Chapter 21

The wheels of the carriage hummed softly beneath them, a rhythmic lull that wove through the late afternoon air. Golden light filtered through the velvet curtains, catching in Elias' dark hair where he sat across from her, his head resting lightly against the wooden panel behind him. One leg was stretched out, the other bent slightly to accommodate the pain in his side, though he made no complaint.

Ilya watched him through the occasional sway of light and shadow. He looked tired. Not just from the road or the weight of his armor, but from something deeper—something that clung behind his eyes. She recognized it. It lived in her too.

The events in the village already felt far away, though they'd only left that morning. The scent of pine and smoke still clung to their clothes. A jar of balm sat tucked in the basket by her feet, wrapped tightly in cloth.

Elias shifted, wincing faintly. Ilya's gaze snapped to his side.

"Still hurting?" she asked quietly.

He opened one eye. "Only when I breathe."

She smiled softly. "That doesn't sound important."

"I've found it to be mildly essential."

They lapsed into silence again, the kind that had grown comfortable between them. Outside, the world blurred by—tall grass and sloping hills giving way to the distant outline of the capital's stone walls.

When they reached the keep gates, Elias stood slowly, accepting Caedan's hand as he stepped down. Ilya followed, her skirts brushing the dirt road as the warm light of sunset bathed the courtyard.

"Go and rest," she told him as they entered. "Have someone draw your bath."

Elias glanced at her with a tired smile. "Only if you promise not to steal my horse while I'm in it."

"I make no promises."

She watched him go, his steps steady despite the lingering tension in his frame. He didn't look back, and she was happy for it lest he see the ache in her eyes and breast, her hand coming up to rest gently on her sternum.

The more she got to know him…the more she…

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"I trust you received the balm?"

Madam Therin's voice came softly from behind. Ilya turned to find the older woman waiting near the hallway, hands folded.

"I did," Ilya said. "He's still sore."

"I imagine so," Therin murmured. "He's fond of underestimating pain. A trait shared by men and fools." There was a beat of silence before she stepped forward, her voice lowering slightly.

"He won't tend himself properly," she added. "But he'll let you."

Ilya blinked. "Me?"

Therin tilted her head, almost amused. "He trusts you. Enough to let you see him as he is."

There was another pause.

"I…couldn't possibly…" she began.

"His bath has been drawn," Therin said gently. "The guards are posted further down the hall so that no one will disturb you."

Heat crawled up Ilya's neck. She opened her mouth to protest, but the older woman was already turning away.

"I'll make sure no one comes near," she called softly. "The time is yours either way."

Ilya hesitated. Her heart thudded against her ribs. She looked down at the jar in her hand—the same balm she had once used to soothe the scorched flesh along his side. She tried to call reason to mind but she was drawing a blank, thinking only of the implications. She had decided to treat him like her husband, as he treated her as his wife. Though she had only known him for a week they were still joined, and it would be a lie to say she did not want this.

She didn't think further. She simply moved.

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The bath chamber was dim, lit only by the soft glow of wall sconces. Steam rose from the stone tub in the center of the room, curling like breath against the high windows. The scent of rosemary and pine drifted through the air.

Elias sat with his back to the door, submerged up to his chest, his arms resting on the rim of the bath. His hair was damp and tousled, sticking slightly to the nape of his neck. He didn't turn as she entered.

"I am bathing now, Therin. Do not—" he said quietly before he froze. He had not yet turned to look…but he knew those movements.

Ilya swallowed. Her hand tightened around the balm."I brought this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder, and something in his eyes softened."You can leave it."

"I'd rather help. I…want to," she said softly.

His brow lifted. He studied her for a moment longer."You do not have to—"

"I said I want to, Elias. Now… face forward."

He blinked, glancing at his mask on the floor and remembering his promise to keep it off. Then he looked back to her, noting the way she tried to keep her hands from shaking before he finally obeyed and faced forward.

"As you wish."

She stepped closer at his words, her footsteps muffled by the stone floor. Steam kissed her skin as she knelt beside the tub, unwrapping the jar with careful fingers.

"You always smell like trees," she murmured without thinking.

He chuckled. "A consequence of sleeping beneath them often enough."

She dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it gently. Her hand trembled as she brought it to his shoulder.His skin was warm beneath her touch. Tense. Scarred.

She washed in slow, deliberate circles, working down the line of his spine, then across his broad shoulders. He didn't speak, but she could feel his breath deepen, see the muscles in his arms loosen under her care.

The balm came next. Her fingers dipped into the jar and pressed gently against the burns, tracing the old and new with the reverence of someone tending sacred ground.

"You're not afraid of them," he said suddenly.

She glanced up, trying to keep her gaze in places proper. "The scars?"

He nodded and turned slightly, enough to look at her fully. Water glistened across his collarbone, catching the candlelight.His eyes met hers—and held.

"I never wanted you to see me as a monster that you had to suffer with."

"I never have."

Silence fell again, but it was charged now. Something had shifted between them—an invisible thread pulled taut.

Her hands slowed. Her heart beat louder in her ears."Ilya…"

She set the balm aside. Her fingers found the hem of her tunic.

"Let me," she said.

He didn't move. Only watched.

Steam curled between them as she stood slowly, her body moving on instinct, her gaze never leaving his. The ties at her collar came undone with steady hands, and as the fabric slipped from her shoulders, his breath caught.

She stepped into the water.

The surface rippled gently as she moved toward him, settling carefully into his lap. Her arms rested around his shoulders, her cheek brushing his temple. His hands came to her waist, not possessive, just present—steadying her, grounding them both.

For a long moment, they simply breathed.

"I don't deserve this," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

"You do," she whispered. "Let me show you."

She leaned in and kissed him.

It was slow, unhurried—a question, not a demand. But when his lips parted for hers, something deep within her unfurled. Their bare skin met in a hush of steam and water, and he held her like something sacred.

The world narrowed to warmth and breath, to the hush of water and flicker of firelight. Words fell away, replaced by a language older than either of them knew—shared through hands and closeness, through the meeting of hearts long guarded.

And when the rest slipped into silence, when the steam thickened and the light softened around them…

The world outside faded.

Only they remained.