At the feeling of his warmth, the pressure of his magic, I gasped. I expected the touch—expected the movement of my magic as it met with his—however, the touch continued to deepen, and my nerves rose in confusion. I snapped my eyes shut, waiting for the pressure I had felt before, for the electric fusion of a bonding, but nothing came before Ilyan lowered me down to the ground. I opened my eyes to the stormy sky right outside the window of our room, and the gentle taps of rain as it fell over the stonework on our balcony.
I looked around in confusion, confusion I knew I should not feel at Ilyan using the Stutter to move us across the abbey. He kissed my forehead before moving away, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the room we had shared for the past few nights, the room we had fought in, the room I had kissed him in.
“This was my mother’s.” Ilyan’s voice was reverent as he walked back to me, his hands wrapped around a small, golden box. He held it out to me, the carving on the top rattling through me.
I gasped as my hands flew to my chest, my stomach tightening in surprise.
Ilyan held in his hands the box I had seen not once, but twice. First in the nightmare that had woken me before I went to heal Dramin and then in the sight that had come to me after our fight. I stared at the box as I tried to make sense of it, as I tried to understand what this box meant and why my magic had shown it to me so many times. My hand shook as I reached toward the golden surface of it, trying to determine if it was wood or gold, but right then, it didn't matter.
“I have seen this before,” I whispered as my fingers ran over the lid, tracing the faces of the two bears, one on either side with a wreath of roses held between them.
I touched the delicate carving as the image of the sight came back clearly; the two of us sitting on our bed, the box on the bed beside us, Ilyan wearing the same shirt he was now, sitting behind me as he braided my hair.
I gasped as the realization hit me so strong my head spun, my Drak blood reacting to the closure of a sight, the magic promising me of its fruition.
“He will tear us apart,” I gasped as I replayed the images again.
“If you wish to see the end, give me your heart,” we finished together, my eyes widening in shock as his voice joined mine.
“How did you know that?” I asked, my hand jumping off the box as if I had been shocked. I narrowed my eyes at him in fear, the emotion twisting through me as layers of confusion joined in.
“You have told me before,” he said as his eyes dug into me, the amazement clear on his face as it numbed the fear that was trying to move into me.
Ilyan placed the box on the bed, his eyes never leaving mine before he came to stand before me, his hand moving to lift the sleeve of his shirt. He turned toward me then, his bare forearm staring at me, and the scar I had seen before glistened against his lean muscle.
“When you were trapped, Dramin and I gave you water in hopes to wake you,” he said, his voice tense as I looked at the mark, my fingers rising as my heart called for me to touch it, to heal it. “You spoke those words while you were still trapped after some splashed onto my skin.”
I pressed the tips of my fingers against the raised skin that I was sure was just as sensitive as the scar that lined the palm of his hand.
“Give me your heart,” I whispered as his hand covered mine, pressing it into the scar.
I tore my eyes away from his arm at the words, the burn in my chest growing. He had heard the words before I had even awakened. No wonder they had felt so familiar. They had happened before, and now the sight would be fulfilled.
I cringed at the realization, the joy that had been raging through me wavering uncomfortably. This sight was coming to pass, just as the one tomorrow would, just as they all would. I had so ruthlessly questioned them, attacked my father with them, and now I stood, the pulse of the one I loved on my fingers—the strength of his love flowing through my mind—and I knew.
The sight had been correct.
The magic of a Drak was correct.
And tonight, I couldn’t ask for anything more.
“You already have it.” Ilyan barely got the words out, his throat closing with emotion as the burning behind my eyes grew.
Ilyan said nothing more as he led me over to the bed, his touch gentle as he sat down, placing me before him.
I sat down, too, his chest pressing against my back as our intertwined hands moved me into him. He held me against him, his magic flowing into me before he released me, the loss of contact taking the comforting swell of his magic with it. My hands dropped into my lap as he moved away, my heart clenching in nerves as the clouds rumbled. I felt my heartbeat heighten then heard labored breathing from behind me.
I didn't dare move; I didn't trust myself to do so. So I held still and watched Ilyan pull the ornate box toward us, his fingers gentle as he lifted the lid, revealing strands of faded ribbons, vials of oils, and nestled in the middle, a simple golden hair brush.
I could tell just by looking that the brush was made of gold. Ilyan reached toward the box, his shaking fingers hesitating in the air as if he were afraid to touch it.