Wed to the War King
CHAPTER 4: The Language of Scars
Queen Aria's POV
The castle healers had barred the door like I was some
invading army rather than a queen. Three hours I'd paced the length of that
damned corridor, my bloodied nightgown still clinging to my skin, the phantom
weight of Kael's body slumped against mine making my arms tremble.
"He's stable," Head Healer Lin finally
announced, wiping her hands on a stained cloth. "But he shouldn't
be moved—"
I was already pushing past her.
The chamber smelled of crushed herbs and copper, the heavy
drapes drawn against the dawn. Kael lay propped up on a mountain of pillows,
his torso wrapped in bandages that did nothing to diminish the sheer presence
of him. Moonlight caught the sweat-slicked planes of his chest, the old scars I
knew by heart—the jagged one from Greymere where my dagger had slipped, the
neat line from Silverpass where I'd nicked him through his armor.
His eyes opened before I could speak.
"You're hovering," he rasped.
"You're an idiot," I shot back, my
voice cracking.
Kael's lips quirked, but pain tightened the skin around his
eyes. "Come here."
The Vigil
I perched on the edge of the bed, my fingers hovering over
his bandages. "Who sent the assassin?"
"Does it matter?" He caught my wrist,
his thumb finding the racing pulse beneath my skin. "You've
already turned the castle into a fortress."
"It matters," I snarled, "because
I'll burn their world to cinders."
Kael's grip tightened. "Look at me."
When I didn't, he tugged—just hard enough to make me meet
his gaze. The intensity there stole my breath. His eyes weren't the cold winter
blue I'd painted in my mind all these years, but the turbulent gray of a storm
rolling over the mountains we'd once fought across.
"That's what I love about you," he
murmured, tracing the curve of my knuckles. "Your restraint."
The word love hung between us, fragile as
the dawn light creeping across the sheets.
The Confession
Moonlight bled through the windows when he finally broke the
silence.
"You asked why I took the blade."
I focused on the tapestry behind him—some ancient tragedy of
lovers torn apart by war. "You've always had a martyr
complex."
Kael huffed a laugh, then grimaced when it pulled his
stitches. "Turn around."
When I didn't move, his fingers brushed my chin, tilting my
face toward him. Slowly—like he was handling something precious—he traced the
scar along his collarbone.
"You gave me this the day I realized I loved
you."
My breath hitched.
"Greymere," he continued, his thumb
skating along my lower lip. "You were magnificent. Covered in mud
and blood, shouting orders like the storm given flesh." His smile
turned rueful. "I nearly got myself killed just watching
you."
I batted his hand away. "You're delirious from
blood loss."
"Maybe." His eyes never left
mine. "But I've carried this for three years."
The Wound
I fled to the war room like a coward.
The maps mocked me—our borders now blurred into one, the
battle lines we'd drawn across them rendered meaningless. My fingers trembled
where they gripped the edge of the table, the wood biting into my palms.
"You'll catch cold."
Kael's cloak settled over my shoulders, still warm from his
skin. His uninjured arm slid around my waist, his chin coming to rest atop my
head.
I turned in his embrace, my hands framing his face. "If
you ever take a blade for me again—"
"I'll do it every time." His lips
found mine—soft, insistent, tasting of iron and the honeyed tea the healers had
forced on him. When we broke apart, he pressed his forehead to mine. "That's
the deal, Fireheart."
The Dawn
We stood together on the balcony as the sun crested the
horizon, gilding the capital below in molten gold. Kael's bandages peeked
through the open collar of his shirt, a stark reminder of the night's violence.
"They'll call this weakness," I
murmured, watching the city stir to life.
Kael's fingers intertwined with mine, his grip firm despite
his injury. "Let them try."
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