Her fingertips, wrapped in thin gloves, hovered above the motionless figure beside her. She lay close enough to feel the chill that radiated from his skin, a cold that seemed to swallow even the air between them. He looked half-dead, trapped somewhere between life and whatever waited beyond it.
"Curse to eternal sleep… is that the truth?" Her voice came out rough, barely more than a breath. Her red eyes stayed fixed on his still face, her hair spilling over the white sheets like a flame bleeding into snow.
Against his pale skin and silvery hair, her warmth stood out almost violently. Red and gold clashing against white and silver — a living reminder of how far apart their worlds were.
"It must be true," she muttered, brushing a strand from her cheek. "Why else would the King of Solyria hand over ports that valuable? He must be desperate. If this man's the last of his bloodline, it makes sense he'd be worried." Her words hung in the silence, unanswered. She knew he couldn't hear her. Even if he could, he was no more aware than a corpse washed ashore.
With a quiet sigh, she pushed herself up, her gaze settling on him from above. "I should let him die," she whispered, and a faint, wicked smile tugged at her lips. "Yes. I'm going to do that. Why wait?"
The glint in her eyes faded just as quickly. "No, I can't," she said under her breath. "Not when I'm married to him." A soft, bitter laugh slipped past her lips before she flopped down beside him again, stealing a share of his blanket with lazy defiance.
After a moment, she tugged off her gloves. The fabric slipped away to reveal rough palms, cracked and scarred — the hands of a soldier, not a noblewoman. She tossed the gloves aside, the faint sound echoing in the dim room. Hugging herself, she rubbed her arms for warmth, the texture of her skin reminding her of every hardship she'd endured.
Soon, her breathing slowed. The edge in her body melted into stillness, and she let the weight of it all sink her into sleep.
The steady tick of the clock grew louder, sharper — each click drilling into Noori's half-dreaming mind. She turned over, restless, the mattress too soft to ease her tension. Her brows furrowed as she shifted again and again, trying to find comfort that refused to come.
Finally, with a soft growl, she kicked the blanket away. The air felt heavy, too warm against her skin. Her dress rode up as she moved, revealing faint scars across her legs — pale reminders of old battles. When she flung an arm across Dastan's unmoving chest, her body finally stilled.
Her expression softened, her breath deepened. A faint snore escaped her lips, quiet and almost peaceful.
But the peace didn't last.
Beneath her hand, the man she'd long thought to be nothing more than a body began to stir. His brow twitched, his fingers flinched, and a thin sheen of sweat gathered on his forehead. After four years of stillness, even that small movement would have been enough to send servants screaming.
Noori slept through it all.
Then came a sound — a low, strangled groan that broke through the silence. Dastan's breath hitched, his body trembling as if trying to remember how to move. The effort twisted his face in pain.
"Why?" The word scraped out of his throat, weak and raw.
Noori's brow wrinkled again, disturbed by the faint movement beneath her. She blinked groggily, her vision swimming as she tried to make sense of what she felt.
Two eyes opened. Cold, piercing blue.
For one still heartbeat, they stared at each other.
"I thought you were dead," she croaked, her voice thick with sleep.
But Dastan's awareness came fast and wild. With a sudden jolt, he lurched upright, energy surging through limbs that had lain still for years. His hand reached for the sword on the wall — a motion born of instinct — and before Noori could even sit up, the blade was pressed against her throat.
"Who are you?" His voice, rough from disuse, rang through the chamber like a storm.
Noori didn't flinch.
"I'm your wife," she said flatly, her tone steady, almost bored. "Put the sword down."
He blinked, confusion flashing across his pale face. The strength that had carried him up drained away just as quickly. His arms trembled, the sword slipping slightly.
"You're going to fall," she warned, voice low but firm. "Sit down."
He didn't. His body gave out before he could. The sword clattered to the floor as his knees buckled, and Noori caught him before he could hit the ground. She grunted, guiding him back to the bed with surprising gentleness.
"There," she muttered, tucking the blanket around him again.
Her voice softened. "Next time you wake up, try not to point sharp objects at me. In the Nuria Empire, we consider that rude. Last person who did that ended up with an arrow between the eyes."
She turned on her side, meeting his dazed stare. "I'm Noori. Your bride. They tricked me into marrying you, but I still take vows seriously. So we stay alive, and we don't kill each other. Not yet, at least."
Dastan's lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.
"Do you understand?" she asked quietly.
His only answer was the slow blink of someone caught between waking and dreaming — and a silence that spoke louder than either of them expected.