’s needed for healing.
” The words taste bitter now. “Male healers are free to marry, to have families. But women must remain pure to maintain our connection to the healing God.” I catch the moss as it falls, cushioning it in my hand.
“In some places women are forbidden from joining the order. We’re seen as lesser beings, unworthy of the knowledge of the Gods. ”
Rooke is quiet, and when he speaks again, his voice holds no trace of his usual teasing. “And now you’re here, where those Gods and men can’t see you. Where their rules don’t bind you.”
“Yes.” The word comes out barely above a whisper. I hand him back the knife. “Thank you.”
He waves me off. “Keep it. You never know when it might be useful.”
I hesitate, unsure of where to put it. Gently, he takes it from me.
“Allow me.” He crouches at my feet, pulling a thick leather strap from his pocket, he gently winds it around my leg, attaching the dagger’s sheath to me.
His touch is confident but kind, warm, and soothing. Goose bumps rise along my skin as he lingers, testing the tightness of his bind.
“Does it frighten you? Knowing you’re here where your rules don’t matter.” He glances up. “Or does it excite you?”
I meet his gaze. “Both, I think.”
His smile is gentle, understanding. “Life is full of choices, Syrrah. Here, you’re free to make them for yourself.
” He stands and reaches out, his fingers ghosting over my cheek.
“Whatever path you choose—whether it follows your vows or breaks them completely—it should be your choice. Not your father’s. Not your Gods’. Yours.”
His words wrap around me like a warm cloak, but they’re heavy too, weighted with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to face. My choice? The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying. I’d never been given that kind of freedom before—not in the temple, not with my father, not anywhere.
A part of me balks at the idea, instinctively reaching for the familiar comfort of rules and routines, for the certainty of a life lived within boundaries. But then I feel it—a tiny spark, a flickering deep in my chest. A quiet voice I’d buried long ago which whispers, What if?
I look at Rooke, at the man who stands so easily in the space between danger and freedom, and I wonder what it’s like to be so sure of yourself, so unafraid to carve your own path. Could I be like that?
My heart beats faster, and for the first time, I don’t know if it’s from fear or hope. Maybe both.
“You were kept in a cage, Syrrah. Sacred or not, it was still a cage.” He leans against the cave wall, his eye reflecting the torchlight. “Maybe this is your chance to decide who you want to be without all those rules binding you.”
“Tell me about your sister,” I say, changing the subject away from the temptation his words invoke.