Chapter 11: The one she would not Lose

Even in the heart of heat, the air atop Selvareth was thin—cool and sharp, carrying the scent of wild herbs and mountain snow. The Sanctum of Mendirael, Orion's hidden domain, protected by Velastra's spell, rose from the slope like a half-buried relic of the divine.

Its long halls were carved from pale marble veined with silver, its ceilings high and vaulted, open in places to let sunlight and starfire pour in. Incense burners shaped like phoenixes lined the corridors, their gentle smoke curling around etched prayerstones and the low chanting of attending acolytes. The sound of windchimes—strung with bones of extinct skybeasts—echoed faintly, a harmony of calm.

Rooms were arranged in spiraling tiers, each marked by the nature of the wound: body, spirit, or curse.

Wounded immortals lay in silence behind gauze-like curtains, tended by silent healer-priests in linen robes marked with the crest of Selvareth—a root wrapped around a star.

There were no walls in the upper sanctum—only arched colonnades that opened to the skies, allowing the sacred wind to pass through and carry sickness away. Runes pulsed faintly in the floor beneath every step, ancient scripts that shifted shape depending on who walked over them, adapting to pain, trauma, or need.

This was no mere healing place.

It was a place where time softened. Where wounds did not vanish, but remembered, and where healing was not just a cure—but a vow.

In the deepest, where sunrays almost unseen, Velastra sat motionless. Her armor had been stripped away, her back exposed to the cold, where the marks of Veytashil still seared like molten ink.

The lashes shimmered faintly under the candlelight, their wounds resisting even the oldest healing chants.

Not far, Orion—high druid and master of Selvareth—stood hunched over scrolls and bowls of crushed roots and glowing dust.

"No balm stays. No runes hold. Even blood chants only stall it," he muttered, brushing silver ash from his fingertips.

He stepped closer, the hem of his robes brushing against the crystalline floor. His antler-circlet tilted as he peered at her with both frustration and sympathy.

Velastra didn't move. Her gaze was fixed eastward, still a vagged silhouette on the edge of the horizon—silent, watching.

Orion lowered himself beside her.

"You've come to Selvareth before, but never like this," he said. "You aren't here for a cure."

She didn't look at him. Her voice was steady.

"As this is the place, I am allowed to break."

That startled him more than any wound.

He looked at her again—Velastra, once the fiercest prodigy the royal lines had ever feared, now sitting still, her power curled tight as a held breath.

Quietly, he asked:

"Why him?"

She didn't pretend not to understand.

"Why are you so possessive of Cael?"

There was no immediate answer.

The wind moved through Selvareth like a sigh.

And then she said:

"Because he looked at me without hatred."

"...And no love."

Orion blinked.

"Because even when I broke him," she continued, "he remained… himself. Because he never cowered yet he never fought. Even when bleeding."

Her voice dropped lower, like a secret uncoiling from her ribs.

"Because if I die… he would forget what it means to be vengeful and will burn flames for my soul."

Orion bowed his head. There was no pretension in her voice, nothing of duty. Only the raw ache of someone who had finally found the thing they feared most to lose.

"I am getting afraid," she whispered. "Cael… he is the only thing I cannot release."

The wind stilled, as if even Selvareth paused to listen.

And then Orion stood, his robes sweeping behind him, a new resolve in his expression.

"Then let us keep you alive. Before that possession becomes grief."

He walked toward the line of flames, gathering the last of the silver-root salve grown only under the stars of Selvareth.

Velastra remained.

Her back still bled softly.

But her soul began to stitch itself back together—

Not with spells.

Not with swords.

But with a name unspoken on her lips, burning softly behind her teeth, her courage to live.

CAEL.

Then, she said, "Let's start."

The chamber then turned dim, lit only by the steady glow of floating runes etched along the inner arc of the dome. Beneath their soft silver shimmer, Velastra lay, her back bared to the chilled air.

The wounds from Veytashil—ran across her spine like a cursed constellation, deep and slow to close, even under oath-bound medicine.

Orion stood beside her, his fingers steady despite the growing tension in his brow. In his hand, he held a small obsidian bowl. Within it, a salve—newly crafted, refined from moonroot, ironblood resin, and ancient phoenix marrow.

"This may never dull the pain ," he said quietly, kneeling beside her. "But will coax the wounds to mend. It may sting at first."

Velastra gave a breathless nod.

Orion dipped two fingers into the thick silver salve and pressed it gently along the first wound.

Then the second.

By the third, Velastra's body tensed—her breath shuddering in her throat.

"Go on," she said, voice low.

Before he could respond, her back arched violently. Blood spilled down her spine, fresh and dark, as if the lashes had been struck again that very moment.

She hissed between her teeth, trembling. Her palms crushed into the marble floor, nails cracking. Her eyes—so often cold—now shimmered with pain she tries to hide.

The wounds reopened, pulsing red and raw.

"No," Orion breathed, horrified. "It's reacting… rejecting it.. VELASTRA! It's pulling the wound back."

He wiped the salve off with a chant, but the damage was done. Her skin was weeping blood. The runes in the chamber flared red, warning of danger to the host.

He worked quickly, binding her back in gauzing ritual, mixing a numbing draught from nearby vials. All while she said nothing.

No cry.

No scream.

Only the quiet sound of her trembling breath.

When the pain dulled enough for her to speak, Orion gave her water. She took it with a shaking hand.

"Why…" she murmured. "Why is it worse?"

Orion knelt in front of her, his expression grave. "Because the wound is not only physical."

He paused.

"Veytashil wasn't just meant to break your flesh, Velastra. It was meant to remind you that you are still bound to this kingdom."

A long silence passed.

Outside, the wind howled across Selvareth, carrying the whispers of ancient pain.

"You need to rest," Orion said at last. "The trials will wait. We'll find a way when you have strength again."

Velastra didn't argue.

Didn't protest.

She merely leaned back, her eyes half-lidded in exhaustion. Her armor lay in the corner, untouched. Her sword was still sheathed. The blood is still fresh.

"Orion, I need to heal... tonight or tomorrow."

For the first time in her immortal life, Velastra looked like she might break. Her voice was barely a breath, cracked and raw, as she whispered:

"… I want to see him again."

---

The days passed like distant echoes in the east wing of the palace.

Cael walked its halls, no longer in chains, but with an ache heavier than iron. Again, Velastra had not returned for so long, since that day she left with a stain of gentleness, after eating his mother's Suveril balls.

Commanding him to recover until his wounds leave no pockmarks.

But never once did she say his name like she used to.

Never once did she ask if he was disobedient. If there are spaces for new marks.

He sat alone in the courtyard that night, the garden lanterns flickering low. The scent of jasmine was too soft. The air is too quiet.

And for the first time in decades, Cael missed her anger.

"She seems forgiving me," he murmured, more to himself than to the night. "Is she starting to forget me as well?"

He hated himself for the thought that followed. Somehow, he regrets praying for her gentleness.

Because in her cruelty, there had been focus. Attention. A fire that burned only for him. A force that made him feel seen—even if it scorched.

Now, her absence was like being set down and forgotten.

A part of him—a foolish, fractured part—wished she would come back furious, eyes ablaze, words laced with steel and fire. That she would grab his jaw again. Mark him. Bruise him. Curse his name.

Because then he would know she still needed him.

Still remembered.

Still possessed him.

Instead… the silence grew.

And every quiet kindness from her felt like distance—like water washing away the shape of what they were.

"Don't let me go," he whispered to the night.

But no wind answered. No boots came down the corridor.

Only the stars above—soft and cold—and the slow rise of doubt tightening its grip.