The palace corridors stretched like shadowed arteries through the ancient stone, their walls pitted and worn, carrying the faint, lingering scent of roasted chicken from the meeting hall, now undercut by the damp musk of old stone and the ghostly trace of lavender from some forgotten herb garden.
Elara's boots scuffed softly against the uneven floor, each step a quiet echo in the stillness, her breath visible in the cool air.
A single drop of blood, warm and metallic, slid from her nose, staining her lips with a coppery tang before she dabbed it away with the crumpled cloth Brenna had pressed into her hand.
The fabric was coarse, its weave rough against her skin, already blotched with crimson spots that gleamed faintly in the torchlight.
Lysandra walked beside her, her presence a steady anchor, her calloused hand resting lightly on Elara's elbow, guiding her through the labyrinthine halls. The faint creak of Lysandra's leather belt, the soft clink of the dagger sheathed at her hip, punctuated the silence, a reminder of her ever-watchful vigilance.
Elara's body ached, each muscle heavy with the toll of the day—the endless lists scrawled in the meeting hall, the creak of scavenged chairs, the shimmering strain of the portal she had forced open to summon steaming platters of food.
Her head throbbed, a dull pulse behind her eyes, and the blood from her nose left a faint iron aftertaste in her mouth. Yet Lysandra's touch grounded her, the warmth of her fingers seeping through the thin fabric of Elara's sleeve, a silent promise of care.
The torchlight flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the cracked stone walls, painting Lysandra's sharp features in hues of gold and amber—her high cheekbones, the determined set of her jaw, the glint of her dark eyes scanning every darkened alcove for unseen threats.
"You push yourself too far," Lysandra murmured, her voice low and rough, like the scrape of a blade being whetted. It carried a note of concern, softened by intimacy, as she glanced at the blood Elara wiped away.
She didn't press further, though her grip tightened briefly, a wordless plea. Elara met her gaze, the weight of the day settling between them like dust in the air, and they continued toward Elara's chambers in silence.
The arched doorway to Elara's chamber loomed ahead, its wooden frame warped and splintered but still standing.
Lysandra pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest, and a gust of cooler air greeted them, carrying the faint scent of wax from a lone candle burning on a rickety side table.
The flame flickered, casting trembling shadows across the sparse room—a heavy wooden bed with rumpled linens, a cracked washbasin in the corner, a single chair missing one armrest.
Moonlight filtered through a fractured window, its panes webbed with cracks that distorted the pale glow into jagged slivers across the stone floor.
Elara sank onto the edge of the bed, the frame creaking under her weight. The mattress was thin, its straw filling rustling faintly, but the linens were soft, their faint lavender scent a remnant of her efforts to make this ruin a home.
Her fingers brushed the coarse weave of the blanket, its texture grounding her as exhaustion pulled at her limbs. The blood from her nose had slowed to a sluggish drip, but another droplet escaped, landing on the collar of her dress with a faint patter.
She wiped it with the cloth, the motion mechanical, her vision blurring at the edges.
Lysandra barred the door with a wooden latch, the thud of it settling into place a quiet reassurance. She turned, her silhouette sharp against the candlelight, her dark hair falling loose from its braid, strands catching the glow like threads of obsidian.
"Let me help you," she said softly, crossing the room with measured steps, her boots whispering against the stone. She knelt before Elara, her fingers deft as she unlaced Elara's boots, the leather creaking softly.
The act was intimate, deliberate, and Elara felt the tension in her shoulders ease, replaced by a warmth that spread from Lysandra's touch.
They changed into their nightgowns in a quiet rhythm, the rustle of fabric filling the space. Elara's gown was a simple shift of white linen, its edges frayed from use, the fabric cool against her flushed skin.
It smelled faintly of soap and sunlight, a small comfort in the dilapidated palace. Lysandra's gown was similar, though hers bore delicate embroidery along the neckline—faded roses stitched in silver thread, a relic of a life before the ruin.
As Elara slipped the gown over her head, another drop of blood fell, staining the collar with a dark bloom. She sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet, but Lysandra was already there, her fingers tilting Elara's chin up with a gentleness that belied her warrior's strength.
"It's only me," Elara whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes meeting Lysandra's. The bleeding was hers alone, a private cost of her magic, but in this moment, it felt shared, a vulnerability laid bare.
Lysandra's thumb brushed Elara's cheek, the calloused pad warm against her skin, and she nodded, her dark eyes softening. She fetched a fresh cloth from the washbasin, dipping it into the ewer's cool water, the faint splash echoing in the stillness.
The damp fabric was soothing as Lysandra cleaned the blood from Elara's face, her movements slow and precise, wiping away the crimson trails with care. The cloth smelled faintly of the basin's metal, mingling with the lavender in the air, and Elara leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed.
The candle's flame wavered, casting its shadows in a slow dance across the walls. Lysandra set the cloth aside, her fingers lingering on Elara's jaw, tracing the line of it with a tenderness that made Elara's breath catch.
The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken need, the weight of the day giving way to something softer, more urgent.