They didn't stay long.
Boo's attendants had offered them a spare room off the main chamber—though "room" was generous. It felt more like a perfumed observation cell than a guest suite. The walls were draped in lush, velvet fabric in deep shades of plum and obsidian, while the corners shimmered faintly with runes designed to absorb sound rather than reflect it.
A divan dominated the center of the room—wide, low, and decadent. The cushions sank beneath even Nyxia's light frame, creaking faintly as if they'd hosted far more indulgence than sleep. A basin of warm water stood nearby, its steam faintly scented with jasmine and copper. There were no windows. No clocks. Only a single flickering lantern, pulsing in time with the ambient glow of the artificial city.
The door clicked shut behind them with a finality that made the silence deeper somehow.
Nyxia sat on the edge of the divan, her arms folded across her knees. Her body trembled—not from fear, not entirely from pain, but from release. The kind that comes after too many days of being clenched tight, after too many nights running and bleeding and pretending it didn't hurt.
Her armor lay discarded in a heap. Dried blood—hers and others'—streaked the leather plates, crusted into the buckles. One shoulder pad was warped from the acid in the vines, another cracked clean through. Her thin cotton robe, hastily tied and already damp with sweat, clung to the curve of her ribs and revealed too much of her collarbone.
The shower chamber was tucked at the end of the guest wing, hidden behind a sliding door etched with faded runes and low-burning sconces.
It was cavernous, carved into the stone like a forgotten spring. Steam curled lazily from brass nozzles overhead, the air thick with warmth and the scent of lavender oil and volcanic mineral salts. Water poured like a gentle cascade over smooth stone, pooling into a shallow basin that glowed faintly from within.
Perseus turned the handle slowly, testing the pressure.
"It's hot," he murmured, glancing back over his shoulder.
"I'm not made of glass," Nyxia said from behind him, already shrugging off the robe. Her voice was even, but there was a quiver underneath—a worn thread of nerves and something rawer.
He turned away quickly, giving her the illusion of privacy. She didn't ask for it, though. The rustle of fabric behind him was deliberate.
By the time he looked again, she was already stepping under the water, her long white hair clinging to her shoulders, flushed skin bathed in candlelight and steam. The bruises stood out like spilled ink—across her ribs, the curve of her thigh, the side of her neck where a vine had nearly crushed her windpipe.
She didn't hide them.
Perseus swallowed hard.
"You coming?" she asked, turning her head slightly. Her voice was soft. Unreadable.
He hesitated. Then pulled his shirt over his head, the damp fabric clinging to his skin before he tossed it to the side. The rest followed. When he stepped into the water beside her, the heat made him gasp—it was hotter than expected, the kind that seared away thought and left only breath.
They stood shoulder to shoulder in the narrow cascade.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The water pelted their skin, curling around collarbones and knotted muscles, trailing down bruises and dried blood. Nyxia leaned into it, eyes closed, arms wrapped loosely around her middle.
Perseus reached for the soap—something smooth and dark with the faint smell of sandalwood—and lathered it between his palms. He didn't look at her directly, but he felt her watching.
"Turn," he said quietly.
She did. Slowly.
He washed her back first. Carefully. Respectfully. His hands moved with the precision of a healer, avoiding the worst of the bruises, lingering only where the dirt refused to fade.
Nyxia shivered under his touch, but didn't pull away.
The soap frothed, slid down her skin in lazy rivulets, washing away the battlefield. Washing away Ves'Sariel.
When he moved to her arms, their eyes met.
"You're staring," she whispered.
"You're beautiful," he said, too quickly.
Nyxia blinked.
The steam rose between them, thick and cloying, but her gaze never wavered.
"I thought I lost you," he added, voice quieter now. "In the vines. I couldn't breathe until you opened your eyes again."
She reached up—just slightly—and touched his jaw.
"You didn't," she said.
Their breath mingled in the narrow space, the only sound the rhythm of water and the soft thrum of tension, poised and heavy.
He leaned in.
Almost.
Her forehead touched his first. Damp. Real. Grounding.
Their lips hovered, not quite meeting.
It would've been so easy.
But Nyxia stepped back.
"We should finish cleaning up," she said softly.
Perseus nodded, though his chest ached in a very specific way.
They didn't speak again until they left the water. But something had shifted—tangible and delicate. Not broken. Not quite begun.
Just waiting.
Perseus stood at the basin, his reflection warped in the rippling water. He braced both hands against the stone edge, watching the slow drip from the ceiling disturb the stillness below.
Loque had curled into a loose protective coil at Nyxia's feet. His spectral tail looped lightly around her ankles. His breathing was steady but shallow, the afterglow of too much combat flickering in the dim shimmer of his hide.
No one spoke at first. There were no more monsters to kill. No more enemies to threaten. Just the sound of the lamp pulsing overhead and the steady hiss of a vent in the far wall.
Eventually, Nyxia broke the silence.
"You think she'll keep her word?"
Perseus didn't turn. He dipped his fingers into the basin, flicked water from them, then shook his head.
"She will," he said. "But we'll regret owing her."
Nyxia snorted—a low, bitter sound that barely stirred the air. "That's the world now, isn't it? Every favor's a knife with a smile painted on the handle."
That made him turn. He looked at her fully—really looked—and the lines on his face seemed deeper, carved by something older than fatigue.
"You did good in there."
"I didn't do anything," she said. Her voice cracked. "She saw through me the moment I walked in. Like I was some broken thing she could use for kindling."
"You're not broken."
Nyxia lifted her head slowly. Her pale eyes shimmered faintly, like glass just before it cracks.
"You didn't see how she looked at me. Like I was a memory someone else had left behind."
"You're still here," he said. "That's what matters."
Perseus crossed the room. He moved like a knight who'd taken too many hits—each step steady, but reluctant, like the ground itself fought him.
He knelt beside the divan and offered her a flask.
She took it without a word. The metal was cool against her fingers. She uncorked it and drank.
The liquid burned. Sharp. Bitter. It wasn't wine. It wasn't medicine either. It was some hybrid concoction Boo likely kept on hand for guests who'd seen too much. It helped.
Perseus didn't sit too close. Just close enough for her to feel the weight of him, the warmth that rolled off his body. His shirt was damp, sleeves rolled to the elbows, neck opened to reveal the collarbone beneath the chain of his armor. He smelled like iron, incense, and something faintly like oiled leather.
"I thought you were going to punch her," Nyxia said after a moment, her voice softer now.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I considered it."
"And then she touched your face and you forgot what planet we were on."
His ears burned crimson. "Not… entirely inaccurate."
She laughed. Hoarse. Real. The sound surprised them both.
The silence that followed was easier.
"I hated seeing you like that," Perseus murmured. "In the vines. In her trap. It felt like—like I failed. Again."
Nyxia turned her head slightly. Her temple grazed his shoulder.
"You didn't."
"I was supposed to protect you."
"You did."
Perseus looked down at her. Her legs were curled beneath her now, and Loque had adjusted to drape one paw lightly over her knee like a ghostly shield.
"You got me out," she said. "That's what counts."
He nodded. Jaw tight. Voice lost somewhere between guilt and something deeper.
She shifted again, drawing the robe tighter. Her hair had dried in messy strands that clung to her neck and forehead. A dark bruise was blooming near her collarbone, half-hidden by the fabric. Perseus wanted to say something—to ask if she needed healing, if she was really alright—but the words didn't come.
Instead, she asked, "Do you think she's changing?"
He frowned. "Boo?"
"No. Ves'Sariel."
Perseus hesitated.
"She used to be someone," Nyxia continued. "A person. She cared about music. About her people. About me."
Nyxia shivered slightly. "Now she smiles when she hurts. She enjoys it. That wasn't her before."
"She's gone," he said gently. "What's left… is just the shadow that grew in her absence."
Nyxia didn't answer. Her hand tightened around the flask.
The silence stretched.
"You should sleep," Perseus offered. "Even a few hours."
"I don't know if I can."
"I'll stay," he said. "Until you do."
Nyxia looked at him again. There was something in her expression—something frayed and fragile and far too raw for words.
She nodded once.
Perseus stood and walked to a small shelf near the door. He grabbed a folded blanket from a carved drawer and came back. With great care, he draped it over her shoulders.
She didn't resist. The weight of it—warm, real—pulled her deeper into the divan's cushions. Loque exhaled, curling tighter, his glow dimming.
Perseus lowered himself beside her. He didn't speak. Just settled in, hammer across his knees, eyes trained on the door.
The light overhead pulsed slower now, dimming into twilight hues. Outside, the underground city throbbed with faint life—machinery echoing through steel bones, the shuffle of tired feet, and the occasional faint cry of laughter lost in the distance.
But inside, all that existed was the hush of candlelight, the rhythm of two breathing bodies, and the quiet gravity of what they still had to do.
Nyxia's eyes closed at last.
And Perseus kept watch.