Her eyes opened to darkness. No footsteps. No chains dragging across stone. Just quiet. That awful kind of quiet that pressed against the ribs like a warning.
Then the lock on her door clicked.
Four figures in hooded black cloaks stood in the frame, not saying a word. No one called her "Subject." No one yanked her chains. They just stared. Waiting.
Something inside her shifted. Fear, maybe. Or instinct.
One stepped forward. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face hidden like the rest. He knelt and unlocked the chains at her ankles and wrists, each click unnervingly gentle. He wasn't breathing like the rest. His chest rose a little too fast. His fingers curled tight in his gloves.
Orion.
She didn't let it show. Couldn't.
She didn't flinch, but her muscles ached from stillness, and her vision swam as she stood. Her legs shook and her vision blurred,Her knees buckled once, and someone caught her elbow gently
Am I being executed?" Seravyn rasped.
No one answered.
They surrounded her, escorting her out of the dark, mold-ridden cell she'd called home for too long.
The corridor outside was wrong. Too bright. Too clean.
They led her into a room of smooth marble. White floors, white walls, the sterile scent of lemon oil. A long silver table sat in the center. Two chairs, one man. And he wasn't human. Not with skin that pale and eyes that black.
"Please," he said smoothly, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Sit."
Seravyn tilted her head. "Did you hit your head somewhere?"
"Excuse me?"
She snorted. "Just wondering. First the clean floors, now the manners? What's next? A birthday cake?"
The other guards said nothing. But Orion… Orion's stance shifted. Just a hair.
The man chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "You'll find wit amusing only for so long, Miss Vale. Sit."Still got your tongue, I see. How fortunate. You'll need it where you're going."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"On the contrary." He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You're being transferred."
Her chains were gone, but the air itself felt binding.
"You've served your time in the underground facility. Your purpose here has expired."
She blinked. "My what?"
He folded his hands on the marble desk. "You're being transferred."
"Transferred where?"
"To the Sanctum."
The word hit her like a blade. "The academy?" she repeated.
He nodded. "You will be enrolled. You will complete your four years. And you will not run."
Seravyn's throat tightened. "You're joking."
"I'm not. You belong to the Sanctum now. Property of the Crown of Sovaria."
"Property?" she spat. "I'm not a thing."
He stood, gliding around the table like a panther in silk. "You're what we made you, Seventy-Three. And now, you'll serve us another way."
From his coat pocket, he retrieved a thin band of silver etched with runes that shimmered faintly red.
He knelt.
Before she could recoil, he clasped it around her ankle. It sealed with a hiss.
"If you step beyond the Sanctum walls without clearance," he murmured, "you'll feel this ring burn through every drop of your blood. You'll collapse before the second step."
" If you keep trying…" His smile revealed his fangs, "You won't survive the third."
She couldn't speak.
"She's offensive to the senses," he muttered, almost to himself. "Parade her through Sovaria like this, and the stench alone could start a rebellion."
He waved a hand. "Take her to be cleaned. She will not arrive at the Sanctum looking like a corpse."
He didn't spare her another glance.
Two of the cloaked guards stepped forward, their grip on her arms was strong as they led her through winding halls of glass and stone. Light poured in from somewhere above, real sunlight and it hurt her eyes. Her feet dragged against floors too clean to be real. This wasn't a dream.
A door opened. The chamber was quiet. White marble everywhere, veined with faint gold. A steaming bath sunk into the floor, petals floating on the surface. Soft towels, stacked beside jars of salves and oils and a shelf of floral scented soaps.
The scent of jasmine and something honeyed lingered thick in the air.
She stood frozen. She hadn't had warm water since... since before they took her.
She didn't move until the guards slipped away and the door closed behind them with a soft click.
Then the silence wrapped around her and Seravyn broke.
She curled her arms around herself and slid to the floor.
She didn't hear the door open again. But she felt him.
"Hey."
Her head snapped up, breathing ragged.
Orion stood at the door, not in a cloak now, just simple grey, his red-gold eyes soft with something close to guilt. He held a small bundle of black clothes in one hand and a thin comb in the other.
"I didn't mean to scare you," he said quietly. "I thought you might need… these."
He knelt and set the bundle down. She stared at it—soft folded fabric, a plain black body top, leggings, even underthings. Real ones.
She didn't speak.
He reached for a nearby stool and sat, watching her carefully, like she was some creature he wasn't sure wouldn't run.
"You're allowed to get in, you know," he said, nodding toward the bath. "No poison. No tricks. Just water."
"Real water?" Her voice was hoarse.
"Tested it myself." A small smile. "Smells like flowers, right? I went with jasmine. Figured you could use a win."
He hesitated, then added, "I can wait outside."
But she didn't tell him to leave. She just stood, slowly, painfully, and moved toward the bath. Every step felt like blasphemy.
A sound escaped her throat. Half gasp, half moan and her eyes fluttered shut. The heat seeped into her bruises, her bones, her scars. The dirt loosened. Her body uncoiled.
She hadn't felt clean in years.
When she opened her eyes again, he was still there. Closer now. Kneeling beside her with the comb and a small bottle of soap.
"You want help with your hair?"
She didn't answer but she didn't say no.
So Orion rolled up his sleeves, gently wet her tangled strands, and lathered them with soap, careful not to tug.
Orion worked in silence, his fingers combing through the lathered strands of her hair with care that made her throat ache.
She hadn't meant to cry, but the moment the warmth touched her spine and his hands touched her hair like she was allowed to be tended to, the sobs came.
She turned her face away, but Orion didn't flinch. He just kept going, working the soap through gently, rinsing without a word.
When he leaned back to reach for the oil, she caught sight of something wrapped in black lace atop the clothes bundle. Her choked sound of surprise broke the quiet.
"You—" Her voice cracked. "Is that… underwear?"
He froze mid-motion. "…It's practical."
She blinked through her tears. "Practical? You got me lace."
"I didn't choose lace, it was just what was available in your size—wait, stop laughing—"
She did. But only because she was still crying too.
The bathwater rippled as she sank deeper. It wrapped around her like a second skin. For a minute, she said nothing, let herself breathe.
"You must miss this," Orion murmured eventually.
"I wouldn't know." She tipped her head back against the porcelain rim. "I didn't grow up with baths like this."
His hand paused, oil bottle still in it.
"I grew up in a brothel," she said flatly. "They didn't waste warm water on girls who cleaned vomit off floors."
Orion didn't move. She felt him watching her, but didn't open her eyes.
"Sometimes I'd sneak into the courtyard when it rained. Use a bucket. Pretend it was something else."
His hands moved gently as he massaged the eucalyptus oil into her scalp, careful not to press too hard. Her eyes were closed now, her breathing even, and for a moment she looked almost… safe. He smiled softly, fingers brushing down to the back of her neck, then pausing.
"I should check the cuts again," he said quietly. "The ones on your back."
She didn't speak, but tilted forward slightly, enough for him to see the pale scars and rawer wounds still healing across her spine.
He dipped his fingers into the little jar of salve and gently smoothed it over her skin, careful and slow.
"I'm glad it's healing," he murmured.
"It feels better," she whispered.
There was silence between them, soft and full. Then she leaned back into the tub again, and he let his fingers trace a line down her nose, light as breath.
"You deserve all the baths in the world," he said, voice thick now. "But right now, I can only give you one. And we're running late."
She groaned. "Just a minute more."
He laughed as he rose and turned away, offering her a towel without looking. She stepped out, wrapping herself quickly, water trailing down her legs to the stone floor.
"Don't be silly," she said dryly, "you've only seen me naked all this time."
His ears turned red, but he didn't turn back.
"She reached for the clothes and when she pulled on the lace underwear, she held it up with a grin.
"You're sure you didn't pick this on purpose? You're really committing to the aesthetic."
"I didn't pick those," he said quickly, then added, "Actually, I did, but it wasn't like—just put the clothes on, Vale."
She chuckled and slipped them on. The black sleeveless body top hugged her frame and the leggings clung to her legs like they belonged there. The softness of the fabric, the absence of grime… it made her feel like someone else.
"You can turn now," she said softly as she tied the lace of her boots.
He did. The world tilted and he forgot how to breathe.
She stood there in the soft black body top and leggings, damp hair cascading in red-orange waves over her shoulders, clinging to her skin like threads of flame. Her eyes gods, her icy blue-gray eyes caught his gaze and held it prisoner.
He saw the beauty mark beneath her right eye and thought, absurdly, that it looked like punctuation. As if the universe had signed her name with it.
She wasn't just beautiful, she was ruinous.
And he couldn't look away.
His chest ached not from pain but from awe, and for a moment, he forgot they were in a place built for suffering. For a moment, she was the only thing in it.
He moved on instinct, hands lifting the cloak without a word. But as he stepped closer to fasten it around her, his breath caught as if touching her might shatter something in him.
"You're…" he began, voice rough. Then stopped.
She tilted her head. "I'm what?"
But he only shook his head with a crooked smile. "Clean," he muttered instead.
She smirked. "Right."
He draped the cloak around her shoulders, fingers brushing her collarbone before pulling away like she burned. Which, somehow, she did.
She looked down.
The anklet was still there, thin and silver and too tight against her bruised skin.
"Will it really hurt me?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," he said. "And worse. Don't push the fates , Seravyn."
He stepped back, but it looked like it cost him something. "We've stayed too long."
She didn't move. Her gaze stayed locked to his face.
"I haven't seen your face," she murmured.
He blinked.
"I've seen your back. Your hands. You've seen all of me," she said. "But not once… Have I seen you."
His jaw clenched. He said nothing.
So she stepped forward.
Softly.
Slowly.
Her hand rose.
He caught it gently, fingers wrapping around hers. There was no warning in his eyes now, only hesitation. And fear.
But slowly, painfully he let go.
She reached again, and this time, he let her.
The mask came away with the faintest rustle of leather, and when it did, Seravyn's breath caught.
He was—
She couldn't find the word.
Handsome didn't cover it. Beautiful felt too soft. Dangerous wasn't the right shape.
His jaw was sharp, shadowed by the faintest stubble. His mouth looked like it had been carved to curse saints and kiss sinners. Red-gold eyes blinked at her, burning and wide, like he couldn't believe she was real.
And she without thinking reached for him again.
Her fingers brushed along his jaw, then up into his hair.
It was softer than she imagined.
His breath shuddered out. His eyes fell closed. He reached for her then, helplessly, one arm winding around her waist, the other cradling her back with aching gentleness. She stumbled into him, heart thudding as her body met his, and his back hit the marble wall behind them.
She fit perfectly against him.
His heart was racing.
So was hers.
"You're…" he whispered again, voice breaking apart.
She looked at him, looked at his lips, and then his eyes.
Their foreheads nearly touched.
The warmth between them crackled — too much. Too soon. Too right.
Then
A knock.A voice behind the marble"It's getting late."
Orion flinched. Reality snapped back like a whip.
But Seravyn didn't move. She stayed there with her fingers still in his hair, her breath still warming his cheek, her eyes still locked on his like she didn't care what waited outside the door.
And he wanted to stay there forever.
But she stepped back and gods, he hated the space between them.
His hands trembled as he reached up, brushing his thumb against her cheek.
"I wish I didn't have to take you back," he whispered. His voice was low, raw. "I wish we had more time. Just... one more minute."
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
And that silence, that unbearable silence ripped through him harder than any blade.
His fingers lingered for a second longer. Then he pulled the mask down over his face, sealing himself away from her again.
"Stay behind me," he said, voice hoarse. "Don't let go.
He turned, opened the door and her voice followed him like a shot to the heart.
"Orion," she said, steady as steel. "I stay behind no one."