Page 68 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"Both stable," he announces, wonder in his voice. "Weak, but stable. The divine light and your blood together... they've created something unprecedented. A healing beyond our understanding."
They remove the tubes, and I finally allow myself to collapse completely, the venom still burning through my system but no longer lethal—my shadows slowly, painfully, learning to consume it.
"It will take weeks for her to recover fully," the chief healer warns. "Perhaps months. The trauma was severe, and the baby..."
"Will live," I finish. "They both will."
I drag myself up enough to press my lips to her forehead, tasting salt from tears—mine or hers, I don't know.
"You are my breath," I whisper against her skin. "You are my heart. And I will never leave you."
Days pass before she wakes properly. I don't leave her side—I can't, not after almost losing her. When her eyes finally focus on me, confusion flickers across her features.
"You prayed," she whispers, her voice hoarse. "I heard you... somewhere far away. You promised to stop the war."
"And I will." I brush hair from her face. "For you, for our child, I'll find another way."
"You took the poison into yourself."
"A small price."
Tears slip down her cheeks. "You could have died."
"Without you, I would have anyway."
She manages a weak laugh. "Such romantic words."
But she curls into me, exhausted but alive. The silver scars on her skin are already beginning to fade, though they'll never fully disappear—permanent reminders of how close we came to losing everything.
The blood exchange saved her life, but the venom has left its mark on me. I can feel traces of it still, lurking in my shadows, changing me in ways I don't yet understand. But it's a small price to pay for their lives.
And somewhere, in realms beyond shadow and light, I wonder if Gün Ata is watching, waiting to see if I'll keep my desperate promise.
23
The Distance Between Us
Nesilhan
My body achesin ways that I don't want to comprehend. So instead, I focus on the room around me—it is unfamiliar—obsidian walls carved with healing runes that pulse with soft light, crystals embedded in the ceiling that hum with restorative magic. This isn't Mira's cottage. My lip trembles as I fight back the tsunami of anguish that demands my attention. A tear escapes from the corner of my eye.
And there, in the corner like a sentinel keeping watch, sits Kaan.
He looks different. Exhausted. The sharp edges of his aristocratic features seem dulled by something deeper than physical fatigue, and there are shadows under his eyes that speak of sleepless vigil. His clothes are stained with blood—my blood, I realize with a start—and his usually perfect appearance is disheveled in ways that suggest he hasn't moved from that chair in hours.
When our eyes meet, relief floods his features with such intensity that it makes my chest tight. But underneath the relief,I see something else—a haunted quality that wasn't there before, as if he's witnessed horrors that will follow him into dreams.
"You're awake," he says, his voice rough with disuse. "Thank the gods, you're awake."
I try to speak, but my throat feels raw, scraped clean by screaming I can barely remember. The memories come in flashes—pale hands, serpentine tongues, the taste of copper and terror. My legs clench together instinctively, as if I can somehow stop the images from flooding back. A sob tears from my throat, raw and desperate.
"Kaan," I plead, his name breaking on my lips.
He's beside me in an instant, scooping me up despite my wounds, and I collapse into his shoulder, tears streaming down my face as the dam finally breaks. The cry that escapes me builds and builds until it becomes a scream—wordless, anguished, carrying all the violation and terror I've been trying to hold back.
I scream into his shoulder, I want to tear the world apart. What they did to me, what they did to my baby. I push back, feeling wild, out of control, and touch my stomach. "The baby..." Kaan's gaze flashes with pain I've never seen before.
"The baby—" I repeat, pleading, needing him to tell me our baby is okay.
