Page 62 of The Scars of War
He’ll be there.
22
What Lies Beyond
The sheets still smell like him. Sweat. Skin. Salt. Power. It should comfort me. The way his scent clings to my body like a second skin, the way the mattress dips where his weight once was, the way the ache between my thighs proves last night happened. It wasn’t a dream, not a fever, not another fucking hallucination. All it does is remind me how alone I am now.
Riven didn’t stay. He didn’t wake me. Didn’t touch me again. Didn’t whisper some possessive little promise that I’m his. He was just…gone. Like he knew I needed silence more than I needed him.
I push the sheet back and sit up slowly. My body screams with the memory of him, of us, of what I claimed. Beneath that…something deeper. Like my soul is bruised.
The mark on my palm is dull now, but still there. A cracked circle etched into my skin like a secret only I can see. It doesn’t throb or hum or burn anymore. But it hasn’t disappeared either.
It’s waiting. Watching.
I curl my hand into a fist. The house feels quieter today.
I dress in silence, piece by piece, like armor. Black jeans. Tight tank. Leather jacket that doesn’t belong to me, it's too big, sleeves are long, smells like war and smoke. It settles on my shoulders like a memory I haven’t earned.
The mirror in the corner doesn’t lie. I look like myself, but I don’t feel like her. There’s too much weight behind my eyes now. Too much blood under my skin. The kind of heaviness that doesn’t come from grief, it comes from knowing. From seeing. From screaming into the dark and hearing something scream back.
My reflection tilts her head. I don’t. And then I leave.
The hallway outside the room isn’t the same one I came in through. Of course it isn’t. This place reshapes itself like it’s alive, no, not alive—responsive. A creaturewaiting to see what I’ll become before it decides whether I’m a guest or a threat. The walls are quieter today. The shadows longer. The air is just a little colder than it should be.
I don’t rush. I don’t know where I’m going, but I know where I’ll end up, and I’m right. Because when I round the corner, Vale is already there.
He’s sitting in the old leather chair like he’s been there for hours. Like he never left. The room is nothing special. No grand war gallery. No veil-bent vault. Just dark wood, bookshelves that climb into shadows, and the scent of something dry and cold, like old paper and even older regrets.
Vale looks up slowly when I enter. Unsurprised, as if he knew I’d come, like he waited through the whole damn night for me to step into this moment. Like it was always going to be this way. “Close the door,” he says quietly.
I don’t remember opening it. I shut it anyway. I don’t sit at first. I just stand there, arms crossed, back straight, like distance will save me from what I already feel crawling under my skin.
He watches me the way he always does. Calm. Still. Unreadable. The kind of expression that tells you everything is intentional, even the silence. “You left,” I say.
He nods once. “You needed time.”
I study him. “To process?”
“To decide.”
The word sinks into my gut. He doesn’t mean to decide what I want. He means decide what I’ll become. I walk past the desk and sit across from him, hands resting in my lap like I’ve forgotten how to hold them properly. “You knew I’d come to you,”
“Yes.”
“You knew I’d have questions.”
He nods again. “Not all of them have answers.”
“Then lie to me,” I say, voice low. “But make it a good one.”
That earns a flicker of something, the closest thing to a smile Vale ever offers. It doesn’t reach his eyes. Nothing ever does.
We sit in silence for a long time. The kind that isn’t empty. The kind that thickens. I lean back, exhaling. “What am I?”
“You know already.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
