Chapter 86
Awake
Iwake into warmth. For several moments I do not understand where I am, only that the air smells faintly of herbs and clean linen rather than smoke, and that the light filtering through the room is muted and golden rather than orange with ruin.
The ceiling above me is washed in beige and brown tones, simple and unadorned, and there is no roaring in my ears now, no crackling collapse, only the quiet rhythm of someone moving gently nearby.
A woman with kind, practiced hands leans into my vision, her smile careful and encouraging as though she is coaxing something fragile back into place.
“Look at you,” she murmurs softly. “All awake.”
Memory returns in a rush. The cabin. The knives.
The fire. I try to rise too quickly, panic driving me before reason can intervene, and pain answers at once, deep and consuming, radiating through my leg and ribs in a way that makes the room sway.
A sound tears from my throat before I can contain it, and the healer presses a firm palm to my shoulder, easing me back.
“We have done what we can,” she says gently, though a shadow passes across her face. “You sustained many injuries. You must allow your body to mend.”
“My leg,” I whisper. “Will I use it again?”
“Yes,” she replies without hesitation. “But you will need time. And rest.”
She studies me, then asks softly, “You have been tired lately, have you not?”
I close my eyes, remembering the heaviness that had followed me for weeks, the way exhaustion had clung to my limbs even before blood loss and smoke. “Yes.”
Her expression gentles. “That is because you are with child.”
I had suspected. The missed bleeding, the strange heaviness in my body. But hunger and fear had tangled everything together until certainty felt impossible.
“You were carrying life,” she continues gently.
The word lodges in my chest before I can stop it. “Were,” I repeat. The sound splinters. The knives, the blood, the flames rush back in.
My fingers go cold in hers. “I—” My throat closes.
She squeezes my hand. “You still are. There is life yet. The injury was severe, and the strain on your body great, but the pregnancy remains. It may yet hold. You must rest, and you must be somewhere safe. Healing cannot take root under constant threat.”
Tears slip free without resistance. I think of mountains wrapped in cold air and quiet mornings, of Colsar’s hand at my waist, of the way he would look at me if he knew we had made something together. The image aches with longing.
“Is there anywhere,” the healer asks gently, “that you could truly be safe?”
I know the answer, and I shake my head.
A knock sounds at the door.
“Come in,” I croak, too drained to fear who it might be.
Relief blooms when Arven steps inside. “You’re awake,” he says, and the restraint in his voice cannot quite conceal the relief beneath it.
The healer offers him a quiet smile and withdraws.
“You look terrible,” I tell him, because gratitude feels too fragile to speak yet. Indeed, he has dark circles beneath his eyes, fresh bandages around one forearm, scratches along his jaw and cheek. Smoke seems to cling faintly to him still, as if he carried the fire out with us.
He exhales softly. “Believe it or not, you look worse.”
I try to laugh, but pain steals it from me. He moves closer without commentary, adjusting the blanket with care that does not match the blade he carries so easily in the forest.
“You saved me,” I say finally.
“You did most of that yourself,” he replies. “I arrived at the inconveniently dramatic moment.”
But I remember the explosion. The way the flames had recoiled.
The way he must have come through fire for me.
There is no doubt left in me now. Whatever banner he claims, whatever history he hides, whatever allegiance he keeps from my knowledge, he had placed his life between mine and death without hesitation.
Whose side he stands on no longer matters. He stands on mine.
“Are you in pain?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
He studies me, calculating something only he can see.
“Will you lie here?” I ask before pride can stop me.
“Just for a moment.” The request feels raw and unguarded.
For an instant he seems almost startled.
Then he removes his boots and lowers himself carefully onto the edge of the bed, mindful of my injuries.
The mattress shifts beneath his weight. He adjusts his position so that he does not jar my bandaged leg, then remains still as though waiting for further instruction.
I turn toward him and press my face into his shoulder. Smoke and iron and forest cling to him, and beneath that something uniquely his. For a moment he is rigid with surprise. Then his arm comes around me, awkward but gentle, his hand resting between my shoulder blades.
The tears that come now are quieter, heavier. The release of too much carried too long.
“Oh, Ashen,” he murmurs under his breath, the nickname softened by something unfamiliar in him. His palm pats my back once, then again, not entirely certain what he is meant to do with a crying woman in his arms. “Even princesses need sleep.”
His hand remains there. “Close your eyes,” he adds, his voice lower now. “I’ll still be here when you wake up, firebird.”
The words lodge somewhere deep, somewhere that has been braced for abandonment for far too long.
I let my breathing slow against him. I let the pain exist without fighting it.
I let the knowledge root inside me that perhaps I am not entirely alone in this.
I let relief seep in, that magic had flowed from my hands in that cabin, that there is still life in me, fragile but persistent. There is still choice.
“I am not a firebird,” I murmur. “They are unwanted and get tossed in volcanoes by their mothers.”
“Mmm, they do. But did you know that the strong ones swim out of hot lava and fly back to their nests?”
I laugh, though it hurts. “That is not true.”
“It is.” He clears his throat, as though the next part is uncomfortable for him. “My father found them interesting.”
It is the first time he has ever said anything personal about himself. I briefly close my eyes, remembering my first meeting with Colsar when I berated him for his unimpressive firebird metaphor.
Exhaustion returns in a gentler tide this time. My fingers lightly grip the fabric of his shirt, and he does not pull away. “Goto sleep, Ashen. I am not moving until you wake.”
“Promise?”
An annoyed sigh. “Yes, Ashen.”
And he remains there, unmoving, until I do.