And I had no idea what my place was in any of it.
Kara found me before she left. I'd drifted to a window that looked out on nothing—just darkness and distant stars, the boundary between the Sanctuary and the void—and suddenly she was there, her arms wrapping around me in a hug that was fierce and quick and overwhelming.
"Let him take care of you," she whispered against my ear. Her fire-marks warmed my skin where we touched. "It's what he needs."
Then she was gone, following Davoren into the courtyard, leaving me with words I didn't understand.
Lethimtake care ofme? Morgrith was the one who had just sacrificed his dragon-nature. Morgrith was the one who could barely stand without trembling, whose starlight eyes had dimmed to something approaching mortal, whose vast power had been torn away and scattered across the veil. Surely he was the one who needed care.
I was good at giving care. It was all I'd ever been good at.
The Sanctuary fell silent around me. Not an absence of sound, exactly—the shadows still whispered, the starlight still pulsed, the darkness still breathed with its own strange life. But the people were gone. All of them. Every Dragon Lord, every mate, every servant who had appeared during the ritual. Just me and Morgrith, alone in a realm that felt suddenly, impossibly vast.
I found him in a corridor near the heart chamber, one hand braced against the wall, his breathing slightly uneven. He looked up as I approached, and even diminished, even weakened, his gaze made my pulse skip.
The bond. It had to be the bond. This awareness that hummed between us, this pull that made me want to close the distance and press myself against him the way Kara had pressed against Davoren. The way a planet orbits a sun—inevitable, unstoppable, beyond any choice I might make.
I pushed the feeling down and assessed him with a healer's eye.
His pallor was concerning. The shadows beneath his eyes spoke of exhaustion that went deeper than sleep could cure. His pulse, visible at his throat, seemed faster than it should be—stress, probably, or the strain of holding himself upright when his body wanted to collapse.
"You should rest," I said. The words came out automatically, the same tone I'd used on countless patients. "Your body has been through significant trauma. If you tell me what herbs you have available, I can prepare something to help restore your strength—"
He caught my hand.
I hadn't even realized I was reaching for his wrist—habit, the instinct to check a patient's pulse—until his fingers closed around mine and stopped me mid-motion. The contact sent a shock through my entire body. Not pain. Something else. Something that felt like lightning trapped beneath my skin, like every nerve I had suddenly waking up and paying attention.
His eyes held mine. Dimmed but still knowing. Still seeing everything I tried to hide.
"When did you last eat?"
The question was so unexpected that I blinked. "I—that's not important. You need—"
"When did you last eat, Lena?"
My name in his mouth. Soft as shadow, steady as stone. It did something to my chest that I wasn't ready to examine.
I tried to remember. Before the ritual? No, I'd been too nervous to eat. During the journey on Davoren's back? I recalled Kara pressing bread into my hands, but had I actually eaten it? The days blurred together—pain and power and impossible choices, and somewhere in there I'd apparently forgotten to feed myself.
My silence was answer enough.
Something shifted in his expression. Not disappointment. Not judgment. Something that looked almost like recognition. Like he'd known, somehow, what my answer would be.
"Come," he said.
He moved slowly through the Sanctuary's corridors, and I watched him lean on furniture, on walls, on anything that could take his weight. When I tried to offer my arm, he shook his head once—a small motion, but final. He would not accept my support.
But he would lead me to food.
The dining chamber was small and intimate, lit by that same starlight that seemed to permeate this place. A table had been set with simple things: bread, soft cheese, sliced fruit, a pot of honey that caught the light like liquid gold. Two chairs. Two plates.
Had someone prepared this? Or did the Sanctuary itself provide, responding to its master's unspoken needs?
Morgrith lowered himself into a chair across from me. The motion cost him—I saw the tightness around his eyes, the careful way he settled his weight. But he didn't complain. Didn't acknowledge the pain.
He simply watched me with those dimmed starlight eyes and said: "Eat."
I reached for the bread. My hands were shaking—delayed shock, probably, or the strangeness of the power still humming through my veins, or the overwhelming intimacy of being alone with him in this quiet space. The bread crumbled before it reached my mouth, pieces falling onto the table like evidence of my failure to do even this simple thing correctly.