The demon took their voices. Whispers slithered in the dark.
"Cousin" became filth. "Whore" became my name.
He stayed silent. Because if he defended me, it would be confession.
So I knelt. For hours. In the courtyard, rain soaking through my robes.
Night came. No visitors. No kindness.
But then—a sword. Laid at my door.
His sword. The hilt still warm from his grip. The scabbard trembled, as if aching to strike.
I reached for it. Fingers trembling, I wrapped my hand around the worn leather of the hilt. It was warm—not just from touch, but with something deeper. The scent of sandalwood clung faintly to the blade, and beneath it, the copper tang of spirit-forged steel. I pressed it to my chest. The weight of it, the pulse, almost like breath—as if it remembered his hands before mine.
In that moment, I felt him. Not just his rage, but his choice. Not absence, but presence—fierce and silent and mine.
His rage.
Not against me.
For me.
And that silent gift felt more intimate than any kiss.
The demon took their voices. Whispers slithered in the dark.
"Cousin" became filth. "Whore" became my name.
He stayed silent. Because if he defended me, it would be confession.
So I knelt. For hours. In the courtyard, rain soaking through my robes.
Night came. No visitors. No kindness.
But then—a sword. Laid at my door.
His sword. The hilt still warm from his grip. The scabbard trembled, as if aching to strike.
His rage.
Not against me.
For me.
And that silent gift felt more intimate than any kiss.