Page 12 of When Sisters Collide
She thanked him, but just as Thocero turned to leave, Dorias’ voice filtered in from outside—low, clipped, and unmistakably irritated as he exchanged words with the guards.
Katell winced. “How angry is he?”
Thocero gave her a weary smile. “Hard to tell. When he brought you in, you were on the brink of death.”
“It was just a cut.”
He snorted. “Your guts were hanging out.”
“Adeepcut then,” she grumbled.
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
She sighed. “Fine… Send him in.”
“As you wish, Praefect Viridia.”
Katell scowled at the Rasennan name she’d been given following her promotion to leader of the Black Helmets.
Viridia.Green, in reference to her eyes.
Thocero left with a soft chuckle, his calm voice drifting towards the front of the tent, where he exchanged a few quiet words with Dorias. A moment later, Dorias stepped through into her private space, his crimson cloak swishing behind him and his armour polished. He must have taken the time to clean up before returning to her—ever the disciplined soldier.
Ladina moved to greet him. “Legate Dalmati?—”
“Leave.”
His tone was clipped, his face unreadable, but his eyes—locked on Katell—burned with barely restrained emotion.
Ladina bowed and exited. As soon as she did, Dorias crossed the space in three quick strides and pulled Katell into his arms, one hand gripping the back of her head. He pressed a fierce kiss to her hair.
“Laran’s shield,” he muttered. “I thought you were dead.”
Katell’s heart twisted. She wrapped an arm around his torso, her fingers grazing the cold metal of his breastplate before curling into the warm fabric beneath. She closed her eyes,breathing in the familiar scent of cedar oil and fire-smoke clinging to his armour. “I’m glad you found me.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her. One calloused hand cradled her face, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. His slate-grey eyes searched hers with an intensity that made her breath hitch.
“I’ll always find you when you need me.”
Then he kissed her, his hand sliding into her hair. She leaned into the touch, drawing strength from it, even as the rigid tension in his frame betrayed the storm he was holding back.
“And the Northerner?” she asked.
“Gone.” His tone turned colder. “Laran’s flame reduced him to ash.”
“Good.”
Silence settled between them, thick as smoke. His eyes drifted over her, noting every wound, every bruise. She swallowed a stab of guilt. Although she wanted to reassure him, the ache deep in her core told a different story. Her healing Gift had been pushed to its limit.
Thocero was right. She was lucky to be alive.
Dorias sat beside her on the carved wooden stool, his crimson cloak pooling in rich folds like spilled wine. He didn’t speak right away, just stared at her with a weariness that went bone-deep, the mask of command slipping.
“What happened?”
She hesitated. Memories of the fight flickered through her mind, and fragments of the Northerner’s words returned. Deep down, his questions had stirred something uncertain.
“He was the same as me,” she said at last.
