Chapter 44
Amara
Daed and I return to the village, and I feel closer to him than I ever have before.
Something in him has changed quietly, profoundly.
It’s as if he has finally found the key to his prison, the one forged of guilt and grief and wrath, and stepped free of it at last. The weight that once bent his shoulders has lifted.
My dark prince, who once wore his sorrow like armor, now walks in the light.
Ronin once told me that love cannot exist without trust. I hadn’t wanted to listen then. I hadn’t wanted to admit that I, too, harbored doubt. But now, walking beside this beautiful Fae who has laid every scar, every sin bare before me, I understand.
Because I do trust him.
The vine wall parts for me with a whispering sigh, leaves brushing over one another like tongues of silk.
It seals behind us with a soft groan. The Tenders bow as we pass, their eyes lowered to the ground, their reverence a weight I can feel pressing against my skin.
None turn their backs until I am gone from sight.
Once, I was their Jewel of the Tenders. Their Sister of the Vine.
A guide, a guardian. But this… this is something else entirely.
I have only ever seen such reverence given to the Souls of the Forest themselves.
Is that what they see when they look at me now?
Something godlike? The thought makes me shudder.
I will not let them think of me as anything more than what I am. So I smile. I reach out. I touch their hands and speak their names, reminding them, and myself, that I am still Amara. I will always be Amara. Especially to my people.
We reach the courtyard, and Daed turns to me, his hands resting gently on my shoulders.
He lifts my chin with a knuckle, and for a moment I’m caught by the way the sunlight breaks behind him, gilding the dark waves of his hair.
It always looks strange to me when it’s dry, untempered by rain or battle.
“I will gather the Fae,” he says, his touch trailing along my neck as he brushes my hair over my shoulder, lingering on the two crescent-shaped marks.
I nod, but my thoughts have drifted elsewhere. He notices it. His gaze sharpens. “What is it?” he asks quietly. “What do you need?”
“There is more healing I need to do,” I say at last, my head turning towards a cottage across the village.
He follows my gaze. His jaw tightens. “Reon will be grateful to see you, but Ronin...” Daed exhales. “Part of me wonders if I should’ve cut his throat instead of the ropes. Released him from the pain.”
I shake my head. “No. Not when I can take the pain away.”
“You’re really going to heal him?” Daed asks.
“I must.”
Daed’s eyes narrow, searching mine. “After all that human has done to you? After everything he took from you, you would still bless him with your gift?”
He takes my hands gently, his thumbs tracing slow circles over the delicate skin of my wrists. I do not let him see what that touch does to me, the dizzying sweep of warmth that climbs up my arms and pools low in my stomach.
“You are one to talk,” I murmur, lifting a brow. “You saved his life, did you not?”
His frown deepens, the realization dawning slowly across his face.
“Besides,” I continue, voice softer now, “another warrior to face Gygarth is not something we can afford to waste. Especially one as skilled as Ronin.”
Daed scoffs, the sound low and rough. “Let’s not get too poetic. He’s adequate at best.”
I squeeze his fingers, smirking despite myself. “Estra deserves every soul brave enough to fight for her. Even the adequate ones.”
He turns his head, reluctant as ever. “Of course she does,” he mutters.
So I pinch his hand, a light reprimand. He winces dramatically, even though I know he felt nothing at all.
“Go then,” I tell him, my voice softening. “Rally the Fae. I will join you soon.”
He nods, chin tilted high, ever the proud prince. Still, there’s a touch of sulk in the set of his jaw that makes me want to laugh.
I rise onto my toes, and though he doesn’t meet me halfway, he dips his head just enough.
I press my lips to his cheek, breathe him in, smoke and leather and the faint sweetness of rain.
Even now, beneath the leather and the grit, there is tenderness in him he only lets me see and for all his brooding, my dark prince still melts against my touch like wax to flame.
“As you wish,” he grumbles.
He walks away, our arms stretching between us, fingers clasping until they finally slip apart. The distance aches more than I expect. I stand there a moment, watching him go, before drawing a slow, steadying breath and turning toward the healer’s cottage.
Vellis stands near the door, refilling a jug from a rain barrel.
She looks older now, more sure of herself, with a yellow flower tucked behind her ear and her warm auburn hair tied half-up, half-down.
Once, she dreamed of becoming a Sister of the Vine, but the Souls never called her name.
So she found her own way to serve, healing not with runes, but with herbs and potions, and perhaps she’s saved just as many lives as those of us who wear the marks.
She dips her head when she sees me approach, nearly dropping the jug in her haste. I step forward quickly and steady it in her hands.
Her cheeks flush. “Sorry, Amara.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I say gently, relieving her of the jug and setting it aside.
She wipes her damp hands on her crinkled apron, voice dropping to a whisper. “Which one were you coming to see? The poor soul with the burns…” she frowns. “Or the one who keeps asking me to marry him.”
I stifle a laugh. “Both,” I reply. “But the one with the burns I fear needs me most.”
She nods. “I was just tending to his wounds again.” She glances toward the door, worry clouding her eyes. “They’re bad, Amara. Very bad. He won’t let me help him.”
“That sounds like him.” My chest tightens, a familiar sting crawling down my spine. I close my eyes briefly. “But I’ll help him, whether he wants it or not. He’s suffered enough.”
Vellis’ brow furrows. “You can… feel it?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I feel everything.”
Her lips part, hesitation flickering in her gaze. “Does it hurt?”
I offer her only a small, polite smile. She doesn’t need to know the truth, that yes, it hurts. It burns. It claws through me like fire, tearing me apart from the inside out. But the pain always fades.
I gesture to the cottage door, and Vellis steps aside.
Inside, the air is heavy, thick with the scent of blood, char, and pain. The curtains are drawn tight, swallowing what little light remains, but even in the dim I can see the shape of him on the bed. Ronin. The Golden Son. The man who was once both my enemy and my ally and now something in between.
I move to Reon first, and when he sees me, his eyes flare with life.
“Gods, you’re here to heal me, aren’t you? Fucking fantastic!” He pauses, tongue pressing into his cheek. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I am thrilled you are alive, Amara. The healing is simply a delightful bonus.”
A tired breath leaves me. Almost a sigh. “You do not have to explain anything, Reon. I know what you did for me. Thank you.”
His face softens, and he discards the arrogance that he wears as well as his armor.
I place my hand on his chest, and he closes his eyes.
I feel his heartbeat, his warmth, the pulse beneath skin as my magic flows into his flesh.
When I am done, he swings his legs over the bed and stands, under his own power, on his own two feet, and he weeps.
Quietly. Stubbornly. He wipes the tears away before they can fall.
I leave him to his dignity and move to the next bed across the room.
From the shadows, his voice rasps. “Leave me the fuck alone, Jewel.”
“Truly?” I arch a brow. “I have been welcomed by all with open arms. Showered with love and adoration. Worshiped as some sort of sacred being, and you tell me to fuck off?”
A pause. “I didn’t say fuck off,” he mutters. “But the sentiment is the same. Leave me alone.”
“No,” I say simply, stepping closer. “You have no power over me, Ronin. You’re in my home now. Surrounded by my people. You make none of the rules here.” I stop at his bedside. “I do.”
He turns his head toward me with a low groan, every movement laced with pain. The effort alone steals his breath and for a moment, I understand Daed’s words more clearly than I wish to. Perhaps death would have been a mercy.
I had known his scars before, those silver lines that carved across his cheek, trailed down his neck and shoulder. But these… these are worse.
The burns are cruel things. Angry, raw welts crawl across his chest and arms, blistered and blackened where the fire stole flesh entirely. Some still glisten, wet, red, weeping, while others have already hardened and cracked like scorched earth.
I follow the path of the flames up his throat, where they claimed the other side of his face. The skin there puckers and pulls, uneven and warped. His lips are split, lashes burned away, and his hair, once gold as sunlight, as bright as the mask he wore, is gone.
The smell of him is the worst part. Burnt skin. Dried blood. Ash and smoke. It clings to the air.
Every breath he takes is a tremor, shallow and rattling, and when his chest rises I see how the skin pulls taut and splits again at the seams, as if his body itself has forgotten how to heal.
For the first time, I wonder if even my gift will be enough.
“I know why you’re here,” he rasps. “Don’t you dare. I’ve never once asked to be saved, and still you deny me the honor of dying on my own terms.”
I don’t answer him. The Souls whisper at the edges of my mind, soft and insistent, their murmurs like wind through leaves. Beneath my bare feet, I feel the pulse of the earth through the floorboards. I step closer.