Page 35 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"You don't have to come," I mutter as we reach the edge of the village.
"I'd feel better staying close," she says, and there's something in her tone—not just concern, but the weight of someone who's lost people before and refuses to do it again. "I've traveled far to find you, and I'm not about to lose track of you now. Call it a character flaw."
The path to the watchtower is overgrown and treacherous, winding through brambles and over fallen logs that catch at my skirts. But I push forward with determined fury, driven by the need to look him in the eye and demand answers he probably won't give.
"So," Elçin says quietly as she helps me navigate around a fallen branch, her voice carrying genuine curiosity beneath its casual surface, "what happened? You seem…upset about something specific." There's no judgment in her tone, just the patient attention of someone who knows how to wait for the truth.
Heat floods my cheeks. "He…invaded my dreams."
"Ah." Her tone shifts, becoming more thoughtful than outraged. "Dream magic. That's…bold of him." There's something almost appreciative in her voice, like she'sacknowledging a particularly audacious chess move. "Also incredibly intimate. Most shadow lords consider it beneath them to chase women through dreams."
"It felt real," I admit, then immediately wish I hadn't.
Elçin glances at me with newfound interest, her eyebrows rising slightly. "Did it now?" There's a knowing quality to her smile that makes me flush deeper. "Well, that certainly explains the murderous expression. Though I have to say, if you're going to confront him about it, you might want to consider what message you're sending by seeking him out at dawn."
By the time we reach the clearing where the old stone tower stands, the eastern sky is beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn. And there, sitting on the crumbling steps like he's been waiting for me, is exactly who I expected to find.
But he's not alone.
"Steady," Elçin murmurs beside me, her hand briefly touching my shoulder—not restraining, but anchoring. "We'll handle this together. Though I should warn you, shadow lords don't typically respond well to direct confrontation. They prefer…subtlety.”
I storm across the clearing, my movements sharp and angry, Elçin keeping pace with a warrior-trained ease. It doesn't take long to spot the makeshift camp hidden among the trees—shadows that seem too thick to be natural, the suggestion of tents and supplies that blend so seamlessly with the darkness that I almost miss them entirely.
He is looking perfectly innocent except for the satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. But there's something else there too—a desperate kind of hunger, like a starving man savoring the memory of a feast. The smile that tells me he knows exactly why I'm here, exactly what he's done, and would do it again without hesitation if it meant touching me one more time.
Another man sits beside him—handsome, perhaps in his thirties, with the bearing of a soldier. They're deep in conversation, but both look up as we approach, the stranger's eyes widening as he takes in not just my obvious fury, but the dangerous woman flanking me.
"My lady, is everything—" the stranger begins, rising with concern creasing his features.
I raise my hand sharply, cutting him off mid-sentence. Something about the gesture feels natural, automatic—like I've silenced rooms full of people before without even thinking about it. The man stops immediately, which surprises me. Why would a soldier obey a village healer?
Before I can puzzle over that thought, my other hand is moving, connecting with Kaan's face in a sharp crack that echoes across the clearing. The force of it snaps his head to the side, and I'm vaguely shocked by the power behind the blow. Blood immediately begins trickling from his nose, bright red against his pale skin.
Where did I learn to hit like that?
"You bastard," I snarl, my voice shaking with fury, even as part of my mind marvels at how naturally the strike came. "How dare you? How dare you touch me in my dreams?"
"Well," Elçin says quietly, and I can hear the genuine surprise and admiration in her voice, "I see you've retained the important parts of your training." She glances at Kaan with something that might be respect—wary, but respect nonetheless. "Some lessons stick better than others, apparently. And some men actually let you land the blow." There's a note of intrigue there, as if she's reassessing both of us.
Kaan turns back to look at me, blood streaming down his bare chest beneath his open shirt, and has the audacity to smile. "Good morning to you, too,hatun. Sleep well?"
The casual endearment only fuels my rage. I raise my hand to strike him again, muscle memory I don't understand guiding the motion, but the sight of blood stops me cold. Guilt crashes over me with devastating force—not for hitting him, but for the wounded, almost hopeful expression that flickers across his features before he schools them back to amusement.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," I mutter, pressing my hands to his face before I can think better of it.
The healing warmth flows immediately, but it's different this time. Where before my magic felt clinical, detached, now it responds to the lingering dream-memory of his touch. Golden light spirals between us, and for a terrifying moment, I feel the echo of that impossible connection—shadow and light dancing together, my power reaching for his like a flower turning toward dark sunlight.
His eyes close at my touch, a soft sound escaping his throat that sounds dangerously close to a moan. When he opens them again, there's something raw there, something that looks almost like pain.
"There," I say sharply, pulling my hands away the moment his nose is straight again, but the golden afterglow clings to my fingertips like a betrayal. "Now we're even."
He laughs—actually laughs—wiping the last traces of blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "Worth every second," he says, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. "Though I have to admit, I was hoping for a different kind of physical contact when you came looking for me."
"I didn't expect—" Elçin starts, then catches herself, shooting me a look that's part concern, part calculation. "Magical bonds can be…complicated,” she says with the careful tone of someone who's seen what they can do to people.
"I am not married to him," I snap, heat flooding my cheeks.
"The magical signature binding you two together suggests otherwise," she replies with scientific detachment that somehow manages to be both clinical and protective. "Though it's been severed rather dramatically. That kind of magical amputation…it leaves scars. Painful ones, I'd imagine." There's something in her voice—experience, maybe, or the memory of wounds that never quite healed.
