I moved through the adjoining archway into the washroom.
The reflection staring back from the silvered glass above thebasin was not unfamiliar, but it wasn’t entirely mine either. I’d seen this version of myself before—after battles, after loss, after choosing the least devastating path in a world full of devastating choices. The man who ruled armies with shadows. The one Kaelith hadn’t destroyed yet.
I gripped the edge of the basin until my knuckles cracked.
She was right. I hadn’t needed to touch her. Hadn’t needed to let the shadows slip free like that. But I wasn’t sure if they had answered my anger, or hers.
My power had always lived beneath my skin, only responding to me. It obeyed command, not emotion. Until now.
I turned away from the mirror and began unlacing the leather guards at my wrists, tossing them to the floor beside the shower. The fireplace in the bathing chambers had long since died, but the warmth from earlier lingered faintly in the stones.
My fingers moved to the buckles at my chest. The deep obsidian of my leathers glinted under the silver glow of the embedded crystals. The material released with a whispered sigh. Layer by layer, I stripped away the armor I wore even in sleep. First the bracers, then the plated vest, until the tunic fell free against the tiled floor.
My boots came next, the clasps clicking softly before they were kicked aside. I worked the fastening of my trousers loose, the fabric sliding down my legs before I stepped free of them.
I turned the valve near the stone wall, and the pipes within groaned to life. A moment later, the showerhead above hissed, then sputtered, before sending a warm stream cascading straight down in steady rhythm. Steam began to bloom around me, clinging to the air.
Reaching for the lacquered wrap on the nearby hook, I twisted my hair back—each braid coiled and secured. I gathered them at the crown of my head, then wrapped a treated shadowbark striparound all of it, tightly. Waterproof and heat resistant. A gift from Lysara long ago, when we still believed such small things could protect what mattered.
My mother had taught me to care for my hair. Long before we became Keepers. Before the war. Before I’d learned to lead.
She made her own oils from crushed anise and sweetgrass, blending them with coconut and avocado—rich emollients that soaked into my scalp and softened each coil from root to tip. She melted shea butter with aloe and honey, mixing until it smoothed enough to coat her fingertips and press into my strands.
The shea came from the nuts of the karité trees near Sylvara. We used to harvest them during the rainy season, when the ripe fruits fell to the ground.
“This is armor,”she’d say, rubbing the balm between her palms.“Just like your heart, your blood, your name.”
Each week, she would comb, section, and braid with quiet purpose, teaching me as her own mother had taught her.
"Your roots carry memory. You braid them with care, and with intention."
She’d hum while she worked, low and steady. A song without words, one I could still hear in the back of my mind when everything else went quiet.
Her nails would scrape gently against my scalp, grounding me. The scent of sweetgrass and crushed anise would linger for days, clinging to my pillow and the collars of my shirts, long after she was gone.
Heat spread over my skin, loosening the tension in my body. I exhaled, slow and controlled.
I would not let Kaelith, or this realm, change who I was at my core. Not again.
I shut the water off with a slow turn of the bronze valve, letting the final stream fall against the stone before stepping out.Grabbing a thick, dark towel from the heated rail, I ran it over my chest, down my arms, over each old scar. Some jagged, others precise. One along my ribs still burned faintly from a wound not fully healed—one that would never heal. Another, a clean diagonal across my shoulder, had been given by someone I once trusted.
I unwrapped the protective wrap from my head and placed it carefully on the drying rack. My braids fell heavy down my back, untouched by the water.
I dressed in silence.
Not my normal heavy leathers. These were quieter, built for ease of movement but still strong, reinforced with shadow-forged stitching at the seams. I didn’t bother with gloves. I’d be shaking a lot of the town leaders’ hands as I invited them to the ball.
Crossing the room, I sank into the chair by the window, the worn leather molding to my frame. The mist beyond the glass curled and shifted.
My thoughts drifted—unraveling one thread only to catch on another. The past had its claws in me tonight. But so did the present.
Aurelia had every right to be angry.
And yet, she didn’t understand what she was stepping into. What weight her presence carried. What it stirred in those of us who remembered the beginning. And I, for all my faults, should’ve explained it instead of reacting like a man backed into his own shadow.
But there was something else in her. Something primal. I had felt it the moment I saw her at the gates. Recognition. The kind that makes your bones ache.
A knock came at the door.