“
The wind stirred his loose hair and Sorasa assessed him for the first time since her memory failed. Since the deck of the Tyri ship caught fire, and someone seized her around the middle, plunging them both into the dark waves.
She did not need to guess to know who.
Dom’s clothing was torn but long dry. He still wore the leather jerkin with the undershirt, but his borrowed cloak had been left to feed the sea serpents. The rest of him looked intact. He had only a few fresh cuts across the backs of his hands, like a terrible rope burn. Scales, Sorasa knew. The sea serpent coiled in her head, bigger than the mast, its scales flashing a dark rainbow.
Her breath caught when she realized he wore no sword belt, nor sheath. Nor sword.
“Dom,” she bit out, reaching between them. Only her instincts caught her, her hand freezing inches above his hip.
His brow furrowed again, carving a line of concern.
“Your sword.”
The line deepened, and Sorasa understood. She mourned her own dagger, earned so many decades ago, now lost to a burning palace. She could not imagine what Dom felt for a blade centuries old.
“It is done,” he finally said, fishing into his shirt.
The collar pulled, showing a line of white flesh, the planes of hard muscle rippling beneath. Sorasa dropped her eyes, letting him fuss.
Only when something soft touched her temple did she look up again.
Her heart thumped.
Dom did not meet her gaze, focused on his work, cleaning her wound with a length of cloth.
It was the fabric that made her breath catch.
Little more than a scrap of gray green. Thin but finely made by master hands. Embroidered with silver antlers.
It was a piece of Dom’s old cloak, the last remnant of Iona. It survived a kraken, an undead army, a dragon, and the dungeons of a mad queen.
But it would not survive Sorasa Sarn.
She let him work, her skin aflame beneath his fingers. Until the last bits of blood were gone, and the last piece of his home tossed away.
“Thank you,” she finally said to no reply.
”
”