In that splinter of time, everything had clarified. She would have rather died in that arena than live in a world without her mate.
The medical wing smelled of sharp herbs and clean linen. The healers, two efficient women with steady hands, guided Kovrak onto a wide bed. He released her hand only when he was seated, and the loss of contact felt like stepping away from a fire.
“Let’s see the damage,” one royal healer murmured, her fingers already working at the blood-soaked bandages applied at the arena.
Faith forced herself to watch, to not look away as the layers were peeled back to reveal the brutal tear in his side. The flesh was an angry map of purple bruising and dark blood. Her stomach rolled, but she locked her knees. If he could endure it, she could witness it.
Before she could claim the chair beside the bed—a silent vow to not move from his side—his voice, low and strained, cut through the rustle of bandages.
“Go wash up,” Kovrak said, his gaze pinning her.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You are.” A muscle ticked in his jaw as the healer probed the wound, but his focus never wavered from Faith. “You have a dessert to finish.”
“The dessert can?—“
“No,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for debate. “What we are—your sweetness, my fire, the courage we showed today—that is what our pride needs to see solidified. Not in blood, but in creation. In something that proves we can build.” He drew a careful breath, his eyes softening a fraction. “You worked for this. I will not let you sacrifice it because I took an arrow.”
The logic was infuriating and perfect. It wasn’t about dessert; it was about symbolism, about providing a new narrative for a pride that had just witnessed a brutal challenge. It was leadership.
Faith crossed to the bed and cupped his face. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re perfect.” He managed a pained smirk. “Now go. Create something worthy of us.”
She leaned down, pressing a careful, lingering kiss to his lips. “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered against his mouth. “With the best thing you’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m counting on it,” he murmured.
Once back in her suite, the hot water of the shower was a baptism. It sluiced away the grit of the arena sand, the phantom scent of violence, and the clinging, greasy feel of two days spent in the dim captivity of Varrek’s remote cabin. She scrubbed her skin until it shone pink, trying to wash away the memory of chemical heaviness in her veins, the blank, stolen hours, and the sound of Varrek’s voice telling her she would learn to obey.
She refused to let those shadows take root. They were not the story of this week. The truth was brighter. She had found her true mate. She had chosen him before his entire people. He had fought and bled for her, and the love that had forged itself in the chaos of kidnapping and fire and public combat felt so startlingly, fiercely pure.
He is mine. I am his.The thought was no longer terrifying. It was her foundation.
She stepped out of the steam, wrapping herself in a plush towel. In the walk-in closet, she bypassed the elegant dresses and reached for practicality: soft black leggings, a simple blue blouse, and over it, the familiar armor of her white chef’s coat.
Once she was dressed, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back didn’t look broken or confused anymore. She looked reborn.
The dessert she had conceived two days ago—a representation of their union—waited in her mind fully formed. It was time to bring it to life. She grabbed her recipe notebook, her fingers itching for flour and heat.
The palace corridors were quiet as she moved toward the kitchens, her steps quickening with purpose. The final act of the Festival of Twin Suns would not be a battle, but a revelation. And she was ready to bake it.
Faith soon pushed open the kitchen door, the familiar scents of flour and vanilla already wrapping around her like a promise. She expected the quiet hum of a space awaiting creation. Instead, her breath caught.
Liora stood by the central island, one hand braced on the cool stone. Her usual vibrant energy was subdued, replaced by a weary strength. A dark bruise shadowed her jawline, and her movements as she reached for a bowl were careful and measured.
“Liora?”
Her friend turned around fully. The sight of Faith sparked a brilliant, pained smile that lit her blue eyes. Relief slammed into Faith’s chest so hard her knees buckled. She stumbled forward, crossing the space in three frantic steps, and pulled Liora into a fierce embrace, mindful of hidden injuries.
“You’re alive. You’re safe,” Faith breathed into her friend’s shoulder, the words cracking with emotion.
Liora’s arms came around her, holding tight. “I am. Some of the pride found me outside the arena. Varrek’s men… they discarded me like rubbish once they knew he was dead.” She pulled back, her gaze searching Faith’s face. “I heard what you did. Shouting and running into the arena sand between two massive tigers, ruining the assassin’s aim. You were magnificent.”
“I was terrified,” Faith corrected, a shaky laugh escaping her. “But seeing you here safe… it’s the best surprise.”
Before she could say more, the kitchen door swung open. Not with the abruptness of an intrusion this time, but with a steady, purposeful flow. Merral entered first, his posture impeccable as ever, though his eyes held a warmth she’d only seen in glimpses. Elder Corwin followed, his weathered face determined. Behind them filtered in a handful of pride members Faith recognized from the feast and the town square—the baker from the town, a young female gardener with steady hands, an older woman who had watched her with curiosity days before, and two other women that Liora said were her mother and grandmother.