Chapter 51 Ashes of a Dream #2
Serenya laughed, offering a hand. “I would’ve… but I requested the same clemency from you for days and it was not granted.”
Maris blinked up at her shaking her head.
Serenya tilted her head, eyes flicking past Maris’s shoulder.
Maris’s face flushed, and she accepted the hand, rising to her feet with more grace than she felt.
“Fine,” Maris muttered, brushing sea salt and splinters off her leathers. “You win.”
“I always win,” Serenya said, smirking. “But it’s never this entertaining.”
Maris narrowed her eyes. “Careful. I might snap my fingers and accidentally cut your braid off next.”
Serenya chuckled turning on her heels, walking toward her water skin but her words followed Maris like a curse.
Maris turned toward the sea again. Toward the figure still lingering there, as if he’d been carved into the deck boards themselves.
She then followed her friend. A drink of cold water would be welcomed. She hoped it would quench her thirst and rinse away her torturous thoughts.
-Alarik-
Alarik didn’t mean to watch her for so long. But the moment his boots touched the deck, his gaze locked on the two figures sparring then narrowed to one.
Maris.
Hair windblown. Leathers clinging in ways that made his restraint feel like a noose. She moved with elegance and grit, dodging, parrying, turning the motion of each blow into art. But it wasn’t her precision that shattered his composure.
It was the absence of a ring.
Her left hand was bare. No glint of white-gold. No trace of the vow Kael had marked her with.
He felt the crack of it in his chest.
It could be nothing, strategic. Practical. But gods, it didn’t feel like nothing. Not after the dream. Not after the way she had reached for him, wanted him. Not coerced, but tender. Willing. Hungry.
And now?
Now he feared she’d bury it under shame. That she’d pretend it never happened.
She faltered, Serenya’s blade catching her off guard, knocking her off balance. A beat later, Maris was flat on her back. Serenya extended a hand with a slight grin, and Maris took it, panting softly as she rose.
Alarik’s steps carried him forward before he even realized he’d moved.
Maris’s skin glistened with sweat, breath catching as she tipped her water skin back and drank. Her throat worked in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, her leathers clung to every hard-earned curve of her frame like a second skin. Alarik’s fingers curled at his sides.
He couldn’t stop staring.
Not in the absence of the white-gold ring on her finger. Not at the flicker of heat behind her eyes when she glanced his way.
Not the goddess-touched Veil Breaker. Not the bearer of ancient sigils or wielder of holy storms.
Just Maris. Alive. Breathing. Shining with something fierce and untamable.
He stepped forward, voice low. “Mind if I take the next round?”
Serenya raised a brow, glancing between them, clearly catching the spark. “Don’t break anything, either of you, I can't take an extra day on this nauseating ship,” she muttered before walking off with a knowing smirk.
Maris didn’t meet his gaze right away. She twisted the cap back on the flask, shoulders rolling as she adjusted her stance. “I thought you were brooding,” she said, tone teasing, but laced with nerves.
“Brooding’s too quiet for me,” Alarik murmured, circling her slowly. “I had other things in mind.”
She turned to face him, chin lifted, jaw tight.
A beat passed between them. The world seemed to narrow to the groan of wood, the cry of gulls overhead, and the wild drumming of his own cursed heart.
She lunged first.
He blocked it.
Her body twisted close, closer than it should’ve in a match. Their blades locked, crossed and crackling, her breath mixing with his.
“You’re tense, I thought you be more… at ease today.” he said, voice thick.
“You’re in my space.”
“It’s a spar, Maris.”
“It was a dream, Alarik.” She cut.
Their swords strained, neither giving way. But she wobbled, just slightly, and he stepped in, their feet brushing. “Was it only that?” he asked, quiet now.
She faltered, frustration rolling off her. He stepped closer still.
“I would’ve stayed there forever,” he said, barely louder than a breath. “If you’d asked me.”
His hand trembled against the hilt.
“But you didn’t,” he added, softer. “You woke up.”
She exhaled sharply, dropping her blade. “You don’t fight fair.”
“No,” he said, letting his own sword fall to the deck with a clatter, “I don’t.”
Their eyes locked.
Everything else — ship, sea, time itself, fell away.
Just the two of them.
On the deck of a ship bound toward certain war, and uncertain futures.
His hand lifted to her jaw, pausing just shy of contact.
“Say no,” he rasped, “and I’ll go.”
She didn’t.
But the storm in her eyes — lust, guilt, longing, spoke louder than any word.
His fingers, calloused and steady, carassed the curve of her jaw, brushing just under her ear, the pad of his thumb skimming the line of her cheekbone. Her breath caught, he felt it. Saw it in the subtle hitch of her chest, the faint parting of her lips.
They were a nightbound king and gods blessed queen, blade and flame, locked in something far more dangerous than any sparring match.
“You can’t fight for shit distracted,” he said, voice lower now, rougher. His gaze flicked to her mouth. “But lucky for you, I’m not trying to win.”
She swallowed hard. “You always fight to win.”
“Not against you.” His thumb ghosted downward, tracing the softest line along her throat.
The ship rocked slightly beneath them, the sound of crew and sea nothing but haze beyond the heat simmering between their bodies. Serenya had long since stepped away, wise enough to let the moment unfold. Maris didn’t move away. Her pulse fluttered beneath his touch.
“This is dangerous,” she whispered.
He smiled, slow, knowing, reverent. "It doesn't have to be."
Her hands came up. One rested lightly against his chest, the other curling ever so slightly into the fabric of his shirt. She wasn’t pulling him closer. But she wasn’t pushing him away.
“I’m not asking for forever,” Alarik said, his voice like thunder muffled by velvet. “Just this moment. Just honesty.”
Maris met his eyes, hers burning with a dozen unspoken things —longing, conflict, need.
And then, softer than a breath: “I don’t know if I can give you more than that.”
He leaned in, his forehead brushing hers. “Then don’t. Just give me this.”
Their mouths were a whisper apart, tension strung tighter than bowstring, the choice hanging in the air between them.