Chapter 35 #2
I realised then, with a jolt of terrifying clarity, that I wasn't just washing my wife.
I was engaging in a ritual of consecration.
I was reclaiming the sanctuary of her body, not because I owned it, but because for some godsforsaken reason, seeing her in pain hurt me more than the Void within me ever could.
"Come," I said gruffly, breaking the spell before I could say something truly pathetic, like I would burn the world to keep you warm.
I stood and lifted her from the water. She was light, too light, but she didn't flinch this time. She wrapped her arms around my neck, burying her face in my wet shirt.
I carried her out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, ignoring the fact that I was soaking wet, ignoring the fact that I was the Death Heir and she was a Blighted anomaly who showed signs of Life Touch.
Her dress was a ruined, sodden weight clinging to her shivering frame, dripping water onto the rugs. I set her down gently by the bedside, her bare feet disappearing into the thick fur.
I grabbed a dry towel from the warmer, wrapping it around her shoulders and pulling it tight to trap whatever heat she had left.
"Ophelia," I murmured, keeping my voice low, a soft rumble meant to soothe a startled creature. "Can you remove this dress? You need to put on dry clothes, or the chill will take hold. I will not have you getting sick."
She looked up at me, blinking slowly, her movements sluggish and wary, like a hurt animal deciding if the hand reaching out was there to feed or to strike. But then, she gave a tiny, jerky nod, her shoulders slumping as she leaned into the warmth of the towel.
I moved quickly, retrieving a fresh, dry nightgown from the wardrobe.
I placed it on the edge of the bed and then turned my back to her, fixing my gaze on the stone wall.
I intended to let her dress herself. I wanted to give her the dignity of privacy after so many had violated her boundaries.
I stood in silence, listening to the heavy, wet sound of the ruined dress peeling away from her skin and hitting the floor.
"I'm done," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
I turned back. She was clutching the towel to her chest, her skin pale and goose-fleshed, staring blankly at the nightgown on the bed.
She didn't have the strength left to lift her arms. Cursing my own hesitation, I stepped forward.
Privacy was a luxury; warmth was a necessity.
I took the edges of the towel from her trembling fingers.
I didn't look at her body to take; I looked to care.
I patted her exposed arms dry, my touch light, reverent.
I dried her shoulders, moving the cloth over her skin with an agonising gentleness.
Then I saw it.
As the towel shifted in my hands, another massive, dark purple bruise revealed itself on her upper ribcage—a mark of violence that stood out starkly against her porcelain skin.
My jaw ground together so hard my teeth ached. The Void roared in my ears, demanding blood for the blood that had been spilled here. It took every ounce of my will to keep my hands steady, to not shatter the furniture in a blind rage.
I swallowed the fury, forcing my hands to remain gentle as I lifted the dry nightgown. She raised her arms obediently, and I pulled the soft fabric over her head, smoothing it down over her trembling form.
She looked up at me then. There was no trace of her defiance. Her large green eyes were swimming with unshed tears, the adrenaline fading to leave only exhaustion and raw vulnerability.
I didn't say a word. I simply lifted her up again, handling her as if she were made of spun glass.
As I laid her on the bed and pulled the heavy furs over her, she grabbed my hand. Her fingers were warm, contrasting sharply with my perpetual cold.
"Cain?"
"Sleep, Ophelia," I commanded, pulling my hand away slowly, though every fibre of my being wanted to lace our fingers together. "The pain will still be here tomorrow."
And so will I, I added silently as I walked to the chair in the corner of the room, preparing to keep a vigil that would last until the sun rose. And Gods help anyone who tries to wake her.
Hours passed in a haze of healing and silence.
I stood outside the door, listening. The silence that usually permeated the estate had been replaced by a soft, rhythmic breathing I had attuned myself to.
I knocked once and entered.
Ophelia was sitting by the window. She looked better, though her eyes still held the haunted, hollow look of someone who had seen too much darkness.
"I won't ask you what happened in that room," I said, skipping the pleasantries. I placed a small velvet pouch on the table. "I can see the ghosts in your eyes, and I have no desire to make them speak if you are not ready."
She looked at the pouch, then at me. "What is this?"
"I am not the best vessel for comfort," I admitted, my voice stiff. "I am... jagged. If you need compassion, talk to Silas. Or even Friedrik. They have hearts that function properly, even if one is made of stone.”
I gestured to the pouch. "And that. Is a new Scry Stone. It is encrypted to a single frequency."
Her eyes lit up with a fragile hope. "Aemelia?"
"Aemelia," I confirmed. Then, I leaned in, my voice dropping to its usual warning growl to mask the kindness. "If I catch you using it to contact anyone else—Valerius, for instance—I will crush it into dust. Do you understand?"
"I understand," she whispered, a ghost of a smile painting her face as she clutched the pouch like a lifeline. "Thank you, Cain." I turned away, needing to leave before she could see the crack in my armour.
But right before I could reach the door, her small voice took one final stab at my blackened soul. "If it’s alright, I would like to move back into my chambers tomorrow." I didn't trust myself to speak. I just gave a stiff nod over my shoulder and exited the room.
Moments later, from the hallway, I could swear I felt the surge of her Empathy—pure, overwhelming relief. I heard the muffled sound of her sobbing, guarding the door until her sobs turned into the even breathing of sleep.
The peace was broken the following evening by the arrival of Consul Althea.
She swept into the main hall, her official robes trailing like mist. Perched on her shoulder was Vesper, her massive Amethyst owl whose purple eyes blinked with ancient wisdom.
"You look terrible, Cain," Althea noted, her voice unimpressed and clear. "Being a husband seems to be draining you."
"State your business, Althea," I said, not rising from my chair. "I am in no mood for Consortium politics."
"The Consortium is in chaos," she said calmly. "Malathor has vanished. There are rumours... disturbing ones. They say the Death Heir finally snapped." She looked at me, her gaze piercing. "They say you tore a fortress apart for a female you claimed to hate."
"Malathor attempted to steal from me," I said, my voice flat. "I simply corrected his error."
Althea sighed, stroking Vesper’s feathers. "The seat is empty, Cain. There is talk of ascending a new Consul. With your lineage, and display of power... it could be you."
"I do not want the seat," I barked, a flash of genuine anger surfacing. "I do not care about the balance, or the realm, or your petty titles. I just wanted my wife back."
The admission hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
Althea smiled, a small, rare thing. "She has changed you. You are... warmer. It is terrifying." She paused. "I assume Malathor is dead?"
"No," I said, standing up. "Death is a mercy. And Malathor does not deserve my mercy."
I walked toward the dungeon stairs. "Come. I will show you where I keep the trash."
Althea followed me down into the bowels of the estate, past the wards I had reinforced with my own blood.
In the deepest cell, Malathor hung from chains of cold iron.
He was alive, but only just. His mind was shattered, his body a canvas of ruin.
In the corner, Evar, his raven, cowered in a small cage, shivering as Rhana paced around it, batting the metal bars with her tail, and a playful, predatory delight.
Althea looked at the broken Consul, then at me. "You are torturing him."
"Every day," I confirmed, my voice devoid of emotion. I stepped forward, my hand glowing with the sickly violet light of the Death-Touch. "My father taught me that the Death-Touch is a dial, Althea. A spectrum of agony. I am currently teaching Malathor the nuances of setting three."
I reached out, and Malathor screamed—a sound that had long since lost its humanity.
Althea didn't look away. She watched the justice being served, her face hard.
"He betrayed the Treaty," she said softly. "He betrayed us all." She turned to me, placing a hand on my arm. "I will not take this from you, Cain. Keep him. Break him. But know this... the world will come for you eventually."
"Let them come," I said, the violet light reflecting in my eyes as Rhana growled in approval. "I have found something worth burning the world for."