Chapter 18 Lingering Chill #2
He nodded, relieved to move on to topics that were safer than dancing shadows and talking rivers. “The Cycle of Dark is nearly upon us.”
Her face twisted into one of worry. Dread. An ache in his throat spurred him to continue speaking.
“Don’t be afraid. We’ve fought off worse.”
She blinked at him, one brow arching. “I am with you. Why would I be afraid?”
He didn’t answer.
How could he ever admit that he was the one who was afraid?
Instead, he watched her breathe—slow, steady, alive.
For the first time in ten days, he allowed himself to do the same.
Dawn came thin and colorless, a wash of pewter light pressing through the seams of the Commander’s tent.
The rain had eased to a mist; the tent ropes creaked, damp and weary.
Beyond the walls came the small sounds of morning—the clank of mess tins, a cough, the low murmur of a Riftwarden testing the air with his rod, the sharp call-and-answer of a watch change.
Resh was armored, black aethersteel plates catching the dull light like wet stone.
He had strapped the last buckle twice and still hovered—half-turned to the entrance, half-fixed on the narrow shape beneath the blankets.
He’d told himself he would take first perimeter, swing by the cookfires, bring back broth and bread before she even stirred.
But, true to form, Auryn opened her eyes and subverted his plans before he could set them in motion.
She sat up and blinked at him from a nest of mussed silver hair.
Not with the fever’s glassiness from the night before—clearer.
The change hit him like a blade pulled free of a sheath; the relief nicked as it slid.
“Hunger,” she murmured, voice sleepy-soft but certain. “I remember that.”
“I’ll bring food.” He was moving before the words finished, the decision trimmed and sharpened. “You’ll stay—”
She slid off the bed.
It was not graceful. Her feet found the canvas floor, and the world tilted; she caught herself on the bedframe with a small hiss, breath held, lips pressing thin as a tremor ran through her calves.
He was there in a blink, his hands closing around her forearms—not hard, not quite gentle, precisely enough to bear her weight without shifting her balance.
“Auryn,” he said. Warning and plea both.
She lifted her chin. “I’m awake. And hungry. And if I stay still any longer, I’ll forget how to breathe.”
“You can forget how to breathe at breakfast as easily as here.” It was dry, but the edges of his voice gave him away.
One of her brows arched, amused despite her pallor. “You intend to feed me in bed?”
“If necessary.”
“I prefer to walk.”
Of course she did.
She prefers the river when it floods, too. He tamped the thought down, measuring her breath, the way her freckles still hid from the light, the quiver in the fingers curled to hold the bedframe. Too slow. Too cold. Too recently gone.
“I have conditions,” he decreed at last.
Her eyes glinted. “Conditions?”
“Warm clothing,” he said, reaching for the stack he’d set aside in the night; a soft linen shift, wool leggings, thick socks, the dark tunic with the inside seams he knew wouldn’t scratch her skin, a cloak lined in fur.
He set the boots last, heavy as obligation.
“Shoes. Cloak. And you take my arm. If you sway, we turn back. If you stumble, I carry you.”
“That sounds rather final.”
“It is.”
She looked down at the neat pile he’d prepared, something like laughter ghosting her mouth. “You chose these.”
“Yes.”
“You fastened your greaves twice,” she said, head tilting. “And then you laid out a pair of your socks like a battle plan.”
“With you, footwear is war.” He paused, awkward. “They’re spares. From my pack.”
She made a sound of amusement. “I didn’t expect you would give me used ones.”
That traitorous heat burned at his ears again. “Mine keep heat better than the ones you had before. Special wool from the Shivering Vale.”
“They look comfortable.” She touched the thick material. “Kailorien…did you warm these by the hearth?”
“It’s nearly Dark, and mornings carry frost.” He refused to be embarrassed by the truth of it. “Sit.”
She did and he knelt to pull the socks over her chilled feet. Her skin was still too cool.
“Auryn…your body is always cold to the touch. Is this…a sign of illness?”
She tilted her head. Shook it. “I am always cold. I think it is just part of what I am.”
He rubbed her calves briskly, careful to warm without chafing, then braced her heel to slide the leggings up, the tunic next.
His hands knew armor; they learned cloth with the same precision.
When her fingers fumbled at the tie of the cloak, he covered them with his own and finished the knot.
Did not look at her mouth. Absolutely did not look at the slender hollow of her throat or think about the way her breath brushed his knuckles.
“You treat me like stardust in a jar,” she observed, though he couldn’t read the tone of her words.
“You are,” he said evenly. “For now.”
Her smile flickered, not offended—seen. She reached, unthinking, and set her palm at the center of his breastplate where his runes lay quiet beneath. The contact sang against the metal. He could feel the shape of her hand as if the onyx were his own skin.
“I am not the river,” she murmured. “You don’t have to hold me back from the banks.”
“I don’t intend to hold you back.” He rose, fastening the last clip of her cloak. “I intend to keep you walking along them.”
Her eyes crinkled, soft mischief sparking.
“Boots,” he said, deadpan, because if he met that mischief too directly, he would lose the morning.
She let him guide her heel into the first boot, then the second. When he tightened the laces, she watched his fingers. He pretended not to notice. He slid her gloves on, then his own gauntlets, flexed his hands once and offered his arm.
She took it, small and sure, like the gesture had always belonged to them.
“Slow,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” she answered. “I’ll stay in my jar for today.”
They stepped to the tent flap. The morning pressed cool and damp against their faces, smelling of wet grass, mud, and woodsmoke.
The sky was a low lid of cloud; the light had the flat tone of the Emerald Moores just before the Cycle of Dark deepened.
A Riftwarden stood twenty paces away with his rod lifted, the copper rings along it trembling to some note only he heard.
Auryn’s gaze lingered on him, but she followed when Resh tugged her along.
Farther off, women of the Blades ran a slow set, drills softened for the mud. The scouts’ horses steamed in the chill, heads down in feed bags.
Conversation hushed as they emerged. Men glanced, then looked away with studied care: a hand brushing a charm at a throat, a thumb across a scar, a coin passed from palm to palm and tucked into a pocket as if it might find its way to her later.
The word that was not a word moved through the air like breath—Sokar—and died before it reached her feet.
The hair along his nape lifted.
Not a symbol. Not for you.
He straightened unconsciously, an extra inch of height, the authority that could scatter attention when he chose.
Auryn’s fingers tightened on his arm with a pulse of gratitude—whether for his steadiness or the air itself, he could not say.
Her eyes had a thin sheen of brightness; the walk from bed to door had taxed her more than she’d admit.
“Food,” he said, to anchor the moment.
“Food,” she echoed, softer, as if the word were a blessing.
They moved toward the nearest cookfire at a measured pace.
He matched her stride to the rise and fall of her breath, shaving the distance into small, even pieces she could manage.
Twice she tilted, and twice his arm readjusted before the sway became a stumble.
At the fire, the cook—a broad woman with ash on her cheek and a scar splitting one brow—looked up, startled, then broke into a grin she tried and failed to contain.
“Morning, Commander. Morning, my Lady.” The last word came out half-swallowed, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed it. “Porridge is on. Broth if you want the thinner. Bread’s fresh.”
“Broth,” Resh said promptly. “And the bread.” He scanned the ladles, the bowls, the heat of the coals. “Not too hot.”
Auryn hid a smile against his arm. “Not too hot,” she repeated obediently, then lifted her attention to the cook. “Thank you.”
The woman’s grin went shy at once. She wiped a hand on her apron that didn’t need wiping. “Glad to see you up, miss. Had us all whisperin’ to the wards, we did. The men’ve missed your blessings in the evenings.”
Resh frowned. He sensed the small mental movement Auryn made—her natural tilt toward kindness like a flower to sunlight.
She would have volunteered to resume the countless rounds she made about camp despite her illness.
Sure enough, she opened her mouth to offer.
His forearm tensed under her hand, a minute pressure: not now.
Her lips closed again around a private smile. She inclined her head to the cook instead. “I’m certain the whispers must have helped guide me back.”
Bowls were passed around. Steam blurred the air between them.
Resh took both, handed one to her only when he’d tested the edge with his breath and deemed it safe.
She sat on the low bench beside the fire, tucked small and cloaked, boots planted.
He stood for a moment, watching her, then forced himself down to sit as well, his armor making a quiet complaint against the wood.
“Eat,” he said.
She did, slow and steady. After a few mouthfuls she lifted her eyes, silver bright in the gray. “You were going to fetch this for me.”
“Yes.”
“And yet here I am.”
He took a measured sip of his own broth. “Yes.”
“Victory,” she said, very solemnly.
One corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Conditional victory.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “And yet I’ve proven my jar is sturdier than you feared.”