I learned to heal wounds, not hearts. The heart, however, is the most vicious wound of all; it kills slowly and bleeds invisibly. Let my hands burn for it if I have to violate my promise to heal hers. Lyrian, Guardian of the Heart, and His Vow
Blood and smoke filled the palace. Serenya could not pass through a hallway without sensing the taint of what had transpired—that initial attempt on her life, so quick, so near—even though the chamber floors had been cleaned and the hallways were filled with incense. Even more weighty than the crown of thorns on her forehead, it held on to her like a second shadow. The council had become agitated. Guards tensed at every sound, servants looked longer, and nobles whispered louder. Their queen sat on the throne, her heart pounding in her ears like a drum.
As usual, Kaelen was silent and unyielding as he stood by her side. Though most people couldn't see Eryndor, she could feel his gaze on her even when he wasn't there. Then there was Lyrian. He was warmth where the others were shadow and steel. His touch was soothing, his smile disarming, and he moved among the courtiers like sunlight piercing storm clouds. When he spoke, even the most cynical councilors bowed closer because his voice conveyed consolation rather than authority.
At first, Serenya had not desired him. The idea of her "heart" needing to be protected had made her tense, as if it were a delicate organ that could not withstand. However, something inside of her steadied when Lyrian's hand touched hers, whether intentionally or accidentally. That might have been his real gift. Not the herbs in his satchel. Not charms, not salves, not hushed healing incantations. However, he had the ability to convince a soul that it was complete even though it was broken in the middle.
Weary to the bone, Serenya withdrew to her chambers that evening after the council's never-ending arguments had finally subsided. Silent as ever, Kaelen took his place by the door. Lyrian, however, brought a little wooden box with him as he followed her inside. She gave him a raised eyebrow. "Are you planning to play doctor once more?" His eyes were blazing, but his smile was gentle. "Only if you plan on fainting again." She covered it up with a scoff, but her cheeks warmed. That was once. Additionally, I hadn't eaten all day. "And you wore a blood-dripping crown of thorns." He placed the box on the table and opened it to reveal folded cloth, tiny vials of liquid, and herb sprigs. "When bled too frequently, even roses wilt."
As she sat, she resisted the pull of his gentleness, which so easily threatened to tear her armor apart. "You mean to treat me like a wounded bird?" Lyrian looked at her steadily and inquisitively. "No. Just to remind you, even queens are human. Serenya, you are not made of stone. And you will shatter if you attempt to be. The sound of her name, her real name without the title, was a blow sharper than any knife. She noticed the heat in his eyes before turning her head away.
"Sit still," he whispered, as if she were some wild thing that might bolt. Her hand remained in his, treacherous and trembling. He dipped a cloth into a vial, the scent of lavender and iron rising as he pressed it lightly to her skin. A soft burn followed, but his thumb brushed the back of her hand, steadying her, grounding her. He reached for her hand, lifting it gently, his fingers warm and calloused from work but tender in their touch.
Her heart was beating too fast. Even louder than the fire. louder than what she was thinking. Although it sounded weaker than she meant, she whispered, "You should not touch me so." "Then tell me to stop," he said in a steady, low voice that carried a hint of danger. She opened her mouth. She choked on the words. She was unable to order it. His smile was faint, but it was a softer one, not one of triumph. Something hurts. "I thought that."
His touch lingered longer than necessary as he wrapped a strip of linen around her hand. He didn't immediately let go of her hand when he was done. Rather, he held it, his eyes glinting in the firelight as he stared into hers. He whispered, "There are wounds that no salve can heal and no blade can cut." "However, they continue to bleed." Serenya's chest constricted. She wanted to stop him. that such words were too much for her to handle. That he had no right to care for her heart. That part of her, however, wanted nothing more than to lean into him and let the fire consume her, even if it left her in ashes. That was the burning, unsaid truth. The door creaked before she could say anything.
Standing there as a steel shadow, Kaelen's gaze shifted from her hand in Lyrian's to her face. He clenched his jaw but remained silent. Lyrian abruptly let go of her hand and took a step back, his face composed. But there was still fire in his eyes. Torn between the fire of one guardian and the steel of another, Serenya's pulse thundered. And with a fear she could not describe, she understood that the prophecy engraved on the throne was not a mystery for the future. It was coming together already.
The following day, rumors began to circulate once more. The poison discovered in the wine made for the queen's table had foiled another attempt, this time in the kitchens rather than in her chamber. Serenya sensed her palace's walls closing in. Her voice was sharp and tinged with anger as she told her council, "They have struck three times." And they have failed three times. You will either find your heads on the block or I will be the hand guiding them. She remained unflinching despite the gasps and whispers that followed. She was unable to. A faltering queen was already partially buried.
She didn't get any sleep that night, so she dismissed her ladies early and asked Kaelen to stand guard outside the chamber doors. However, Lyrian lingered again. When the others had left, he said softly, "You cannot keep this pace." She turned on him, raw. "And what would you have me do? Lay down my crown and let them carve my kingdom apart? Hide while others bleed for me?" "No," he said. "I would have you live." Something inside her sank onto the chair, her head in her hands, and she trembled for the first time since the crown was placed on her brow.
Lyrian dropped to his knees in front of her and gently removed her hands from her face. His gaze swept across hers, simultaneously tender and ferocious. "Serenya, you are not alone," he said. "Not while I'm breathing." Her eyes burned, and her throat constricted. And what happens if you fall? What happens if my remaining heart passes away with you? His voice was low and dangerous but full of fire as he leaned closer. "Then, knowing that it burned for you, it will die." There was a crackling, heavy, alive silence between them. She gasped. Slowly and deliberately, his hand raised and touched her cheek. His touch was followed by heat that spread like wildfire throughout her.
Terrified and enthralled, she realized that she would not stop him if he kissed her now. No, not as queen. Not like Serenya. However, the door shook abruptly, and Kaelen's voice could be heard. "My Queen." The council has another message. It can't wait. The spell broke, and Serenya froze. Lyrian's hand fell away, but his eyes remained fixed on hers, simultaneously warning and promising. She muttered, "Go," but it sounded more like a plea.
He made a slow, grudging retreat, bending his head slightly. But he said a final word before turning. They'll attempt to usurp your throne. Your life. Even your soul, maybe. However, your heart... His eyes blazed as he met hers. I already have your heart to guard. even if it means that I have to burn. Then he was gone, leaving her to tremble in the light of the fire, her heart no longer truly hers.