Page 57 of Realms of Swords and Storms
"This is why I've been staying away," he said, his words slurred around teeth too large for his mouth. "Why I couldn't tell you. I couldn't bear it if I hurt you. If I lost control completely..." He shook his head. "Please, Livia. If you love me, leave. Now. Before it's too late."
Instead, I closed the remaining distance between us and reached for his transformed hand. He tried to pull away, but I held firm, capturing his wrist and turning his palm upward. The hand that had touched me so tenderly minutes before was now a fearsome weapon—fingers elongated, nails hardened into curved talons that could tear flesh from bone.
"Don't," he whispered, trying to pull away again. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," I said with absolute conviction, and placed my palm against his, fingers interlacing with those transformed digits. His claws pricked my skin, but he was careful, so careful, even in this state. "See? You're still you."
His eyes—those beautiful, frightened, amber eyes—searched my face. "How can you not be afraid?" he asked, genuine confusion in his voice.
"Because I know you," I answered simply. "In the arena, in battle, even at your most violent, you've never lost yourself completely. Your control is part of who you are, Tarshi. This—" I gestured at his transformed state, "—doesn't change that."
A tremor ran through him, and for a moment I thought the transformation was worsening. But then I realized he was fighting it, his jaw clenched with effort, his free hand balled into a fist so tight that blood welled between his fingers where his own claws cut into his palm.
"That's it," I encouraged, placing my other hand against his face, feeling the strange texture of his transformed skin—rougher, almost scaled in places, but still warm, still him. "You can control this. Focus on my voice, on my touch."
His eyes locked with mine, and I poured everything I felt for him into that gaze—my love, my trust, my absolute faith that he would never harm me. Slowly, so slowly, his breathing steadied. The glow in his eyes dimmed slightly, the tension in his body easing degree by degree.
"Breathe with me," I said softly, demonstrating a slow, deep breath. "In through your nose, out through your mouth."
He followed my lead, matching his breathing to mine. With each exhale, the transformation seemed to recede slightly—the blue tint fading from his skin, the sharpness of his features softening, the claws retracting incrementally.
I continued to hold his gaze, one hand still clasping his, the other cupping his cheek. "That's it. You're doing wonderfully. Just keep focusing on me, on us, on this moment."
Minutes passed, or perhaps it was longer—time seemed to stretch and compress in that strange, charged space between us. Gradually, Tarshi's features returned to normal, the glow fading from his eyes until they were once again the warm brown I knew so well. His hands, still held in mine, were human again, though I noticed with concern that the effort had left him trembling, sweat beading on his forehead.
When the transformation had fully reversed, he slumped against me, exhausted. I guided him to sit on the edge of the bed, his weight heavy against my shoulder.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I never wanted you to see that."
I knelt before him, taking both his hands in mine. "Don't apologize. Not for this, not ever."
He wouldn't meet my eyes. "You don't understand what's happening to me. I'm becoming the very thing I've been taught to fear my entire life. The demon blood—my father's cursed legacy—it's growing stronger. Soon I won't be able to control it at all."
"Demon blood," I repeated, pieces clicking into place in my mind. "Is that what you think this is? That you're part demon?"
He nodded miserably. I took a deep breath, weighing my options. There was so much Tarshi didn't know, so much that had been kept from him—from all Talfen. The truth about theirnature, their heritage, what they truly were. Sirrax had shown me, had explained it all when our bond had deepened. But it wasn't my secret to share freely.
And yet, looking at Tarshi now—broken, frightened, hating a fundamental part of himself—I knew I couldn't keep the truth from him any longer.
"Can you walk?" I asked, standing and offering my hand.
He looked up, confusion creasing his brow. "What?"
"There's something I need to show you. Something important."
"Now?" He glanced toward the window, where night had fully fallen. "It's after curfew."
"This can't wait," I insisted. "Not after what just happened. Please, Tarshi. Trust me."
He studied my face for a long moment, then nodded, accepting my outstretched hand. "Always."
He winced as he stood, his injured leg clearly still causing him pain. "The transformation seems to make the wound worse," he admitted when he caught my concerned look. "As if the energy it requires diverts from healing."
"We'll take it slow," I promised, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him.
We dressed quickly and simply—just enough to be decent if we encountered anyone on our journey. Then, with Tarshi leaning heavily on me, we slipped from our quarters and into the darkened corridors of the academy.
This late, most of the staff and students were asleep, but imperial guards still patrolled the grounds. I guided us through servant passages and hidden corridors I'd discovered during my weeks here, avoiding the main hallways where we might be spotted.
