Chapter 38 The Promise
The Promise
The following night, when even the moon seems to be hiding, I wander back to the library.
The scent of old parchment and wild lavender lingers like a lullaby, and the shelves hum softly as I slide a finished book back into place.
Three more jolt free and thud at my feet.
One reads, Rose and Garden Restoration. Another, A History and Study of Dragon Speech.
“As if I need help with pronunciation,” I mutter. “You’re mocking me. Got anything that will help me survive the next Trial?”
The shelf behind me begins to hum. I turn—and slam into something solid.
“Arther!” I laugh. “You startled me!”
He doesn’t laugh. His eyes are vacant, glazed with shadow, his skin pale and damp. His expression is hauntingly blank. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps. But it isn’t his voice, not really.
“Arther,” I say, stepping back. “It’s me. Don’t you—?”
He lunges.
I barely get my arms up before my back hits the shelf, slamming the air from my lungs. His hands tear at my dress, and my vision wavers.
I grab the thickest book within reach and slam it into his temple. He staggers—just enough for me to shove past and bolt for the archway.
A hand knots into my hair and yanks me backward, while the other clamps around my throat.
I can’t breathe.
“Arther—please—” I gasp. The edges of the room pulse.
And then he’s ripped away from me like a snapped rope.
Books explode from shelves. Stone cracks with the impact.
Keiren.
He stands in the doorway, eyes ablaze, breath ragged, like a beast straining against chains.
Arther screams and lunges again, but Keiren moves faster. His hand locks around Arther’s throat and lifts him clear off the floor.
“I am your lord,” he roars. “You will obey me.”
Arther writhes, feral with shadow.
“Arther!” Keiren thunders. “Look at me.”
The darkness flickers, and Arther goes limp. Then his eyes brighten again, and he drops to his knees.
“My lord,” he whispers. “My lady… please… forgive me…”
“Mae!” Keiren calls without looking back.
Mae appears in the hall, barefoot and breathless.
“Help him,” Keiren orders.
“Your Majesty, I—”
“Go.”
She hauls Arther up, and they vanish down the corridor like ghosts, leaving us alone.
Keiren turns to me, light still burning in his eyes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re hurt.” His hand hovers over the bruises blooming on my arms, the shallow slice along my collarbone.
“They’re just scratches,” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer. He drops to his knees, scoops me into his arms, and carries me out of the wreckage. I don’t resist.
Back in my room, I sit on a stone at the edge of the pool while Keiren kneels before me, gently cleaning the cuts on my hands and neck. His movements are careful. Reverent. The thin black fabric of his nightshirt pulls tight across his shoulders as he leans closer.
A king, kneeling for me.
“What happened to him?” I ask as he dips the cloth again and dabs at the bruising blooming along my wrist.
“He’s old,” Keiren murmurs. “Older than me. Sometimes he forgets. Relives things. Mae usually gives him a tonic and locks his door. She must have missed him tonight.”
When he finishes, he hands me a small vial. I swallow with effort, my throat protesting. His gaze flicks to the darkening marks along my neck. Slowly, he lifts his hands—and then stops.
“May I?”
I hesitate, then nod.
His palms cradle my throat, warm and steady. He murmurs in a language I don’t recognize, low and reverent, and heat blooms beneath his touch. The ache fades. My body stills, like something frightened finally finding itself soothed.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes lowered. “I promised you’d be safe here, apart from the Trials.”
When he pulls away, the cold rushes back in. The absence of his hands feels louder than it should. For a girl who hates being touched, the emptiness is unsettling.
“I’m sorry too,” I say.
“No.” His voice sharpens—not angry, just firm. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Take responsibility for things that were never yours to carry.”
The words hit deeper than the bruises. I turn away and climb into bed, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones.
After a moment, the mattress dips. He sits on the edge—close, but not touching.
“I won’t be around much as we near the final Trial,” he says quietly. “The closer it gets, the more I’m… pulled away. Preparations. Wards. Things I can’t neglect.”
So that’s it. The reason for the distance. The silence.
“I thought I’d done something wrong,” I admit.
His jaw tightens. “No. This is the last thing I want to do. But I won’t risk distracting you—or myself.”
I nod, though my chest aches.
He stands. “You should sleep.”
Panic flickers through me, quick and sharp. “Wait.”
He stills.
“Will you… just—” My voice falters, stripped bare. “Will you hold me until I fall asleep?”
He turns slowly, searching my face like the answer might wound us both.
After a beat, he nods.
He lies beside me, fully clothed, careful as he gathers me against his chest. One arm wraps around my shoulders, the other resting where I place it—no more, no less. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, grounding in a way nothing else has been since the attack.
“I can’t stay,” he murmurs. “But I’ll stay long enough.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
I close my eyes. His warmth seeps into the cracks fear left behind. Sleep comes quietly, like a tide pulling me under.