Page 75 of Too Dangerous To Die

“We will be,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the lines of his jaw. “As long as we’re together.”

He says nothing. But he holds me tighter, his arms a fortress, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against my chest. And for now—that’s enough.

36

NORA

We don’t speak of the night before.

There’s no talk of what it meant—or what it could mean. No whispered promises in the afterglow, no declarations blooming like wildflowers in the dark.

Only the quiet.

Only the warmth of his hand still resting loosely on my waist as morning filters in, fractured through the high ceiling of the ruin. Only the scent of him clinging to my skin, a memory soaked into the fabric of my breath. Only the ache in my limbs that reminds me we crossed a line, again.

And yet, neither of us moves.

The moment stretches long between us, coiled and silent, filled with all the things we don’t dare say. I can feel his heartbeat against my spine, steady now, not the shuddering storm it had been the night before. That, at least, is something.

Eventually, I rise.

He lets me.

I dress in silence, aware of his gaze like a weight along my back. It doesn't burn—it anchors. But still, I keep my thoughts buried deep as I cross the chamber, toward the spot where the artifact still pulses faintly in its resting place.

The spire has changed.

The crack that bloomed when I touched it remains, glowing faintly beneath its surface like a vein of molten gold. But now, new runes have surfaced—etched high along its body, in sharp angles that shift when I try to look too closely.

I narrow my eyes, heart pounding.

They look familiar.

And then they’re not just familiar, they’recomprehensible.

The symbols rearrange in my mind, no longer shapeless glyphs but language—words—meaning. My lips move without thinking, mouth forming syllables I’ve never spoken before and yet instinctively know:

“Varn e'shar... tu’hadrin Medea.”

The artifactresponds.

A slow vibration ripples out, not in sound, but sensation—like the ground beneath me is exhaling. My knees buckle slightly under the weight of the reaction, and Rhaegar is instantly at my side.

“What did you say?” he demands, eyes scanning me like I might shatter again.

I stare at the spire, breath caught in my throat.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I mean—I do. I knew the words. They just came. It’s the Wraithborn tongue. I understood it.”

Rhaegar stiffens. “That language is lost. Dead. No one speaks it anymore.”

“I didn’t speak it. Irememberedit.”

His jaw clenches.

And still, I can feel it, tugging at my mind like a hook in my spine.

A whisper.

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