Aretia slept beneath a storm that night, wind clawing at its black stone walls, rain tracing crooked paths down the glass. Inside, silence reigned—the kind that hummed with the weight of things unspoken. Xaden moved through it quietly, tray balanced in one hand, the other brushing the cold edge of her door. The scent of smoke and steel still lingered, the faint trace of her.

He’d carried her here himself after the battle, bleeding and screaming, her eyes wide and white and sightless. The healers had done what they could, but no power could undo what the venin’s magic had taken. Sight for survival—a cruel trade, but she’d lived. She was alive, though sometimes when he looked at her, he wasn’t sure she believed that was mercy.

The room was dim. Curtains drawn tight, as though she could keep the world out by denying it light. Her weapons lay scattered across the table—instincts she couldn’t unlearn. He set the tray down carefully, thinking she was asleep. Then she moved.

In a breath, her hand slipped beneath the pillow. Steel whispered, and the dagger pressed against his stomach. He didn’t flinch. Her blind gaze fixed somewhere near his shoulder, pale eyes empty, but her aim was steady as ever.

“It’s me,” he said, voice low.

Nothing at first. Then her arm trembled, and the blade lowered. Her shoulders sagged, breath shaking. “You shouldn’t be here,” she muttered, the edge of her voice still sharp. “I could’ve stabbed you.”

“Would’ve made my evening interesting,” he murmured.

A sound escaped her—half scoff, half exhale. Then quieter, brittle: “I’m useless like this.”

He crouched before her, the candlelight catching the scar along his cheek. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “You’re breathing, which means you’re still fighting.”

She tilted her head toward the sound of his voice, lashes wet. “Fighting what, exactly? The dark?”

He huffed softly. “Then fight it.”

That earned him silence. Her hand found the blanket, fingers curling as though trying to hold the world in place. The storm outside rattled the windows, the thunder a dull echo of that night—their nightmare of fire and screaming skies.

“I can’t wake up,” she whispered. “It’s like I’m still there. Still seeing it, even without seeing anything at all.”

He reached out, slow, until his hand covered hers. Her skin was cold, trembling beneath his touch. “We’ll find a way to fix this,” he said, the promise fierce enough to burn his throat.

She turned her head toward him, blind gaze unfocused, lashes damp. “Why do you care?” she asked softly. “We were enemies.”

He huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “Maybe I got tired of pretending that mattered.”

Her lips parted, maybe to argue, maybe to give in—but she said nothing.

“And I will stay,” he added softly. “Let me stay. Until the nightmare ends.”

The room went still. The only sound was the wind moaning through the stones and the quiet rhythm of her breathing. Then, a faint nod. Small, fragile, but real.

He sat beside her on the edge of the bed, their hands still joined. The candle guttered low, shadows climbing the walls like ghosts. She leaned toward him without meaning to, her shoulder brushing his.

For the first time since the battle, he let himself breathe. Because whatever this was—enemy, ally, something unnamed—it was real. And for her, he would sit in the dark as long as it took for dawn to find her again.