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I set the bowl aside, reach for the hem of my shirt, and freeze.

These aren’t my clothes. The fabric beneath my fingers is smooth and foreign, not the worn leathers I had on when I ended Silas. Those leathers were stiff with blood and saltwater. These are clean, expensive. Something a royal would wear.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “So he undressed me. Lovely.” It’s not modesty that makes my jaw tighten. My body has never been something I hide. But it is mine.

I glance down. Black silk trousers. A loose satin shirt, short-sleeved and soft against my skin, no undergarments. Practical, I suppose.

Of course royalty would never sacrifice comfort. I exhale sharply and strip the borrowed clothes away, letting the satin whisper down my legs. The air kisses skin that feels strangely new, mended, seamless except for the scar along my arm.

Then I step into the bath. Warm saltwater rises around me, heavy and familiar, cradling every inch of my body. I sink beneath the surface, letting it close over my shoulders.

It feels like being returned to myself. The aches in my muscles loosens. The tightness in my chest unwinds. Even my thoughts are quiet, settling.

I tip my head back against the rim of the tub and stare upward. Half of the ceiling is covered in script, the old language of the Slayers Academy, carved into plaster and painted in gold. The codes we live by. The ones that bind and break us.

The other half is a mural of the sea, waves crashing in shades of indigo and green, a castle rising from their depths. Moonlight spills across it, making the painted water look like it’s moving.

I close my eyes as the warm water seeps deep into my skin. A single tear slips free, sudden and uninvited. I can’t remember the last time I let someone take care of me. Maybe that’s why this feels so foreign. Why it makes me feel so emotional, I don’t know. I’m not used to feeling like this. I’ve cried so much lately from loss and pain. I need to shut down my feelings before they get the best of me. As much as I hate to admit that Silas is right in any way, loving is a weakness.

I’ve always been the one left for dead, relying on my magic to stitch me back together before the next fight.

Wake up.

Heal.

Survive.

That’s all I’ve ever known. But Roman came here. He protected me, healed every inch of me, bathed me, dressed me, drew this bath, and left food, fire, and warmth, like I was something worth looking after.

I hate royal blood, but Roman doesn’t carry his father’s arrogance or his family’s coldness. He feels different.

Maybe the rumors are true, the ones about the prince who went rogue, the heir who’d rather burn the throne than wear the crown. Maybe this is his olive branch. His way of saying “I’m not your enemy.” Or maybe it’s just another game. I've been in this business for far too long to expect kindness from anyone.

Either way, I don’t know whether to thank him or kill him the next time I see him.

I think back to the night I met him, the way his eyes burned like tiny embers, alive with something wild and untamed. It made me feel something I’d never felt before, like a missing piece had finally found its way back to me. But I was too drunk on anger, too blinded by the sight of the vile king in front of me to notice what those eyes were trying to say.

I reach for the bowl of stew I’d set aside and balance it against my chest, taking slow, careful bites. My gods, this is delicious. Warmth spreads through me with each spoonful, settling deep in my stomach until I’m full. Another feeling I’m not accustomed to. I never have the pleasure of just enjoying food. I only have time to scarf down whatever’s necessary to keep me alive.

Then I realize, the bathwater hasn’t cooled. It’s still perfectly warm, wrapping around me like it was poured just moments ago. Even the stew hasn’t lost its heat. If I blow gently, it’s the perfect temperature, so as not to burn the roof of my mouth.

Magic. The thought slips through me. Is he controlling all of this, keeping the fire alive, the bath warm, the food fresh? What is he, really? And where did he go?

I rise from the tub, water slipping off my skin in lazy trails, and reach for the towel draped over the chair beside the desk. It’s warm. Of course it’s warm. I narrow my eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

My knowledge of healers may be thin, but I know they’re supposed to mend the body, not alter the world around it. Roman’s father despises magic, so if he ever found out what his son is, he’s as good as dead. Blood isn’t always thicker than water. Especially when he has another son to take the throne. However, Roman had to have gotten his powers from somewhere. Either the king is hiding something, or the queen is.

I scan the room and find my cloak hanging neatly on the coat rack by the door, cleaned and pressed. Below it stand my boots and blades, clean as well. I take note that the blade Maddoc forged for me is accounted for.

I cross the room barefoot, expecting the cold stone tiles to bite at my skin, but they’re warm, too. What the hell.

My clothes are pristine, no blood, no trace of the battle. I run my hand over where the fabric should be ripped from the blade that came close to killing me, but there’s no evidence of a tear. Then my eyes find the part of my cloak I cut a piece from to seal Maddoc’s ashes in a vial. The fabric is how I left it, the piece still missing, but cleaned from the salt, blood, and ash coating it.

I glance down at the raised scar running like a dark river across my healed skin. A reminder. Proof that it happened, even if everything else has been erased. I like my scars, so I’m happy he didn’t heal them as well. Even this new one is a reminder of love and loss, power and vengeance.

I slip back into my clothes, the tight black uniform of a slayer molding to my body like a second skin. For the first time since waking, I feel like myself again.

Still, the air hums with something unnatural. Magic bleeds from every corner. The steady warmth, the crackle of the fire, even the moonlight spilling through the window feels alive. It pulses, syncing to the rhythm of my heartbeat.