53. Wounds and Words Unspoken

53. Wounds and Words Unspoken

~Esmarie Seraphine Vale~

The soft silk of the simple night dress clung to my freshly scrubbed skin as I sat on the edge of my bed back in Ciro's palace.

The Guardians had receded back into whatever world they came from after I had acknowledged their submission, shortly after that Hemne opened a portal and sent both Thorne, Ciro and I right into the palace before she went back to drag Fenrick to the dungeons as per Ciro’s orders.

The room was just the way I left it—the same brown oak furniture, heavy layered curtains, the faint flicker of the candle flames at the corner. The only difference was that the table had been cleared and the incense burner that contained the Yerterium was no where to be found.

My mind churned as I stared at the door absent-mindedly replaying the chaos of the forest—Fenrick’s attempt to kill me and use my blood to resurrect someone, the Guardians kneeling to me—the Heir of Light, the last of the Divine bloodline. The words felt like a weight I couldn’t carry, a truth too vast to hold.

But nothing shook me more that the fact that I wasn't human.

Hemne’s voice echoed in my head as i rubbed my temples, feeling a migraine setlling deep at the upper corner of my head.

“Don’t think too much, Esmarie,” she’d said as we watched the Guardians leave. “Your origins, the Guardians—it’ll overwhelm you.” Her words were kind as she promised to explain everything to me the next day but thar some how didn’t stop the storm in my mind. How could I rest easy when all I had ever believed was a lie? When my brain was still struggling to grasp this strange reality of the truth behind my existence?

My thoughts flickered to Ciro, his fierce protectiveness in the clearing, the way he comforted me....protected me. Like my life was worth more than his. Now that we're back in the palace, would that softness fade?

Would he revert back to the cold commanding king who’d once called our kiss a mistake?

I’d believed Fenrick despite his warnings, he could have been gravely harmed if that Yerterium wasn't meant to keep him asleep as Fenrick said but to kill him.

He could have died and it would have been my fault.

I deserved his anger, whatever punishment he would mete out to me. The thought tightened my chest, making it hard to breathe.

I tried to push myself off the bed to stand,trying to breathe properly only for me to wince in pain, collapsing back onto the bed, my hands gripping the sheets.

I had almost forgotten for a moment that I was injured. The wound was still raw and throbbing—a reminder of my naivety.

A rapid knock jolted me from my thoughts, and the door swung open immediately.

Like the devil haunting my thoughts, Ciro stood there, filling the frame, his dark hair damp from a bath, now clad in a simple linen shirt and black slacks.

His eyes, those piercing, storm-filled eyes, locked onto mine, and the tension between us crackled with electricity. Like the air before lightning strikes.

Behind him, maids hovered, carrying bowls of water, cloths, and small jars of ointment, their faces carefully neutral. My heart pounded, mouth dry as he stepped forward, footsteps practically silent. I braced for his anger, for the scolding I deserved. Just like last time when I had dared to run away and he cut me down with his words.

I wondered what he would do now?

Lock me up? Chain me? Starve me?

He didn’t move...didn't speak. He just stood there, towering over me, his gaze unreadable. The maids set their supplies on the table, their eyes darting between us, sensing the weight of the moment. I swallowed, my hands twisting in my lap, waiting for the onslaught of his wrath.

Instead, to my shock—and the maids’ audible gasps—he dropped to his knees beside the bed, right at my feet.

My breath totally ceased, cheeks flushing dangerously as he reached for the hem of my dress. His fingers brushed my ankle, gentle, almost reverent, as he lifted the fabric to reveal the ugly, oozing bite mark on my calf. The maids froze, their eyes wide, but I barely noticed them.

I couldn’t take my eyes away from him. All I could feel was his touch, soft as a whisper, like I was made of a material so delicate a single careless mistake could send it crumbling.

My heart raced faster with each passing beat, a nervous heat spreading through me as he dipped a cloth into the water before pressing it to the wound. I’d never seen him like this—kneeling, tender, his usual fierce and unshakeable demeanor replaced by something softer, something that made my chest ache.

He risked a glance up at me and i instantly reverted my gaze to the side, landing on the maids who stood watching him just as I was. I could barely hold eye contact with them as they giggled softly to themselves Their presence was making me shy, my face burning under their stares.

Instead I fixed my eyes on the caved ceiling dome, trying to count from one to ten.

Anything to stabilize my foolish heart.

“Leave us,” Ciro ordered with finality, his voice low but firm. I could still feel his eyes on me. Burning through my skull.

The maids hesitated, then scurried out, the door clicking shut behind them. The silence that followed was heavy, charged, filled only by the soft drip of water as he wrung out the cloth.

We were alone.

He cleaned the wound with a gentleness that didn’t match his size, calloused fingers brushing my skin as he wiped away the dried blood and dirt. I bit my lip, the sting of the wound nothing compared to the warmth under his fingers, the way it sent my heart stuttering. He worked in silence, his dark brow furrowed in concentration, making sure each movement was precise, painless. When he applied the ointment, cool and soothing, I flinched slightly, and he paused, his eyes flicking to mine. “Does it hurt?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I shook my head, my throat too tight to speak. He nodded, wrapping the wound tightly with a bandage, his fingers lingering on my calf for a moment longer than necessary. When he finished, he didn’t stand. He stayed there, kneeling, his hands resting on his thighs, his eyes locked on mine. The air between us hummed with unspoken words, the weight of everything—my betrayal, his rescue, the Guardians, my glow—hanging like a storm cloud.

I wanted to say something, to apologize for the yerterium, for trusting Fenrick, for running. But my voice wouldn’t come, trapped behind the lump in my throat. His eyes, usually so guarded, were raw, filled with something I couldn’t name—regret, maybe, or longing...

I stuttered inwardly, trying to gather my words into a single coherent sentence before the words finally tumbled out.

“I... i’m sorry,”