I pulled back fully now, chest tight, breath coming too fast. "No. No, no, no, Annie, why aren't you talking? Is this part of the magic? Did something happen? Did she curse you?" My voice pitched higher with each question, panic scraping raw in my throat. Her silence stabbed sharper than any blade. "Annie, was this the cost? Was this the cost?! What kind of monster takes your voice? I swear on all twelve gods I'll burn her abyss to the ground—"
THWACK.
A heavy book, glowing, no less, smacked me square on the head and bounced to the floor.
"OW?!" I yelped, stumbling back, clutching the wound to my pride. "Arbor! You little traitor—"
But then I saw her. Annie was laughing.
Silent, yes, but laughing. Shoulders shaking, lips curved, eyes sparkling like she'd just seen me slip on a banana peel. Somehow, in all the dread and grief, that laughter made everything tilt back into place.
I blinked at her. "Are you laughing at me right now?"
She nodded, breathless. I scowled theatrically. "This is emotional sabotage."
She rolled her eyes, then lifted her hand, fingers shaping the words: "It is not permanent."
I squinted. "Not permanent …?"
Another nod. Relief crashed over me so hard my knees nearly gave out. "Oh thank the gods. You nearly gave me a divine heart attack." I looked up at the ceiling and muttered, "I take back what I said, Arbor. Mostly. You're still rude."
A glowing heart shimmered across the beams above. Show-off. Her hand touched my face then, gentle, grounding, everything. My throat went tight.
"You're still a menace," I whispered, but kissed her anyway. Soft. Grateful. Reverent. I pulled her to the couch, never letting go of her hand. Eased her down beside me, her sleeve slipping back to reveal the fresh rune on her forearm. Leyla's mark. It glowed like starlight caught in ink, carved with shadow's own hand. I traced it slowly, reverent. "Did it hurt?"
She shook her head, then mimed rubbing her eyes and flopping sideways like a child too tired to keep upright. I snorted. "Dramatic. You'd think you were tired or something."
Her shrug was pure innocence. I sighed, defeated. "Right. That's it. Come on, my Secret Star."
Before she could protest, I scooped her into my arms, bridal-style. She melted against me instantly, forehead tucked under my chin, trusting me to carry her weight. "Bathroom," I told Arbor as we passed the hall. "Candles, steam, and a bath that makes you forget war."
The tub was already filling when we arrived. Wide enough for two, water shimmering purple-blue, golden lights drifting above it like lazy fireflies. I set her down, helped her undress without a single quip, stripped my own shirt, ignored her silent whistle, and sank into the steaming water with her tucked tight against me. Her silent sigh nearly undid me. Our legs tangled under the surface, her head against my shoulder, her eyes closed, lips soft with the first real peace I'd seen on her face in months. I ran my fingers through her wet hair, slow, careful. "You're here," I whispered. "And I can't hear your voice, but gods… you still take the air right out of my lungs." She didn't need to answer. Her hand over my heart said enough.
But I couldn't stop there. Not tonight. Not when every scar, every rune, every carved piece of her was mine to love, not theirs to claim. My hand slid down, skimming water over her arm until I reached the place it all began. Her forearm, Leyla's mark, the first rune carved into her skin. I lifted her wrist gently, reverent, like something holy, and pressed my lips to the scarred lines. Once. Twice. Again. She shivered, not pulling away, only leaning closer.
"They made sure this one would break you," I whispered against her skin, my mouth tracing every cruel cut. "But you're still here. Still mine. This doesn't belong to Leyla. Not anymore."
Her breath caught. Her fingers threaded into my hair, holding me there, her touch trembling but certain.
"Together," she signed.
I kissed the rune again, slower this time, sealing her words. "Together," I echoed. My thumb stroked over the jagged edges, reclaiming every cruel line with gentleness they never gave her. For the first time, she wasn't bearing it alone. I wasn't worshiping chaos, but her. Her strength, her survival, her choice. Only when I felt her relax fully into me did I lower her arm back into the water, my lips still brushing her skin as if I couldn't bear to let go.
She slept that night. Not restless. Not gasping. Not whispering names that weren't mine. Just soft, steady breaths rising and falling against my chest. I didn't sleep. Not because I couldn't. Because I wouldn't.
I lay there holding her, one hand brushing idle strokes through her hair, the other splayed across her back. She was so soft in my arms, so utterly at rest it hurt to look at her. Peaceful. Radiant. Her lashes fluttered faintly, dream-twitches I knew weren't nightmares this time. The tiny scar at the corner of her mouth softened without tension. Her fingers curled into my shirt like she couldn't stop herself. Gods, I loved her.
In silence, in storm, in this fragile miracle of a night.
I pressed my lips to her forehead, her hair, her shoulder, quiet, reverent worship.
"Sleep, my Lioness," I whispered into her hair. "I've got you."
She didn't stir. Not even once. That was the miracle.