9. Waking Dream
Waking Dream
The door to his personal quarters whispered shut behind him, the wardlight flaring once to acknowledge his presence. Kailorien stood in the dim glow, unmoving, his jaw still locked from the conversation that clung to him like ash after a blaze.
Shu’Khan’s voice hadn’t left his ears. It rarely did. His brother. His twin. Yet they could not be more different.
From beyond the carved lattice that divided the chambers, a sound rose—gentle water, the quiet rustle of cloth, and the unmistakable chime of laughter.
Auryn with Lu’ma, perhaps in the bath. He could picture it now—steam curling over mosaic tile, her silver hair trailing over porcelain shoulders. That laughter was fleeting peace both Auryn and her Attendant rarely touched.
He let them have it.
Crossing the room, he stripped off his gauntlets and chest plate, then rolled his sleeves, sitting at his desk with deliberate slowness. The lacquered surface bore scratch marks—tiny gouges from where he’d pressed too hard the last time he wrote in anger.
Tonight, he would not let his hand shake. Not when the stakes had changed.
He drew a fresh piece of parchment and began to write.
To the High Council of Krystopolis – Motion Addendum
Pursuant to Article IV of the Resh’Agar's Decree, and with affirmation of the Sovereign Flame, I submit the following directives regarding protection protocols for the Sokar:
A minimum of six elite Reskala shall be assigned to the Sokar’s designated wing at all times. These shall be chosen from the stock of warriors who bear no fewer than ten major runes. No fewer than two shall accompany her during transit throughout the Lattice or public sectors of the city.
These appointed guards shall report solely to the Resh’Agar and be barred from any conflicting commands by other offices, wings, or Companions.
Any obstruction of this order shall be considered a violation of Shield integrity and subject to immediate review.
Signed,
Iridias Savarax, the Resh’Agar
He sealed it, pressed the signet deep into wax, and exhaled. Stillness tried to settle in his chest, but never quite managed it. Soft footsteps padded across the stone behind him. He didn’t have to look. Her presence awakened his senses like light before sunrise.
She crossed to him, fresh from the bath, a silken robe draped over her shoulders.
Her hair was braided down her back, still damp and fragrant with oils he didn’t recognize.
The bruises on her jaw had faded to faint shadows.
One thin golden braid threaded with violet ribbon rested over her shoulder, at odds with the rest of her silver locks.
She looked like herself again, though the moment the thought crossed his mind, he flinched from it. What did he know about her true self? He could hardly remember how they'd traveled together on the Moores. Could barely recall the siege of Stonewake and how they'd escaped into the Veinroads.
He rose. Neither as a commander nor the Resh’Agar. Just a man who had missed her. His hand lifted to cup her face, thumb grazing the freckles on her cheek as if to confirm she was real.
“You’re glowing,” he murmured, voice low. “Have you eaten?”
Auryn’s smile was tight around the edges. “Not yet.”
He nodded. Held her gaze a moment longer before letting go.
But her eyes didn’t leave his.
“How did it go?” she asked. “With the Council?”
He answered with practiced steadiness. “It’s handled. You don’t need to worry.”
But she did. She always did.
"The Turning of the Mirrors approaches," she said. "We cannot have them unsettled before such an important ceremony."
He nodded. "They will do as they are bid. The Council would not dare to disrupt this event for their petty games. The Turning has always been sacrosanct."
She glanced to the window, where darkness hung thick and impenetrable outside. Soft, flickering lights from the city twinkled like stars in the night sky. An illusion of peace, yet one that did not soothe him in the least.
"I miss the sunlight," Auryn said. "It will be a blessing to have the Mirrors bring it to the dark again."
Before he could say more, Lu’ma emerged from the hall beyond the lattice, a tray balanced in her arms. She set it down between them—an offering of comfort. The tray overflowed with slices of roasted meat, warm spiced roots, cheeses layered with honeycomb, and fruits steeped in perfumed syrup.
Auryn glanced at Lu’ma in confusion. “This was in the Servitor?”
Lu’ma signed, serene as always, 'This was the meal prepared for the Sokar.'
Auryn looked at the spread again, slower this time. Her eyes shifted to Kailorien.
“You must have made quite the impression.”
He frowned, uncertain. “It’s a meal.”
She laughed—a small, disbelieving sound. “Is it?”
He didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know what she’d been given before.
What scraps she had rationed, or what corners she’d eaten in when no one was watching.
And something in him twisted at the thought of finding out.
He wanted to ask. But he didn’t trust himself with the answer.
Not yet. Not when his rage still trembled beneath the surface.
So instead, he pulled out her chair.
She stared at it like it was a luxury. Then sat, slow and careful, hands in her lap.
He took the napkin and unfolded it onto her knees, pushing the bowl of syrup'd fruit toward her.
“Eat,” he said. “That’s an order.”
She gave him a look but picked up a spoon. Each bite she took soothed him like a kind of balm. Not because the food was good—though it clearly was—but because she ate it without hesitation. Because her shoulders eased. Because her brow unknotted just a little.
And all the while, he sat with her. Silent. Watching.
Because there were no words left for what he wanted to say.
Only this.
That she was here.
That she was safe.
And that nothing—not even his accursed brother—could reach her by his hearth.
After the meal, Lu'ma helped Auryn settle into bed with one of her favored tomes. He let them have their space, retreating to the sitting room beyond the bedchamber, letting the low fire and warded silence keep his presence from disturbing her rest.
The hours stretched long into the dark, parchment and ink spread before him in a quiet war of decisions. Based on the documents spread out before him, much had changed in the years he'd been gone.
He barely noticed the passage of time until the sound came.
Soft. Fractured.
…if I just walk far enough… I’ll find you…
His quill stilled mid-motion. At the threshold stood Auryn, barefoot and pale, eyes aglow, one hand trembling. She stared forward without seeing, lips parted. Her thoughts slipped loose again through the Bond, more plea than sentence.
“Auryn,” he said, rising. “It’s alright. I’m here.”
She didn’t respond—not to the sound, nor to the name only he used. Her thoughts swirled in broken loops, disjointed.
Where is he? Why can’t I find him?
He stepped forward, hands raised and hovering at the level of his chest, more shepherd than soldier. Her shoulders quivered. Still, she kept walking. Searching.
When he reached her, he bent to cup her cheek—and paused. There, beneath her eyes and at their corners, lines of light flickered—too fine to be veins, too deliberate to be chance. Like delicate fractures of Veil-thread beneath her skin.
She was crying. Not sobs, not whimpers, but silent tears streaming downward, silver and shimmering.
He tried again—this time through the Bond.
I’m here. You’re safe. Just reach for me.
But the words only sharpened her distress. Her thoughts pitched, her steps faltering in their urgency. His presence wasn’t enough. She couldn’t find him.
Until his earring shifted.
A glimmer of green caught the firelight.
She saw it.
Kailorien leaned down.
Her hand lifted slowly, uncertain… then closed around it like a tether.
He exhaled, voice low, steady.
“There you go,” he murmured. “I’m here, sweetfire.”
She didn’t speak. Didn’t wake. But the panic in her thoughts dulled, her posture softening as she swayed toward him.
Behind him, a small movement stirred the quiet.
Lu’ma stood in the hall, dressed in her violet Attendant's robes, her eyes tired but alert.
“It’s alright,” he said. “I have her.”
She signed cautiously, 'Do not move too fast, Your Quintessence. Her Radiance startles easily when she walks in sleep.'
He nodded and gathered Auryn into his arms, careful not to disturb the earring still clutched in her hand. She curled against his chest, her cheek pressed to his collarbone, breath brushing the hollow of his throat.
Back in the sitting room, he picked up the wide-backed chair before the hearth with one arm and set it before his desk. Wrapping Auryn in a blanket, he eased into the chair. Her hand remained against his earring, holding it like a traveler might hold a piece of home.
'Her Radiance calls for the Resh’Agar', Lu’ma signed, lingering near the doorway. 'Not the title. The name. The one only Her Radiance uses.'
His heart clenched.
“How often does this happen?”
'Most nights,' she replied. 'Sometimes Her Radiance only dreams. Other times…'
Her fingers hesitated.
'Other times, Her Radiance screams.'
He looked down at the girl in his arms—the Void's chosen, the city’s holy vessel. Thinner than his damaged memory. Wrapped in secrets sharp enough to eviscerate him.
He adjusted the blanket more snugly around her shoulders and looked at the papers on the desk.
There was still much to do—requests to issue, protections to draft, names to list. But he didn’t place her in bed.
He let her sleep there, wrapped in warmth, nestled on his lap.
Each time she stirred, searching in shallow sleep, her fingers would lift and he would guide her hand back to the earring.
“Easy now,” he whispered each time. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Eventually, her fingers stilled. Her breathing deepened. The Bond quieted.
And when she let go of the earring at last, he knew.
In the part of her still untouched by Doctrine or fear, she trusted that he never would.