I did as he asked, crossing from cold marble tile to slightly-dirty white bearskin.
Up close, I could sense something noxious pulsing in his aura—he tried to tamp it down, hide it behind that steel wall that usually shielded all his emotions, but it was too powerful to hide. I felt it like the throbbing heat of a fire on the other side of a door. It was just as painful, like a wound, but unfamiliar—I’d sensed many illnesses before, physical and emotional, and none felt quite like this.
I frowned. “What’s wrong?”
He looked to the flames and didn’t answer, his scowl deepening.
I kept reaching toward him with my magic, prodding gently, succumbing to my curiosity. I risked touching his hand, just to get a stronger sense— He jerked it away.
“I hear that some of the Arachessen can use the power of Acaeja to heal,” he said. “Can you?”
His tone was so sharp and aggressive that it sounded more like a rebuke than a question.
I fought the urge to grimace.
“Not well, unfortunately.”
I had never been much of a healer. Some of my Sisters specialized in it—they were able to read the threads within a body and use them to manipulate wounds or illnesses, though it was a slow process and not as instantly helpful as a healer trained under the magic of gods more naturally attuned to medicine. Still, I’d seen them perform remarkable feats with it.
I had trained in the method, as all Arachessen did, but it had never been a strength.
“But you know something,” he said.
“I can try.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d used those skills. Years, surely. Weaver, I hoped I remembered at least something. I was very conscious that Atrius’s blade had been at my throat not all that long ago.
Atrius didn’t seem comforted by this answer. He didn’t so much as look at me, still scowling into the fire.
I knelt before him on the rug, the rough fur tickling my bare knees.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Are you injured?”
He took a long time to answer, and still, he did not look at me.
“An old injury,” he said.
“Sometimes the worst ones. I did something to my knee a decade ago, and I still feel it. Suppose it’s an occupational hazard of our lifestyles, isn’t it?”
My attempt at levity fell pathetically flat. I was starting to think that Atrius was simply immune to being charmed. Or maybe I just wasn’t very good at being charming.
“So you can help?” he said gruffly.
“I can try.” I gave him a gentle smile. “Where is the injury?”
“‘Try’ isn’t good enough.”
My smile withered. It was getting harder to pretend.
“Well, it’s the best I can offer you.”
His eyes snapped to me, the normally cold amber suddenly searing hot beneath the firelight, verging on the red I’d witnessed in battle.
“Dozens of my men are dead because of your mistakes. Maybe your abilities aren’t good enough.”
The words were hurled with perfect aim, direct and deadly-sharp in their honesty. That didn’t surprise me—I knew Atrius could be cruel. What did surprise me was that they hurt when they landed, bringing with them the memory of rows of red beneath the moonlight and a wave of nausea that I struggled to swallow back.
“Then maybe you should have kidnapped a better seer,” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “It was never my choice to come help your band of monsters.”
He went rigid.
“What a sacrifice you’re making,” he sneered. “Let’s see how long it takes the Arachessen to take you away if I dump you at the gates. Days or hours? Do you think they’ll leave me the pieces, or just feed them to the wolves?”
Another mark perfectly struck. Not just harsh words. No, they were accurate, yanking back the curtains on the things the Sisters often did not like to think about. The threads held us together, and the threads held our vows. A Sister who had broken her vows was in pieces. And so, that would often be her punishment for abandonment.
Sometimes I wished I could close my eyes against unwelcome images. Instead, I needed to let those memories pass through me, and then watch them go.
Sharp words lingered at the tip of my tongue, prodded loose by his. I had to take a breath to fight them back.
“I sense that you’re suffering,” I said. My voice was tighter than it should have been—I should have leaned into ‘comforting, healing presence,’ but instead landed somewhere closer to ‘frustrated schoolteacher.’ “I may not have been the best healer in the Arachessen, but I studied it. They drilled it into me just like all the rest.” I gave him a weak smile. “I can try.”
His eyes flicked back to me. Lingered.
Then, at last, he pressed his palm to his chest. “Here.”
I was confused. I didn’t know what kind of injury he could be referring to. “Your… pectoral muscles or—?”
“It’s more complicated,” he snapped. “It’s—” He looked away again and let out a huff. “Never mind. This is none of your concern. I’ll be fine on my own.”
Weaver help us all. I rubbed my temple. “If the choice is between trying to help you and suffering through your sulking for the foreseeable future, then for the sake of everyone who has to be around you, just let me try to help.”
I wasn’t prepared for it when, in one abrupt movement, he turned, grabbed my wrist, and pressed my hand to the center of his chest. The movement practically yanked me onto his lap, my forehead nearly bashing against his.
“Do you feel that?” he said—and there was a hint of hopelessness to his voice, something that almost sounded like a plea.
I was ready to snap at him, but the words died on my tongue.
Because I did feel it.
His skin was neither warm nor cool, instead exactly the same temperature as the air. His chest rose and fell heavily under my palm, and I could feel the pulse of his heartbeat—vampire hearts beat slower than humans’, but his was quick right now, perhaps with anger or fear.
But what gave me pause was beneath all of that—something intertwined with his presence, his threads, into the very core of his being. It was so intense it drew a gasp from my lips. A withering decay that seemed alive, like it was trying to push further into him. I sensed, too, the strain of holding it off—the exhaustion.
My lips parted, but words escaped me. Our faces were so close, his breath warmed my mouth.
“So you see it now,” he said.
“What is this?” I choked out. “I’ve never felt anything like this.”
Once the initial shock faded, curiosity took over. Life as an Arachessen was not a boring one—I’d witnessed or inflicted every kind of injury, physical or magical. I’d seen curses before. Most of them felt like a cloud surrounding their target, something that slowly burrowed further. This… this was strange because it started so deep within him, like it was trying to eat its way out instead of in. It would have taken a very powerful sorcerer to plant it that deep.
I searched my mind for Obitraen history—for what I knew of the House of Blood.