Chapter Forty-One
KAEL
I call for a maid to draw a bath as I carry Elyssara back to her room, kicking the door open with a sharp crack of my boot against the wood.
The room is dim, the lingering scent of rose water clinging to the air, but my focus is solely on her.
I place her down gently, the bloodied and battered leather of her armor stark against the soft, untouched blankets.
Her head rests against my chest, and for a moment, I let her stay there.
Let her take whatever comfort she can find in the heat of my body against hers.
My hand brushes her tangled braid, and I tuck her closer, as though shielding her from the world might make the truth we’ve uncovered less cruel.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my voice low, rough with the weight of everything I’ve done.
“You were just an idea to me—a prophecy. A name. But now...” My words trail off.
How do I even begin to apologize for what I’ve turned her life into?
She doesn’t answer, but she leans into me, nestling her head beneath my chin. It’s a silent truce, and for now, I’ll take it. For now, it’s enough.
We stay like that for a while, her weight pressed into me, her breathing steady but hollow.
I let myself imagine, just briefly, a life where this is all there is.
No rebellion. No prophecy. Just us. A ridiculous fantasy, but the thought lingers longer than it should.
The scent of her—sandalwood, vanilla, steel, and sweat—floods my senses.
It’s intoxicating, dangerous. Her scent reminds me that she’s both a weapon and something infinitely more fragile.
The maid returns, announcing the bath is ready, and I feel her stir slightly, but she doesn’t move.
The fierce warrior I saw in battle, the one who fought with relentless fire and grit, sits here like a shadow of herself, broken and quiet.
My jaw clenches. That fire is still there—it has to be. I won’t let it die.
“Your bath is ready,” I say carefully. “I’ll leave you to undress and clean up. If you need me, I’ll be with Therion.”
Nothing. She doesn’t so much as flinch.
I let out a breath and walk back to her, resting my hand lightly on her shoulder. “Would you like help?” I ask, my tone softer than I thought myself capable of. When she doesn’t pull away, I take that as my answer.
Lifting her into my arms, I carry her toward the bath. She doesn’t resist. It’s almost unsettling how still she is. I sit down on the chair beside the tub, settling her on my lap, and start undoing her armor.
The buckles on her leather pauldrons are stiff with dried blood, and they creak as I work them loose.
The plates fall away, revealing the curve of her shoulders, smooth and lightly sun-kissed with the faint lines of scars.
She doesn’t make a sound, just lets me strip away the hardened pieces of her protection.
One by one, I unfasten the vambraces from her forearms, my thumbs grazing the tender skin beneath.
When I reach her chest plate, my hands falter for a moment.
This is her armor—what keeps the world out, what keeps her invincible.
Undoing it feels almost sacrilegious, like I’m peeling back layers of who she is.
But I press on, unbuckling the straps that hold it tight to her frame.
The leather is heavier than I expect—or perhaps that’s just me—as it slides free, clattering softly to the floor.
Beneath it, her tunic clings to her skin, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and blood.
Her breath catches as I work my fingers down to the belts and thigh guards of her fighting leathers. The laces are stiff, resistant, but I take my time, careful not to tug too hard or hurt her. When the last strap is loosened, the leather drops away, leaving her in nothing but her undergarments.
I should stop here. I know I should. But then she moves, slowly shifting her braid over her shoulder, baring her back to me.
The gesture is deliberate, an unspoken invitation that makes my throat tighten.
I stare at the laces of her corset, my hands trembling faintly as I reach for them.
The laces come undone, one by one, until the fabric loosens and slips down her body.
She turns slightly, and the sight of her steals the breath from my lungs.
She is... radiant. The faint light of the room glows against her bare skin, highlighting every curve, every scar, every mark that tells the story of her strength.
Her body is a battlefield, but it’s also a masterpiece.
She is untamed, powerful, and utterly mesmerizing.
For a moment, I can’t look away. She is more than the prophecy, more than the warrior who wields a blade of Stars. She is a woman, raw and unguarded, and the weight of that realization threatens to crush me.
“You’re... exquisite,” I whisper before I can stop myself. My voice comes out rough, betraying the storm inside me. She doesn’t respond, her eyes distant as she stares into the steam rising from the bath.
Gently, I lift her from my lap, sliding her undergarments from her hips, and lowering her into the water.
The warmth engulfs her, the rose petals clinging to her skin as she leans back against the tub’s edge.
For a moment, she looks peaceful, her eyes fluttering closed, the tension in her body easing.
I stand, my fists clenched at my sides, forcing myself to look away. “I’ll leave you to it,” I murmur, stepping back toward the door. She doesn’t say anything, but I linger for a moment longer, watching her in the stillness of the bath.
I stand at the door, one hand on the handle, intending to leave and give her privacy.
But something holds me back. The sight of her, sunk low in the steaming bath, the rose petals clinging to her skin, makes it impossible to walk away.
Her head rests against the edge of the tub, her braid—a cascade of intricate weaving—draped over her shoulder in the style ancient female warriors favored.
It's not just a hairstyle. It’s her identity as a warrior, and a reflection of her resolve.
I hesitate before speaking, my voice soft. “Do you want help with your hair?”
Her eyes flicker open, weary but curious, and after a long moment, she nods.
Crossing the room, I kneel beside the tub, my movements deliberate and measured, as if I might scare her off if I move too quickly.
The braid is beautiful, a lattice of twists and knots intertwined with thin leather cords and stray strands of gold that glimmer faintly in the light.
It’s a work of art, but it’s also matted with blood, sweat, and dirt from the battle.
My hands hover over it for a moment, unsure where to begin. Then, gently, I start to untangle it.
The leather cords come first, unwrapping easily from the strands they hold together.
I set them aside, my fingers moving through her hair with an intimacy that feels both foreign and natural.
As the braid unravels, her hair falls free, cascading down her back in waves.
It’s longer than I expected, the weight of it heavy and silken in my hands, despite the grime.
She doesn’t say anything, but I catch the faintest sigh as my fingers work through the knots.
Slowly, methodically, I untangle each section, careful not to pull too hard.
The silence between us is thick but not uncomfortable.
It feels... significant, like this moment means more than either of us is willing to admit.
When the last knot is undone, her hair spills into the water like liquid gold. It glimmers even in the low light, strands of dark caramel, russet and honey mingling with the steam. My hands linger in it for a moment, feeling its softness, before I reach for the soap.
“Lean back,” I murmur, my voice gravelly.
She obeys, her head tipping back as I scoop water into my hands and let it pour over her hair.
The dirt and blood run away in rivulets, streaking the water with faint crimson swirls.
I work the soap into her hair, massaging it into her scalp.
She closes her eyes, her breathing evening out, her body relaxing for the first time since the fight.
It’s a strangely tender act, washing her hair. Something I’ve never done for anyone before, and yet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. The warrior in her is stripped away, leaving the woman beneath—a woman who is vulnerable, resilient, and breathtakingly beautiful.
As I rinse the soap from her hair, the strands gleam anew, free of the grime that had dulled them. My fingers linger one last time, smoothing the length of her hair as it fans out across the water.
“All done,” I say softly, rising to my feet. She doesn’t open her eyes, but I catch the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips. It’s enough to carve a space in my chest where my resolve used to be.
Without another word, I leave the room, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.
Duty is the only thing that can pull me away from her, and I hate that I am the reason she is hurting.
I betrayed her trust. My stomach is in a knot, but I have no time to give it any credence. The realms hang in the balance.
My heart pounds as I walk down the hall to Therion’s room—we need a new plan.
I knock quietly before entering. Therion’s in his usual chair, his posture deceptively relaxed, a glass of amber liquor cradled in his hand.
His face is unreadable, but the liquor is a tell—it’s how he unwinds when things have gone to all hells.
A second glass waits beside the chair I usually take, and without a word, I grab it and sit.
Our eyes meet, and we exchange a thousand unspoken words in a single glance. That’s the way it’s always been between us. Neither of us is particularly good at talking, but we’ve never needed to be.
“How is she?” Therion asks, his demeanor solemn and genuine.
“Hurting.” That's all I can think to say.
Therion hums in acknowledgement, then adds, “It did not go well.”
“No, it didn’t,” I say, confirming the obvious.
“She still doesn’t know who you really are, the plan for Nalya, or anything about The Sky in the prophecy. You did what you needed to do and told her the truth, without telling her everything. It could’ve been worse.” Therion always has a way of rationalizing the existential.
“Barely,” I say, which is the truth. My plan was to slowly introduce her to the truths and realities of the realms—and my plans to right some of its wrongs—but The Aegis Covenant really fucked that plan up tonight.
I didn’t want to bombard her with talk of rebellions, and political games and plans everyone knew of except her.
I wanted her to slowly piece it together with some well-placed conversations.
Maybe even some books that Seren may just so happen to have stumbled across.
I hoped that she’d become sympathetic to our mission, willing to help take down Thalmyr, The Decay and Maldrak.
Fucking idiot.
That opportunity is gone now.
Now, we’d do it the hard way.
“Now we just have to retrieve a magical relic that makes us face hidden truths. Shouldn’t be too hard to keep it all a secret,” Therion states drily.
I can’t fight the smile that breaks free on my face, but it doesn’t last long. He’s right.
Even if we get to Skaedor’s Crest, what truths will we have to face?
Will they unravel everything we’ve worked so hard to build?
The silence between us stretches thin, taut with things neither of us is willing to say. We settle into a rhythm of drinking, refilling, and staring at nothing in particular. The sound of the liquor sloshing in the bottle and the occasional scrape of glass on wood are the only noises in the room.
Therion breaks the silence first. “Will she be ready to go in the morning?”
His voice is quiet, but there’s a tension beneath the words, a hesitation that’s unlike him. He’s usually the steady one, the one with the plan. But everything is riding on this, and we both know it.
I down the last of my drink, letting the burn chase away the knot in my throat. “I have absolutely no fucking idea.”
Therion doesn’t press. He just nods, his expression grim, and pours another round.