Eladrel sank deeper into the scalding bath, heat wrapping around her like a shroud, numbing the ache in her hollow belly. Yet still, it did nothing for the gnawing emptiness in her chest.

 

She closed her eyes, willing herself to forget. Not just the blood she had scrubbed from her thighs until her skin turned raw, not just the cramped spasms that left her breathless — but everything . She had to be serene, glowing, safe. That’s what Larin would expect when he came home. That’s how he needed to see her. Smiling. Whole. As if nothing inside her had broken.

 

Eladrel thanked Belore above that he hadn’t returned earlier, hadn’t seen her trembling hands scouring at the stains, hadn’t found her crumpled on the floor, breath hitching in shallow, wounded gasps. If he had, he would have been at her side in an instant, fretting over her, treating her like a glass vase about to shatter. She couldn’t bear it — wouldn’t bear it.

 

Eladrel Shadowscorch was strength, cunning, fire . She was not a fragile thing. Not helpless. Never helpless.

 

Still, she could not stop her hand from drifting absently through her hair, over and over again, as her mind slid unbidden into places she had locked away. Hands she had not wanted on her skin. The choke of fear in her throat. The way her body had betrayed her by surviving when she had wanted only to disappear. The memories pooled around her like the water she floated in. Suffocating.

 

The front door creaked open. Larin’s cheerful call rang through the small cabin, distant and impossibly bright. “ I’m home, love! ”

 

She sat up straighter and blinked away the haze from her vision. She had to be ready. She had to be normal.

 

Footsteps padded toward the bathroom, and then there he was, standing in the doorway, smiling as if he could see no further than the surface of things.

 

Eladrel forced herself to hold his gaze, though her stomach twisted with the effort.

 

“You’re beautiful, do you know that?” Larin murmured, crossing the room to plant a kiss on her damp forehead.

 

The words landed like stones in her gut. She gave a smile she hoped seemed effortless, playful, even as the taste of bile rose at the back of her throat.

 

"You're marrying me for a reason, aren't you?"

 

He chuckled, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation, and turned as if to leave. But then he paused, glancing back. His gaze, warm and adoring, slid from her face downwards, tracing her body as though she were something to be devoured.

 

Eladrel's skin crawled. She fought the sudden, overwhelming urge to draw her knees to her chest, to shield herself from him, from everything.

 

"I'll finish making dinner shortly," Larin said lightly, "but if you wanted to... add something ... I'd be more than happy to feast."

 

There was a wicked cadence in his voice, teasing, innocent. He didn't know. Couldn’t know.

 

Eladrel let out a brittle laugh, sharp and too loud to be real.

 

"Go make dinner, darling."

 

He smiled once more before leaving, the door swinging half-shut behind him.

 

Eladrel leaned her head back against the porcelain, squeezing her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry, not to remember, not to drown.

 

*

 

The firelight flickered low, casting long shadows across the table where they sat, half-eaten plates between them. Larin spoke animatedly about his day — a victory in the south, good omens for the war. His voice was a comforting hum in the heavy silence of the room.

 

Eladrel smiled when she had to, nodded when it was expected, her mind miles away. Her body sat there, upright and composed, but her spirit floated elsewhere, somewhere hollow and cold, beyond the reach of warmth or light.

 

Finally, Larin leaned back, stretching with a groan, and turned his full attention to her.

 

"And how was your day, love?" he asked, voice low and fond.

 

Eladrel straightened, summoned the mask she had practiced since childhood, and gave him a soft smile.

 

"It went by smoothly," she said. It was almost true, if she didn't think too hard about the blood, the bath, the silence pressing against her ribs.

 

Larin's face lit up with relief at her answer, and he reached for his mug. Then, as casually as breathing, he asked, "And how’s our little one doing?"

 

The words shattered something fragile inside her.

 

For a heartbeat, Eladrel’s mind scrambled for footing. She could feel the chasm open beneath her, but she found her voice, weak and trembling.

 

"They’re... they’re fine," she whispered.

 

She dropped her gaze to her lap, clutching her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her mouth tasted of ash. She had said it. She had lied. It was done.

 

But her body betrayed her. The lie was too brittle, too thin to hold the weight of her grief.

 

Her chest heaved once, then again, and suddenly the sobs were tearing free, great shudders that left her doubled over, hands covering her face.

 

" Eladrel —" Larin's chair scraped loudly against the floor as he rushed to her, falling to his knees beside her. "Love, what’s wrong?"

 

She shook her head violently, gasping between sobs. She couldn’t let him see. She couldn’t let herself be broken.

 

"I’m fine," she choked out, the words strangled, meaningless. " I’m fine . I’m —"

 

But she wasn’t. She wasn’t anything close to fine.

 

Larin wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest, whispering desperate reassurances she couldn't hear. She clung to him as if she might fall apart completely if she let go, pressing her forehead to his shoulder, wishing she could bury herself somewhere no one could ever reach.

 

The truth loomed between them, vast and merciless, but for now, she held it at bay with nothing but broken words and the thinnest scraps of denial.

 

*

 

Larin had carried her to bed without a word, gentle as a man handling a wounded bird. He hadn’t asked anything, hadn’t pushed. He had only held her.

 

Now she lay there, curled tightly beneath the covers, trembling.

 

She could feel him behind her. Close, solid, steady, his hand resting lightly against her back.

 

Eladrel stared into the darkness. She couldn’t move.

 

She couldn’t breathe right.

 

Guilt gnawed at her like a wild thing, clawing at the inside of her ribs.

 

It’s my fault.

 

Just like before.

 

When rough hands had pinned her down, when her voice had failed her — when she hadn't fought hard enough, hadn't stopped it.

 

She had survived by telling herself she was in control. That she was strong.

 

But here, in the hollow aftermath of another loss, she saw the truth: she was powerless. Both then and now.

 

A soft sound escaped her throat, broken and small.

 

Larin stirred, his voice heavy with worry.

 

"Eladrel? Love?"

 

He shifted to reach for her — just a small touch, a hand brushing her arm.

 

She flinched .

 

It was a split-second thing, a sharp recoil her body made before her mind could catch up.

 

A heartbeat later, she hated herself for it.

 

Larin froze instantly, pulling back, his hands open, palms lifted, as if showing her he meant no harm.

 

"I’m sorry," he whispered, voice cracking.

 

"No — no ," she rasped, guilt flooding her faster than she could swallow it down. "I’m sorry. I —"

 

She buried her face in the pillow, hands shaking.

 

He didn’t try to touch her again. He just stayed close, letting her breathe, letting her remember who he was.

 

Ithlarin Dawnwing .

 

Kind. Patient. Gentle .

 

Not like him .

 

Minutes passed before she found her voice again, small and hollow.

 

"I lost the baby," she whispered.

 

The silence that followed was thick and aching.

 

"I..." She swallowed, her throat raw. "It’s my fault. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't... enough."

 

The shame spilled out, sticky and heavy, bleeding from the old wounds she thought had healed.

 

"I couldn’t protect them. I—I couldn’t protect myself ."

 

The confession hung between them like smoke.

 

Larin’s voice, when it came, was low and fierce and aching.

 

"No," he said. "You didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault."

 

She shook her head violently, tears burning hot down her cheeks. She wanted to believe him. Belore , she wanted to believe.

 

But deep down, the old guilt twisted like a blade.

 

Larin reached out again — slowly this time, carefully — and when his arms folded around her, she didn’t pull away. She let herself sink into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her.

 

"I'm here," he whispered against her hair. "And I'm not leaving. Not ever ."

 

Eladrel clung to him, letting the grief come, letting the anger and shame rip through her unchecked. And Larin held her through it all, steady and unwavering, until the weight of it dulled and sleep finally claimed her — heavy, dreamless, and mercifully still.

 

*

 

Morning crept in gently, a soft, silvery light spilling through the window panes. The fire had died down to nothing but cold ash, and the world outside the cabin was silent, save for the faint rustle of wind through the trees.

 

Eladrel stirred beneath the covers, her body aching in ways she hadn't known it could. Her eyes were swollen and sore, her throat raw, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t drowning.

 

Warmth pressed against her back — solid, steady.

 

Larin .

 

He hadn't left.

 

Some small, brittle part of her had expected to wake up alone. To find the hollow space beside her cold and empty, as if he had thought better of staying once he knew how broken she truly was.

 

But no.

 

His arm was still draped protectively around her waist, his breath warm against the back of her neck.

 

He was here. He had stayed .

 

Eladrel blinked against the sudden sting of tears.

 

She shifted slightly, and Larin’s embrace instinctively tightened, a sleepy, murmured sound escaping his throat.

 

"You’re safe," he mumbled, not fully awake, his voice rough with sleep. "I've got you."

 

The words, simple and earnest, broke something new and tender open inside her.

 

For a long moment, she lay there, frozen. Caught between the instinct to flee and the aching, unbearable pull to stay .

 

Slowly, carefully, she let herself lean back into him, resting her head against his chest. His heart thudded steady beneath her ear.

 

The pain was still there. The guilt, the fear, the grief — all of it tangled in her chest. But somewhere beneath all of that, fragile and flickering like the first star at dusk, was the faintest ember of something else.

 

Hope .

 

It scared her more than anything, but she didn’t turn away from it.

 

Not this time .

 

Eladrel closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him — smoke, leather, and home — and for the first time in what felt like years, let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as alone as she thought.