Page 44 of Iron Roses

And yet here stands Elaria—Elaria—with her sister’s voice in her mouth and a truth I buried so deep I nearly convinced myself it wasn’t real.

My jaw tightens. My entire body shakes—not from rage now, but from the violent, gutting crack of grief breaking loose.

A single tear slips from my eye. It burns down my cheek like blood.

She’s still crying. Quietly. Like she’s afraid to disturb something sacred.

And then—

Her hand rises.

Shaky. But steady enough to reach me.

Her palm brushes my cheek, fingers cool against my fevered skin.

She strokes the tear. Her thumb lingers there.

“Why does it break my heart when you cry?” she gasps. Her voice is fragile, like glass straining.

Something inside me collapses.

The tension in my shoulders unwinds all at once, violent in its release. My hand falls from her throat. My chest heaves. Breath escapes me like it’s being dragged out.

More tears follow.

I can’t stop them. I don't try.

She doesn’t move away.

She cups my face in both hands now, guiding me gently as if afraid I might crack in her palms. Her lips touch mine—trembling, unsure—but real.

I kiss her back.

I kiss her back like I need it to survive.

Her lips tremble against mine, parted just enough to let me taste the salt on her breath—grief, whatever this is. Her hands are still on my face, thumbs brushing under my eyes, catching tears as they fall. She holds me like I might break.

Maybe I already have.

The world contracts to her mouth, her warmth, the way her body presses into mine with no words, no expectation—just presence.

My hand slides down from her waist, finding the curve of her lower back, guiding her gently, insistently, as I edge her toward the door. Each backward step she takes draws us closer to the room I haven’t let anyone into in months. Years, maybe.

Not since her. Not since the one I try not to see in every face.

But she’s here now. And she’s not her. Not exactly.

I back her through the doorway. My hand finds the knob behind her and shuts it.

Our kiss never breaks.

I walk her backward until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed, and only then do I pull away, just enough to look at her.

Her chestnut hair is tousled, damp at the edges. Her green eyes search mine, wide and dark, shining like they’ve been holding something back for far too long. There's a birthmark at the curve of her neck, small, imperfect, unmistakable.

Just like hers.

It punches the air out of my lungs. I don’t look away.

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