Chapter 15 Silver Hush
Silver Hush
Morning light filtered soft and gray through the seams in the Commander’s tent, brushing over Kailorien’s bare shoulders where he lay. Another dawn bought with blood and fortune, leaden and silent in its arrival. The hush held everything in suspension. Even the dust motes dared not move.
He hadn’t slept.
All night, his scar kept him awake with its incessant itching; the battle and the use of his runes likely aggravating it.
Auryn, curled against him for warmth, hadn’t stirred once through the night. His arm was still wrapped around her; the book he’d been pretending to read had long since slipped to his thigh. His muscles ached from remaining half-tensed, too afraid to move and wake her.
She looked like peace carved in moonlight—untouchable, undeserved, and his to protect.
Carefully, he slid his arm away and sat up, pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes. The ache in his bones was familiar—post-battle weariness—but something deeper gnawed beneath it. Something that hadn’t come from war.
He glanced at her again. Her breath was slow. Measured. But when he tucked the blanket higher over her shoulders, he paused. Her skin was cold. Not alarmingly so. But enough to make him hesitate. Frown.
She must be worn thin. Any mage would be. Closing that rift…Void, I’ve never heard of anything like it.
His fingers reached out of their own accord, brushing silver strands from her cheek.
She didn’t stir. Didn’t so much as flinch.
Just lay there, soft and silent, as if she hadn’t mended the very fabric of the sky the day before.
As if she hadn’t ridden Astenos into a storm and jumped straight into his arms like she’d known he’d catch her.
She is reckless. And I, undisciplined—for echoing her heart.
He didn’t mean to but before he could stop himself, he bent low and placed a kiss against her temple—featherlight, fleeting. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but lingered like a promise. He stayed close for only a moment, then pulled back, scowling at himself.
I’ve lost my mind.
Since when does the Resh’Agar ache for more than the burn of a brief release?
She isn’t my lover.
She isn’t mine.
But, Void damn it all—I want her to be.
Not my Sokar.
Just my Auryn.
He rose. Dressed in silence—black trousers, boots, loose tunic, bracers, chest plate, a fur-lined cloak to ward off the morning chill.
Just before stepping out, he returned to her side.
She hadn’t moved. Still deep in whatever realm of sleep she’d vanished into.
Resh frowned and reached out again—barely brushing the back of his fingers over her cheek, then the edge of her hand.
The chill in her skin hadn’t eased. If anything, it had worsened.
“You’re quiet when I need you most.”
A pause.
“Speak to me when it counts, hmm?”
He leaned down, resting his forehead to hers for a long, quiet moment. The world could burn outside, but in here, this hush, this stillness—it was everything.
He kissed the corner of her mouth.
Not like before. Not the swift, chaste press of a temple kiss meant to soothe his own nerves.
No—this was slower. A hush of heat brushed just past her lips. Close enough to mean everything. Close enough to be mistaken for nothing if she never woke to feel it.
And his voice—barely audible—broke on the words.
“Rest. I’ll return soon.”
The camp lay hushed beneath the weight of hard-earned victory—the kind that scarred and left no room for song.
The Reskala moved quietly, gathering the varkhounds and their packmothers for burning; their hands sure, their faces grim.
Resh circled the area to help secure fences, settle the horses, and check on the condition of the men.
He walked beside Thessia through the inner ring of wounded, moving with his usual deliberation, every motion taut, efficient, restrained.
She, by contrast, moved like a blade half-drawn—sharp and prepared but not without grace.
Her golden braids swung behind her with each fluid step, and the glint in her violet eyes burned bright.
She helped tend to injuries, distribute rations, and make decisions on assignments and patrols.
“I still don’t know what to call what happened out there,” she muttered, nodding to a healer binding up a wounded scout’s leg. “That wasn’t just a rift. It was like something remembered us.”
Resh grunted in agreement, arms crossed as he watched the binding work. “Didn’t behave like the others. The winds were wrong.”
“The whole rhythm was wrong,” she said. “And I don’t like being caught out of step with something I can’t see.”
They walked on. The ground was uneven here—scarred where the ward anchors had faltered. A few of her warriors straightened as they passed, murmuring quiet greetings. One of the younger Blades stepped forward, cheeks flushed, and held out a carved wooden bead wrapped in silver thread.
“It’s for her,” she said. “The Sokar. We heard she’s resting.”
Thessia accepted it without flinching, slipping it into her satchel. “She’ll be honored.”
They reached the central well, where Thessia paused to refill her flask. “Listen,” she said, wiping her mouth. “We should join forces. At least until Stonewake.”
“More than fifty of you to share our camp, but I don’t have the supplies to feed and mend you,” Resh said.
“We have our own wagon,” Thessia. “My cook’s better than your green kitchen boys anyway. At least she knows how to properly marinade boar.”
Resh raised an eyebrow. “That eager to keep my company, are you?”
She snorted. “Hardly. But something’s shifting. You feel it. The rifts are changing. Quickening. My scouts saw two more opens last night to the north. Small ones, but that’s not the point. Something’s waking up out here, and I don’t think either of us should walk the rest of this stretch alone.”
Resh gave a slow nod. “You’ll follow my orders?”
“Until Stonewake,” she said, then added with a dry smile, “Unless you give one of your patented speeches. In which case, I’ll mutiny.”
Before he could answer, a low voice interrupted them.
“She still asleep?” Zarrek’s voice came from behind—low, even.
When Resh turned, the old warrior’s corded arms were folded tight beneath his cloak, and a smear of soot darkened one cheek. He looked less disheveled than usual, but tension gathered at the corners of his mouth.
Resh tilted his head. “She’s resting.”
Zarrek frowned. “Still?”
“She overextended,” Resh said. “Let her sleep.”
Thessia didn’t speak, but her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than necessary.
She pressed her fingers to one of her braids—the one threaded with an odd violet ribbon—then turned, issuing a few quick commands to her Blades, shifting their patrol assignments for the day.
Talia, her Second, called to her from a few paces away.
“Let me know if you need anything,” Thessia said over her shoulder. “Especially if your moonbeam wakes up ravenous. I’m not above bribing her with sweetbread to earn favor.”
“She might take you up on that,” Resh said, then turned back to Zarrek as the woman walked off.
“She usually wakes by now,” Zarrek murmured, watching her go. “She’s not the sleeping kind.”
Resh’s jaw flexed. “She’s earned the rest.”
Zarrek didn’t argue. He just nodded and moved on, but something in his posture had shifted —more alert. More tense. Resh stood alone a moment longer, eyes drawn toward the shaded tent tucked into the crook of the camp—where offerings began to gather like prayers no one dared speak aloud.
Woven charms. Carved stone. Beads of varying colors. A ribbon from a soldier’s braid. Pieces of belief, stacked like a shrine to her silence.
He turned away before the unease could root too deep.
By midday, the wind still carried the stale tang of metal and smoke, but beneath it the camp had begun to breathe again.
Warriors mended gear, whetstones sang, and pots of broth simmered on open fires.
The aftermath of battle always tasted of duty, clotting blood, and exhaustion—but the silence after a rift clung like fog: heavy, pensive, and reserved.
No doubt, the men were still hearing the varkhounds’ voices—the innocents screaming as they were devoured. The faint scent of rot and burning flesh had mostly been carried away on the winds, but the horror of it lingered.
Kailorien moved between tents with methodical purpose.
It had taken most of the day to walk the perimeter of the camp.
His outer coat was unfastened, sleeves rolled past his forearms as he paused at a forge to inspect the warped remnants of a shattered shield.
Thessia stood beside him, jotting something onto a list with ink-stained fingers.
He was grateful for her help in cataloguing damage from the battle.
It freed Zarrek for other much-needed tasks in the Stone and Vanguard wings.
“If your Blades stay merged with my company until Stonewake, we’ll need to coordinate rations, supplies, and patrol shifts,” Resh murmured, handing her a salvaged sword. “I’d prefer your women lead the forward scouting. Our scouts aren’t as efficient.”
Thessia nodded. “They look green.”
“Picked up what we could in the towns along the roads to replenish our ranks. Lost many good men to ambushes and dehydration in the recent pass through the Flatlands. Menders couldn’t keep up. Reskala have runes to help them survive, but those in the Anvil wing are…” He searched for the right word.
“Human?” Thessia chuckled.
His eyes cut to her, cool as steel. “Fragile.” He looked around them. “Some have traveled with us more than a decade. Reskala age, but not like this. One blink and suddenly they bear wrinkles and gray hairs.” He glanced at Thessia. “Only six years have passed, and yet you look—”
Her grin turned wistful. “That’s how us mortals are, Shadeslayer. Not all of us can move through centuries and wear them as well as you.” She tilted her head. “Though our moonbeam is right. You do have wrinkles between your brows.”
He smiled at that. “It’s this Surface air. Bad for the skin.”
His words must have triggered a stray memory, for her own smile faded quickly. “This last Cycle of Fire was unforgiving,” Thessia frowned. “We had to hunker down in Maradryn for a while. Couldn’t risk traveling in the heat.”
Resh glanced at the sky. “This Dark comes too quickly. It shouldn’t have gotten cold this early. And the rifts…”
“We’ve seen more anomalies opening in pairs,” Thessia said, her tone clipped but respectful. “Whatever this last one was, it wasn’t isolated.”
He nodded. “Then we stay merged.”
As she turned to distribute orders, Zarrek appeared at his side, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“How’s the little star?” he asked without preamble. “Men are asking.”
“Still resting,” Resh said, raising a brow.
Zarrek’s expression didn’t change. “All day? Did she eat? Bathe?”
Resh sighed. “She ate last night. Why?” he asked, sharper than he meant.
“Because nobody’s seen her. And because I know you.
You would’ve mentioned it if she’d woken so I could watch her.
She’s usually up by now, singing and pattering around, staying busy,” Zarrek remarked, casting a glance toward the edge of the camp where the Commander’s tent swayed lightly in the wind.
Resh didn’t look up. “Let her sleep. She’s earned it.”
But his gaze flicked eastward anyway.
Later, while sparring with Zarrek behind the quartermaster’s tent, the clang of training dulled into background noise as a young stable hand trotted over, hesitating at the edge of the ring.
“Commander? Sorry—um. It’s just…The Sokar didn’t come this morning,” the boy blurted. “She usually brushes the dapple-gray with the hoof scarring. He won’t let the handlers close and gets skittish without her.”
Resh’s blade halted mid-swing. “The dapple-gray? He’s acting up?”
“Yes, sir. And some of the others were wondering if she’s still teaching ward-scribing after dusk. She promised a few of them another lesson.”
A muscle in Resh’s jaw ticked. How long had this been going on?
“Tell them to wait.”
He resumed the drill, but there was a crack forming. He felt it.
Just after midday, a woman in Thessia’s colors approached him near the mess lines. He didn’t recall her name.
“Pardon, Commander. The Sokar hasn’t been by the triage post today.”
Resh frowned at the title.
This is getting out of control. Everyone is making assumptions, and I need to stop it before this spreads like a disease.
“Why is she expected there?” he asked.
“She’s been sitting with the wounded every evening—reading letters, listening to prayers.”
“She isn’t the Sokar,” he said flatly. “She’s not trained. She doesn’t even believe in the Doctrine.”
The woman smiled, undaunted. “She listens, and her smile and kindness give hope.”
His stomach twisted. Footsteps to his right—Thessia approached, a hand on her hip, her gaze wary.
“I brought her honeyed rice,” she finally said. “Thought she might rouse for something sweet. But she didn’t stir. Didn’t move a muscle.”
A beat. Heavy. Pointed.
“Resh,” Thessia said, “is her skin normally that cold?”
His expression darkened.
“She’s fine,” he said, more to himself than to her.
Thessia held his gaze. “If you believe that, go check for yourself.”
Silence.
Resh took a breath.
Then another.
That sinking feeling he’d ignored all day twisted like a blade in his gut—deep and merciless.
Without another word, he turned and strode back toward the tent.
Measured steps, because she was just resting.
Then faster, because what if she wasn’t?
And then he was running—
Sprinting—
Because, suddenly, he knew:
He had been wrong.