Chapter 23 Ashes & Oaths #3
Soft. Low. Like something ancient stirring from the shadows. A lullaby in a tongue I don’t know but feel deep in my bones.
He doesn’t reach for me again. He only sits beside me, far enough away that I can still breathe, but close enough to feel the magnetic pull of him.
Humming. The king is humming.
Then slowly, softly, he takes my hand and presses it to his chest—right over his heart.
“Breathe with me,” he whispers. “In…”
I shake my head, still trembling, but he presses on gently.
“One… two… three… four.”
I try. My breath hitches. Breaks. Comes again, slower.
“Out,” he whispers after a moment. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
We take another breath together, this one deeper. A sob tears from my throat as I finally look at him—really look. What I see is not a king or a captor or a warrior.
Just a man kneeling in silence, his heartbeat steady against my palm.
He holds me, and I let him. Just for a moment, I let him.
I cry into his chest as the cave spins dizzily around me, still shaking.
And then, all too aware, I remember myself and pull away. Hard.
He lets me go instantly. We sit in silence as the rain patters softly against the stone. Steam curls through the cavern like breath.
He must see the panic still in my eyes because his voice comes gentler now.
“You’ll catch a fever if you stay in wet clothes,” he says.
“That’s all I meant. I wasn’t—I just wanted to lay them out on the lava stones.
The stones are warm; they’ll dry fast there.
I wasn’t going to—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening.
My throat clenches.
He’s still shirtless, his chest rising and falling like a storm tide. But his voice, his eyes, are steady. Earnest.
“I’d never hurt you, Fire. Never. You don’t need to fear me.”
My heart stammers at the way he says my name—no, not my name. My shield. I have to remember that. But still, the way he says it strikes something deep.
“I’m tired of being afraid.” The confession coming out unbidden, a whisper.
“Then let me help you,” he says, his voice barely more than breath. “Please.”
When I finally nod, Keiren rises and offers his hand. I hesitate, then take it.
His palm is warm and calloused. Real. He helps me to my feet, then slowly guides me to the edge of the glowing spring. I stumble slightly on a patch of moss, and he steadies me without a word.
My boots squelch. He kneels and begins unbuckling them one at a time, his fingers cautious and reverent. Not once does he meet my eyes.
When he’s done, he straightens again and steps away. “I’ll give you a moment,” he says, his voice low. Then he turns to face the cave wall, arms folded across his chest.
I stare at him. Just… standing there. Guarding me. Shielding me with his silence, his gaze set firmly ahead.
I peel off the layers slowly—cloak, tunic, underdress—until I’m left in only my underclothes. My fingers hesitate at the final layer, looking back to where Keiren still stands, unmoving. I remove the final layer, then enter the pool.
Steam kisses my skin as I step into the water. It’s so warm that it nearly steals my breath.
I swim to the far bank and sink into the water. I curl my arms around myself, letting the magic seep into my bones. The aches begin to fade. The tremble in my limbs eases.
“Okay,” I call softly.
Keiren turns. His eyes sweep the space around me, never landing on my body. His expression is unreadable. He picks up my clothes and drapes them across the lava stones near the pool’s edge. Then he begins to remove his own, again.
I watch—just for a moment—as he removes his boots, then goes for the buttons of his trousers.
Our eyes meet. Time halts.
I spin away, heart pounding.
The water ripples behind me. I hear the splash as he steps into the spring. For several long moments, we say nothing. Just breathe. Just exist. Bare in ways that have nothing to do with skin.
I stare at the shimmering cavern walls, lit by soft, golden veins that pulse with ancient heat.
Then I turn.
And see him.
Keiren stands waist-deep in the water, his back to me. Scars cross his skin like lightning—some old, faded with time; others cruel and recent, still angry and raised. My breath catches before I can stop it.
“I thought we said no peeking,” he says dryly.
A startled laugh breaks from my lips. “I… I’m sorry.”
Keiren chuckles, low and quiet. “It’s alright, Fire. No need to apologize for liking what you see.”
The heat in my cheeks spreads faster than the steam rising around us.
“It really is true,” I scoff. “Royals are so vain.”
We both laugh, soft and strained, clearly needing the distraction.
I draw in a breath. “Can I… Can I ask about your scars?”
“The tale isn’t a happy one, I’m afraid,” he says. His voice is careful, weighted. He turns just enough for me to see the edge of his profile, shadowed and still.
I hesitate, then softly ask, “What happened?”
He’s quiet for a long time. The steam curls between us like smoke from a fire neither of us started.
“My father,” he says at last. “When I disobeyed him. When I asked too many questions. When I was… too much like my mother.”
Something twists inside my chest. Not pity. Something deeper. A soul-deep ache that echoes mine.
“She used to bring me here,” he says, trailing his fingers through the water, his back still turned. “She said the spring held old magic, the kind that healed more than physical wounds.”
I wait, watching as his hand skims the surface of the water, breaking it into ripples.
“When she died, I begged him to let me bring her here. I thought that maybe… maybe this place could bring her back. But he refused. He said I should just be grateful that such weakness would no longer plague our bloodline.” After a reverent silence, he adds, more quietly, “Not long after that, he was slain, too. And the curse began.”
A thousand things rise in me. Words that don’t feel strong enough. I think of the weight he’s carried, the cruelty etched into his skin. And I see him—not as a king or a beast or a legend—but as a boy who once believed a spring could bring his mother back.
Then he looks at me. “What about you? Your burn… What’s the story behind it?”
He was vulnerable with me; now it’s my turn. It’s only fair.
“It was a fire,” I whisper. “When I was sixteen, my cousin was chosen as a Bloodmoon Bride. I followed her through the mist, thinking I could stop it. I didn’t know what would happen, but I knew that if I didn’t bring her back, I’d never see her again.”
I pause, drawing in a slow, shaky breath. He doesn’t interrupt.
“I watched the dragon burn her,” I say, my throat thick.
“Then it came for me. I ran. I made it back through the mist, but not before it left its mark on me.” My hand drifts to my back, a phantom ache blooming beneath the water.
“I think a part of me always knew this would be my fate. The Trials. The fire. I deserve it.”
“No. You don’t,” he says sharply.
“Yes, I do. Because that’s all I am. Future ash and bone.”
“No, Fire.” His voice cuts through the air, sharp with certainty. “You were brave. You tried to save her. You’ve faced the dragon more than once now and lived.”
My lips tremble. I bite them to stop the tears from welling in my eyes.
“That scar doesn’t mean what you think it does,” he says. “You’re the one who’s fire-forged, not me. Not broken, just… tempered. Like steel.”
I stare at him, stunned. No one has ever said that before. No one has ever dared.
The spring’s heat rises around us, clinging to my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his words. For a moment, I let myself believe them.
He still doesn’t turn, but his head shifts to the side, averting his eyes as if waiting for my permission.
“About what happened,” he says gently. “Outside the pool—”
My throat closes.
“I think our clothes are dry,” I say, cutting him off.
He starts to turn. “Fire—”
“No. Stay there until I say.” My voice is soft but firm.
A command. I just gave the king a command.
I glance back at him, unsure if he’ll obey.
To my absolute shock, he does, sighing and sinking deeper into the water.
As soon as I’m sure he won’t turn, I wade out and dress slowly, piece by piece.
My shirt is stiff and warm when I pull it over my head, but miraculously, it is dry.
So are my pants, though the fabric clings slightly where the mist still lingers on my skin.
But even the warmest clothes couldn’t chase away the chill that clings to me.
It isn’t the kind born of cold, but something deeper, restless and raw, a storm gathering in the pit of my stomach. There’s too much swirling inside me now—truths I didn’t expect, stories I haven’t asked for, and the way his voice still lingers in the air like smoke I can’t seem to breathe around.
I pull my sleeves tight and face the wall. Taking a breath to steel myself, I call over my shoulder, “I’m dressed.”
The silence stretches for a heartbeat, then I hear the soft splash of water as he climbs from the spring and the steady rhythm of boots against stone.
The faint rustle of cloth is followed by the slow tug of fabric being pulled into place.
Each sound feels louder in the quiet, each breath between them heavier.
I keep my gaze forward even as the warmth from the spring fades entirely. I tell myself it’s fine. That I’m fine.
But then I feel him. Not his touch, not yet. Just the certainty of his presence. He doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t need to.
“Give me his name,” he growls, his voice just inches from my back, “and he’ll be ash by sunrise.”
I turn slowly.
Keiren stands before me, dressed as if in a hurry, his hair damp and tousled, the buttons of his shirt undone, exposing his muscled torso, his face carved from shadows and restraint.
Scars still peek from beneath his shirt like cracks in a statue that refused to break.
There’s no mockery in his tone, no cruelty in his gaze.
Only quiet fury, barely bridled. For me.
My breath catches. “You’d have a man killed for something that happened years ago?”
His gaze darkens. “Without question,” he hisses.
He rakes a hand through his hair, revealing a wave of dark curls at the ends, still wet from the spring.
His jaw clenches as he lifts his hand and brushes a single knuckle along my jawline.
The touch is featherlight. Reverent. Dangerous. My skin sparks beneath it.
“I’d hunt him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it took. Any man who dares to hurt a woman doesn’t deserve to live. Especially if that woman is you.”
I don’t look away.
His gaze drops to my right hand, and I feel it before I see it. The burn. The pulse. The faint flicker of heat beneath my skin. He sees it too. His brow furrows.
“Our bargain,” I whisper. “I’m ready to fulfill it.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. A flicker of something unreadable in his expression. “You’re sure?”
I nod once.
Silence folds in around us. The tension thickens—tightens—wrapping around us like vines, like fate.
He steps closer, lowering his face to mine, so near I can feel the heat of his breath.
His scent envelops me, like firewood and frost, cedar smoke and citrus.
Like something untamed, warm, and devastatingly familiar.
I close my eyes as he leans in, but instead of his lips meeting mine, he lowers his head, takes my hand gently in both of his… And presses his lips to the place where the tattoo-like mark still glows.
“I release you from your promise.”
Something ignites. The mark flares beneath his kiss, burning hot, then hotter—until the magic cracks. I cry out, nearly doubling over from the sudden surge of heat.
Keiren catches me, one arm wrapping around my back, the other steadying my hand, as the last trace of the tattoo sears… and then disappears.
Gone. Freed.
I blink up at him, breathless. The skin on my palm is spotless again—except for Cassian’s bargain, at least. But somehow, it feels… empty, like something sacred has been taken away from me. Like a thread has been cut.
And part of me—gods help me—part of me mourns the loss.
“Our first kiss,” he murmurs against my skin, “won’t be because of a bargain.”
I just stare up at him. His jaw is tight, his eyes unreadable. My chest aches with everything I can’t yet say.
He releases my hand. “I’ll go get our beds ready,” he says. Then he turns and leaves me standing there, speechless.