I woke up to the strange feeling of calm.
It took a moment for me to realize why. For days, my body had been on constant alert, magic coiled tight beneath my skin, senses stretched thin as if expecting disaster at any second. But this morning, there was no alarm ringing in my head, no surge of power demanding control.
Only quiet.
Only her.
I turned slightly and found her awake, watching me with an expression I couldn't immediately read. She looked tired, but there was color in her face again, life in her eyes. The sight loosened something in my chest that I hadn't realized was still clenched.
"You're awake," I said.
"So are you," she replied. "Did you sleep at all?"
I hesitated, then nodded. "Enough."
That was a lie, but she didn't push it. Instead, she studied me in a way that made me uneasy, like she was seeing me clearly for the first time. I was used to being watched—by nobles, by the Council, by enemies—but her gaze felt different. Softer. More dangerous.
"How do you feel?" I asked.
She took a moment before answering. "Tired. Weak. But… lighter."
Relief washed through me. "Good."
Silence settled between us, not uncomfortable, just heavy with things unsaid. I wasn't good at these moments. I never had been. Words failed me when they mattered most, and with her, they mattered too much.
"I remember what happened," she said suddenly. "Not everything. But enough."
I stiffened. "Do you?"
She nodded. "I remember the darkness. And I remember you."
My heart skipped. "What do you remember about me?"
She looked down at our hands. At some point, without me noticing, they had ended up close together. Her fingers brushed mine as she spoke.
"You were angry," she said. "Not at me. At the demon. At the world. You kept telling it that it couldn't have me."
I swallowed. That was not something I had intended her to hear.
"I meant every word," I said quietly.
She looked back up at me, eyes searching my face. "You didn't hesitate."
"No."
"Even when it could have destroyed you?"
"I didn't care."
The honesty surprised even me, but I didn't take it back. I couldn't. Something had shifted after last night, something I could no longer ignore or pretend away.
"You were never supposed to do that," she said softly.
"I know."
"You broke rules."
"I break rules every day."
She almost smiled. "For someone who always pretends to be distant, you were very reckless."
I let out a short breath. "I was afraid."
That caught her attention.
"You?" she asked. "Afraid?"
"Yes."
"Of the demon?"
"No," I said. "Of losing you."
The words hung between us. I expected discomfort, maybe even retreat, but instead she went very still.
"I thought you didn't want this marriage," she said after a while. "I thought I was just… a responsibility."
I looked at her then, really looked at her, and wondered how I had allowed her to believe that.
"This marriage started as duty," I admitted. "I won't insult you by lying about that. But somewhere along the way, you stopped being an obligation."
"And became what?" she asked quietly.
I exhaled. "Someone I cannot imagine losing."
Her breath hitched. She reached for my hand, this time deliberately, threading her fingers through mine. The contact sent a slow warmth through my chest, steady and grounding.
"I felt you," she said. "When I was slipping away. You kept pulling me back."
"I would have kept doing it," I replied. "No matter the cost."
She squeezed my hand. "The Council won't like that."
"They already don't," I said dryly. "But they won't touch you."
Her brows furrowed. "Because of your power?"
"Because you're my wife."
There it was. The truth, spoken plainly, without poetry or exaggeration.
She leaned closer, resting her head lightly against my shoulder. The weight of her felt right in a way I hadn't expected. Natural. Familiar.
"I don't feel like a burden anymore," she murmured.
"You never were."
"I wish you'd said that sooner."
"So do I."
We stayed like that for a while, talking quietly. About how she felt, about what the healers said, about how long she would need to recover. Ordinary things. Comfortable things. The kind of conversation married people were supposed to have.
At some point, she looked up at me and smiled—really smiled—and something in me softened completely.
Whatever the Council planned.
Whatever danger still lingered.
Whatever secrets remained.
I would face them all.
Because this morning, with her alive and beside me, I finally understood the truth I had been avoiding since the day we married.
I didn't save her because I should have.
I saved her because I loved her.