The morning after the clash of blades was thick with a silence that clung to Amara like a second skin.
She moved through the temple with deliberate slowness, each step measured, careful not to meet anyone's gaze. Every shadow in the corridors seemed to watch her, every whispered breeze carried the echo of yesterday, of Nysa's closeness, of the weight of something she had tried — and failed — to resist.
Her bare wrist pulsed faintly, the phantom ribbon alive beneath her skin. She pressed her fingers against it, hoping, for some small mercy, that the invisible tether would finally fade. But it only throbbed harder, as though it had been waiting for her to notice again.
Amara lowered her eyes, staring at the worn stone tiles beneath her feet. She could almost feel the imprint of Nysa's presence pressed into the courtyard stones, a heat that lingered where they had collided. The memory made her stomach twist. Every muscle in her body remembered the brush of power, the closeness of breath, the unyielding warmth of Nysa's lips.
She shivered.
The sun rose slowly over Myraea, spilling golden light across the fields beyond the temple. Amara wandered there, seeking solitude in the tall grasses, letting them brush her arms as if the wind itself might distract her from the turmoil in her chest. But even here, the memory clung to her. It wasn't just a recollection — it was a living thing, tangling with her pulse and drawing her forward, despite every instinct screaming retreat.
A sudden sound sliced through her thoughts: the sharp, clean whistle of steel slicing air.
Amara froze.
The clearing ahead shimmered with sunlight and dust, and there, moving with deliberate precision, was Nysa. The warrior's sword arced through the air, catching the light in brilliant flashes of silver. Each motion was fluid, exacting, practiced — the same mastery that had driven Amara to awe and panic the day before. Sweat traced rivulets down Nysa's scarred cheek, glinting in the morning sun, and the scar itself seemed to flare under the light, a living mark of both past pain and present ferocity.
Amara's feet remained rooted to the soft earth. She should have retreated. She should have hidden. She should have turned back and pretended she had never come here. But the invisible thread in her wrist pulled her forward anyway, guiding her closer despite herself.
By the time Nysa finished her sequence and sheathed her sword, her storm-dark eyes lifted and found Amara. The warrior's gaze pinned her in place, unflinching, unyielding.
"You shouldn't watch a fight if you don't plan to join one," Nysa said, her voice low, even, carrying the weight of a command disguised as observation.
Amara opened her mouth, then closed it again. No sound emerged. Her hands tangled in front of her, fingers trembling.
"I—I wasn't…" she began, but stopped.
"Then why are you here?" Nysa pressed, a question sharper than any blade.
Amara swallowed, searching for words that would mask the truth: that she had come because she could not resist, because she could not stay away, because the memory of yesterday had marked her in ways she was too afraid to name.
"I don't know," she whispered finally, barely audible.
Nysa studied her for a long moment. There was no judgment, no anger — just observation, measured, precise, waiting. Then the warrior stepped closer, deliberately slow, deliberate. Not an attack, not a challenge, but a closing of the distance between them.
Amara's pulse thundered in her ears. The warmth of Nysa's approach pressed against her chest, and each step made her chest tighten with anticipation, fear, and something dangerously close to longing.
"Yesterday," Nysa said, softer now, "you didn't run."
Amara stiffened. Shame flared, hot and sudden. "I did."
"Not at first," Nysa corrected, her tone carrying both amusement and challenge.
The memory hit Amara like a lightning strike. Their blades locked. The brush of skin against skin. The way she had leaned too close, unaware, vulnerable. Her breath had caught. Her pulse had raced.
"It was a mistake," she said quickly, trying to regain control of herself, of her words, of the chaos spiraling inside her.
Nysa tilted her head, scar catching the sunlight like fire. "Was it?"
Amara's heart twisted. She wanted to deny it. To flee. To hide in prayer, in ritual, in silence. But something in her shattered — a fragile wall built from fear, shame, and self-denial. It cracked, splintered, and fell away.
Her lips trembled. "I don't know who I am anymore," she admitted, voice shaking, raw with truth.
For the first time, Nysa's expression softened entirely. No mask, no armor, no discipline — just openness, vulnerability, and something fierce that dared Amara to meet it.
"Then let me remind you," Nysa murmured, stepping close.
Before Amara could think, before she could inhale a single cautious breath, Nysa closed the distance between them.
Their lips met.
---
The world stilled.
Amara's heart slammed against her ribs with such violence that she thought it might break free, flee entirely from the cage of her chest. Her first instinct screamed to pull away — fear, panic, and self-loathing surged in a wave hot and wild. But the invisible thread on her wrist held her in place, tightening like it had been waiting for this very moment.
Nysa's lips were warm, firm, unyielding. Not tentative. Not uncertain. Sure. Confident. Powerful. Her kiss carried command and understanding both, as if she had waited years for this, and would not waste another second.
Amara's hands moved on their own, trembling as they found Nysa's shoulders. She clung, desperate, uncoordinated, overwhelmed. Every nerve in her body seemed to ignite, each pulse echoing the phantom ribbon's burn beneath her skin.
The kiss deepened, the air around them thick with heat, with fear, with want. Clumsy, raw, unrefined — and yet, perfect in its chaotic truth.
When Nysa finally drew back slightly, their breaths mingled, Amara's chest rose and fell erratically. She swayed, lips tingling, heart hammering in a rhythm that defied her understanding.
The truth crashed into her all at once: she had wanted this.
She had wanted Nysa.
And fear, shame, and ritual could not sever what had already been awakened.
Her knees weakened, and she stumbled backward, the tall grass swaying around her like a sea of whispers, trying to drown out the roar of her own heart.
"No," she breathed, voice hoarse, trembling. "This… this can't—"
"Amara," Nysa said, softly, steadily, holding her gaze. "You don't have to be afraid."
But fear was all Amara could feel. Fear of herself, of her desire, of what it meant to break a lifetime of rules, of the weight of invisible expectations pressing down.
"I can't," she whispered, shaking her head violently. "I can't… I can't be this. I can't—"
And then she ran.
The tall grasses whipped against her arms, her legs faltering with each step. Sweat, dirt, and wild adrenaline mingled as she fled toward the safety of the temple, leaving Nysa standing alone in the clearing. Alone, but unwavering.
By the time Amara stumbled back into the temple's quiet halls, her lungs burning and legs trembling, she collapsed onto her mat. Her hands flew to her face, clutching it as if she could erase the heat of memory branded there.
Her lips still tingled. Her wrist still throbbed. And her heart — her heart had tasted something it could never unlearn.
It should have been wrong. It should have been a mistake. It should have been fleeting.
But it was not.
When she closed her eyes, she saw Nysa's gaze again. Steady. Sure. Unflinching.
And buried beneath the tide of fear and panic, a single truth whispered through the chaos:
She had wanted it. She had wanted her.
A sob escaped, and she buried her face deeper into her hands, overwhelmed by shame, longing, and the heat of her own awakening. The walls of the temple seemed to close in, pressing, echoing her breaths. The bells outside tolled for evening prayer, marking time that no longer seemed hers.
No prayer could undo it.
No ritual could
sever it.
No denial could silence the truth branded into her very soul.
She loved her.
Even if it destroyed her.