Chapter 13 #2
Eris caught her mother’s wrists, steadying them, pressing them gently against her own skin.
“I’m here, Mother. And I’m fine,” she said, softly.
But Yori was not convinced. He stood frozen, his body taut with restraint, his hands trembling at his sides. He had never hesitated to embrace his daughter until now, fear tightening his frame, fear that if he reached for her, she might break.
Eris saw it, and so she smiled warmly at him to remind him that he was still her father and she was still his daughter, still here. That was all it took.
With a ragged breath, Yori pulled her into his arms and held her as if she were the only thing keeping him upright. One hand cradled the back of her head while the other wrapped around her, fiercely. "My girl," he whispered, voice breaking. "My girl."
Eris’s expression flickered for only a second as pain surged where his touch grazed her injuries. She tried to hide it, but Stephan saw. From across the hall, he stiffened, his fists curling tight.
Then came Lysenna and Raphael.
Lysenna’s eyes shimmered with warmth. She didn’t hesitate. Her hands cupped Eris’s face, gently tucking back a strand of hair before drawing her into a careful embrace.
“Welcome home, my dear,” she murmured. Her touch was featherlight, mindful of every unseen wound.
For a moment, Eris allowed herself to lean into the comfort, the softness she hadn’t felt in days.
Raphael waited silently. Only after Lysenna stepped back did he move forward. He placed a firm hand on Eris’s shoulder. “It is good to have you home,” he said, voice gruff, but the words carried more than they said.
Eris gave a nod, then her gaze shifted and found him.
Stephan.
She stepped forward, drawn to him like a tide pulled by the moon, reaching with each step, not just with her hands, but with her gift.
Stephan’s heart slammed against his ribs, his breath caught in his throat.
Don’t move. Don’t break.
Then the flood came. It hit her like a crashing wave, a torrent of feelings pouring from him into her—guilt, despair, longing, torment.
Gods, the torment. Eris closed her eyes and braced herself, letting it come.
She let the pain surge through her, felt it rage and burn, every sharp edge and every raw wound.
She absorbed it all: his agony, his helplessness, the unbearable knowledge of what had been done to her.
And still, she did not break.
Her gift was no curse. It was a vessel, a tide she could rise with. She would not drown. She would not let him drown either. She stopped in front of him, and Stephan drank in the sight of her, not like a lover seeing his beloved, but like a soldier reading a battlefield.
Each wound was a battle report he could read too well: the bruises on her jaw spoke of hands that had seized her, the cracked lip whispered of a slap, the grazes on her knees told him she had been forced down.
And then there was the coat—the way she clutched it, her fingers fisting the fabric like a lifeline. What was she hiding?
A slow, sickening realization settled deep in his gut.
The body he revered, the body he had sworn to protect, had been brutalized by some unworthy filth. His vision blurred with rage, his fists clenching at his sides as his gaze fell. He could not bear to look at her.
Then Eris reached out. Her fingers, trembling yet sure, brushed his cheek, a soft, quiet touch without hesitation. In that moment, he felt it. She was holding his pain, dismantling it, breaking it down, and handing it back as something bearable.
"Stephan." Her voice was a soft whisper, a thread of tenderness laced with quiet command. His breath hitched, and his body locked. "Look at me," she urged.
Silence pressed between them. If he looked, he would break.
Her fingers traced his cheek, grounding, tethering him to the only thing that mattered: her.
"It’s okay, Stephan. I’m here."
A breath escaped him, uneven. His lashes flickered. Then he finally looked and it shattered him.
He saw everything, not just the bruises, or the shadows beneath her eyes. He saw her strength, her fire, the unbreakable force still burning inside her. She looked at him as if he were the one who needed saving, and perhaps he was.
His breath fell apart in pieces. He reached for her hand and pressed his over it, needing, as if her touch could hold him together. She was here, and she was his.
No words passed between them. None were needed. Their souls reached for each other like two flames in the dark, refusing to extinguish. And for the first time in days, Stephan Dragov breathed again.
A voice broke the quiet. "Eris."
She turned. Raphael stood waiting, his expression carved from stone.
"We need to talk," he said, nodding toward the chamber beyond. "Now."
Yori bristled. "She needs rest."
Raphael's voice came back, sharp. "If she can stand, she can talk."
Stephan stepped forward, tension radiating off him, but before he could speak, Eris nodded.
"It’s fine," she said. "I’ll come."
She gently slipped her hand from Stephan’s, but not before giving it a single, steady squeeze, letting him hold onto the solace she had offered, if only for a breath, before duty pulled her away.
And then she followed Raphael into the dark.