Chapter 8 In Reverence
In Reverence
Iam Auryn’reh Solah, and when I wake, the skies call to me. They tell me of their sorrows, but not the past that molded them. And so, I help the world remember its shape, though I do not yet know my own.
I see dreams. I learn to fear the dark. Emotion is something unintended. A thing not meant for me. And yet, it lingers in the sound of his breath. The Resh’Agar. Kailorien. The man who found me in the ice and shaped me into this thing called “Auryn”.
If a man is what he is. Men do not have shadows that dance beneath their feet. Men are not made of light the way he is. Men do not have his blazing azure eyes or his endless mana.
But he does.
And he intrigues me.
Today, dawn arrives with silent steps. I sit up, blinking into the misty morning light spilling through the canvas seams of the Commander’s tent. I touch the empty bed beside me. Kailorien’s absence is like an aching wound beneath my ribs. Empty. Hollow.
His warmth has long faded from the blankets. Off to tend to the camp. Off to keep his silent vigil. A mountain, never sleeping, never resting—his presence alone so powerful, so massive, that the world itself whispers his name.
Resh’Agar.
Kailorien.
And something else. Something I want to call mine but have no right to.
The voices calling from the clouds speak of a will as clear as crystal.
I am not meant to want. I am not created to keep.
Ennea sculpted my feet to deliver me into the hands of a different fate. Something I do not yet understand.
I was never meant to find Kailorien. Or Zarrek. Or the Kelvasari.
But I can’t regret it—I won’t.
How could I ever regret meeting him?
How could I regret seeing this world, breathing it, walking it?
I take a breath and smooth my hand over the spot where Kailorien usually lays beside me.
We’d started doing so some weeks ago. Only natural, I would think, for a creature shivering from cold to seek a source of warmth.
He has plenty to spare as a sun wearing mortal skin, and so he should share it with me.
With this small body, I do not take up enough space to cause him discomfort, though the first night I joined him he was so tense he nearly turned to stone.
Or perhaps his unease comes from something else. That scar on his nape he’s always scratching. Weeks have passed, and he still hasn’t slept. Not once. Those glowing blue eyes always see the world and keep it. Shouldering its weight.
I imagine him moving through the camp as he always does, his steps calm and measured, his sharp gaze missing nothing.
Taking care of his warriors. Ensuring the Kelvasari continue their journey in safety.
When I see them, I see shapes, outlines, mana wells, the runes the warriors have carved into their skin.
Their faces do not stay with me. But Kailorien knows each one by name, and if I follow him and listen, sometimes I remember faces too.
A folded cloth on the bedside table with dried fruit beside it catches my eye. A flask of heated water, tucked just close enough to reach without stretching.
And a note.
‘Don’t forget to eat. Wear your shoes.’
My heart squeezes in my chest. An emotion I haven’t yet learned to name.
I take a breath. Wrap my arms around my body.
Kailorien always inspires little flutters in my chest and stomach.
Nothing else—no one else—makes me feel this way.
Not the winds when they sing. Not the magic humming beneath my feet.
Not even the blue of the open sky can rival this sensation.
The rays of daylight on the floor sing of time passing too quickly. I should go to the training field. The warriors will be sparring there, and I like to watch the archers make their arrows fly. Instead, I linger—delayed not by intention, but by something quieter. A hush in my ribs.
I slide off the bed and wander the tent, feet silent on the fur-lined ground. Kailorien’s space is immaculate. Spare. Neat, but not cold. I trace the edge of a carved chair with my fingers, pausing beside his desk. The Commander’s log is open to the last filled page.
With a thrill, I sit to read his latest entries. They’re dry. Factual. Reports on stocks, supplies, morale, weather. But I read every word, tracing the elegant loops and turns of his handwriting with my fingertips, confirming his dedication to his duty and his men with each pass.
And then I see it. A torn page, tucked into the back binding. Folded once. Creased with wear. Curious, I pull it free. The paper is different—thicker, softer than his other logs. I recognize the penmanship of course—his hand.
But this isn’t a report. It isn’t a list or a map or a letter to his allies. This is—
I unfold it.
My eyes move across the page:
I have torn nations apart with less want than I feel for her breath against my skin.
I have laid claim to bodies, to thighs slick with devotion, to mouths that begged to be filled. With my essence, my hands, my lust. And so I gave it—gave all of me—because I was bred for that kind of worship.
I am the Resh’Agar.
I was made to be wanted. Used.
It was natural to use them all in turn. For the burn, for the blood, for the blessed moment of silence after release, when the ache dulled enough to make me forget who I was.
But this ache?
It doesn’t dull.
It grows. Quiet. Endless.
Unbearable.
She tied a ribbon in my hair with fingers that didn’t tremble. Stood between my knees like she owned all of me. Looked into my eyes without fear of the madness within. Touched it like it wouldn’t burn her.
And Void, I wanted to take her. To bite the ribbon off with my teeth and press her down, bend her lithe body against the table and worship her with my mouth until her breath came in gasps.
Until she begged for me to mark her, stretch her, fill her.
Until her body trembled and the starlight in her voice fractured into bliss.
Not to own. Not to keep.
But to be mine. My altar. My shore. My peace.
Because I have lived a thousand years without ever being touched like this. Not skin to skin. Not breath to breath. But soul to soul.
The innocence in her eyes is my undoing. For she doesn’t understand what she is. What she does to me. And so I will not touch her. Not yet. Because if I take her before she knows… before she chooses me with eyes wide open—then I have not claimed her. I’ve only stolen something sacred.
And I would rather burn for eternity than harm the one thing that ever made me feel whole.
I was bred for desecration. Destruction.
But not her. I will not break her.
I would rather break myself.
I think I may already be…
My heart pounds in my ears.
I read it again. And again. Until the words blur. Raw. Sacred. Intimate in a way that steals the air from my lungs.
I close my eyes. Picture the moment when I stood between his knees, ribbon trembling in my fingers, his gaze searing through me. The heat of him. The weight of his wanting.
I gave him that ribbon to ease the ever-present loneliness in the only face I can consistently remember. To remind him of his true name and its purpose. To show him that his duty and his will are separate things, and that keeping one does not erase the other.
But what I stepped into was altogether different.
Again, the memory consumes me. The heat. The want. The yearning.
I wrap my arms around my body. Imagine his scarred hands sliding up my sides, pinning me in place. His mouth lowering to my ear. His voice a velvet rumble saying—
Beg for me, starlight.
My head falls back, and I gasp a desperate breath. My knees give way. I crumple to the floor, breathless, trembling. The page drifts down beside me—so very loud in its stillness, the elegant script looping my undoing into the parchment’s weave.
With shaking hands, I catch it. Clutch it.
Read it again.
And again.
Trying to understand. Trying to make sense of it all. My skin throbs. My breasts ache where coarse fabric brushes, each movement unbearable.
Auryn, beg for me.
I bite my knuckle to keep from crying out.
A tide swells in my belly—relentless, rising—until it threatens to break me apart.
The way he looked at me only nights ago, his gaze tracing my face as though trying to memorize every line.
The way his hand always moves toward me without thought.
How he sets food before me without comment.
How he tucks warmth into my space and then draws back, as if to keep from scaring me away.
As though looking at a woman, and not at a relic of the ages. He sees me. Has seen me for longer than I’ve known how to look.
My fingers shake as I fold the page with utmost care, tucking it into my satchel—nestled beside the old comb he’d bought me from a traveling merchant, and the little metal cup from Brackenrood. Mundane things. Small. Insignificant. Yet mine.
My entire body pulses with each heartbeat, breath shuddering as though I might suffocate if I don’t step outside for fresh air. This instant.
I dress, hands clumsy on buttons and ties, braid slipping through my fingers.
On the bedside table, I spot a strip of cloth, once black and gold, now worn gray with age. His hair tie. Still breathless, I tie off my braid with it.
A piece of him. Of earth. Of stillness.
It does not ease the ache. It does not quiet the hunger.
But it lets me breathe.
Just long enough to step into the new day.
Outside, the ground shakes.
I feel the tremors before I hear the chaos of discordant voices—a low, rhythmic thud, like massive feet pounding the earth in fury. Then, shouting. Steel clashing. A scream—animal, guttural, primal.
It’s beyond the nearest hill. Breathless, I run toward it. Branches lash against my arms as I push through underbrush, boots slipping in the soft soil. When I crest the hill, I looked at the clearing below, my eyes flying wide at the sight of the Reskala warriors fighting something monstrous.
A boar.