"Who says I haven't already chosen?" Silas said.
The words echoed louder than thunder in the silence that followed.
Moriah stared at Silas, her lips parted, her heart pounding in a rhythm she couldn't name.
That line–so simple, so devastating–stripped away every defense she had left.
And as he said that he didn't even look away from her for even a second, looking at her reaction.
"I mean it," he said, his voice lower now, like he was afraid she'd disappear if he spoke too loud.
"I've chosen you every time, even if you didn't see it."
Her chest ached.
There were so many things she could say.
So many things she could think.
But her body moved before her mind caught up, and suddenly she was closing the space between them. Not kissing him–not yet–but close enough to breathe the same air, to feel the tension vibrating like a wire between them.
"I don't know if I believe you," she whispered.
"I'll prove it," he replied. "If you let me."
But just as the heat of the moment built between them like the first crackle of a storm–a knock shattered the air.
Silas swore under his breath.
He didn't move at first, his eyes still locked on hers, as if daring the world to interrupt again.
Then the knock came again–sharper this time.
"Commander," a female voice called through the door, smooth and amused, "unless you've gone deaf and dumb, you're ignoring protocol."
Moriah blinked.
The name that left his lips next felt like a bitter pill.
"Alina."
Silas moved toward the door and pulled it open.
A woman stood there–tall, striking, her white–and–silver uniform hugging her figure with the kind of grace that came from years of discipline.
Her black hair was pulled into a high braid, and one brow arched in amusement as her dark eyes landed on Moriah.
"Well, well," she said, stepping in without being invited.
"She's prettier than the rumors."
Moriah straightened.
"And you are?"
"Alina Veyran. I run this place when your Commander here decides to play nursemaid." her gaze didn't flicker.
"And you must be the wife–killer."
Moriah's eyes narrowed, but Silas cut in, his voice hard.
"Enough."
Alina raised her hands in mock surrender. "Tense in here. Mustve interrupted something juicy."
Moriah watched her closely.
There was something between them–an old history, perhaps.
Not romantic, but close.
Too close..
Alina tossed a scroll onto Silas desk. "Intelligence says there's movement in the west District. Word is, people are whispering that the 'white Widow' is back from the grave again."
"Let them whisper," Silas said coldly.
"They're not just whispering," Alina replied, glancing at Moriah again.
"They're calling for her execution.
Again.
You know how this goes."
"I'm not going to die again," Moriah said softly, but with a kind of steel that made Alina actually pause.
Silas looked at her with something unreadable in his eyes.
"No," he agreed.
"You're not."
Alinas words lingered like poison in the air, but Moriah didn't flinch. Not this time.
The girl who had died screaming in a prison cell was gone.
Buried under layers of betrayal, reincarnation, and resolve.
What stood in her place was someone else. Someone not quite a monster…
Not quite human either.
Silas saw it.
She could tell by the way he didn't look away, didn't coddle her.
He wasn't afraid of what she was becoming.
If anything, he admired it.
"Do you trust her?" Moriah asked, her voice calm, but the question sank like a hook in the space between them.
Silas glanced toward the door Alina had exited, then back to her.
"I trust her with the kingdom. But not with you."
Moriah raised an eyebrow. "That's oddly specific."
"She doesn't understand what you are. What you've been through. She'll treat you like a puzzle to solve. I won't let her."
A beat of silence passed.
Heavy.
Electric.
"You care," Moriah said softly.
Silas didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The distance between them shrank, slow and inevitable.
His hand brushed a strand of white hair from her cheek. Her breath hitched at the touch.
"You asked me to prove it," he murmured.
She remembered. I don't know if I believe you, she said.
Then his lips were on hers again–no longer hesitant or controlled.
This time, the kiss was full of desperation.
Of unspoken truths and promises she didn't dare hope for.
His hands found her waist, hers found the edge of his collar, pulling him closer.
The heat between them cracked like lightning in a storm.
She wasn't sure who moved first, but soon his coat was discarded on the floor.
Her hands were under his shirt, exploring the lines of scars and hardened muscle. There was strength in him, yes, but not just physical.
It was the strength of someone who had watched the world break and still chosen to protect something–someone.
When he lifted her, her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. He carried her to the bed with a kind of reverence that made her chest ache. Like she was both holy and doomed.
"Say something," he whispered as he kissed down her throat. "Anything."
"I'm scared," she admitted. "Not of you. But of…how this feels."
His mouth paused against her skin.
"You're not alone," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
He laid her down like she was fragile, then touched her like she was invincible.
Their bodies moved together with aching slowness–exploring, tasting, testing boundaries.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't just about lust.
It was a connection.
Intimacy forged in the fires of shared pain.
For Moriah, it was the first time he let someone see the man behind the mask.
When it was over, and their breathing had steadied, Moriah lay curled against him, her head resting on his bare chest.
The steady beat of his heart beneath her felt like something solid in a world that constantly shifted.
"I should push you away," she murmured.
"You could try," he said, brushing his fingers through her hair.
They were silent for a while, tangled together in the warmth of something that felt dangerously close to peace.
But it didn't last.
A soft chime rang from the wall near the door–a signal, urgent and low.
Silas signed. "Someone's at the gates."
Moriah sat up, still flushed but alert. "Who?"
"I don't know," he said, reaching for his shirt. "But I know who I hope it's not."
Before she could ask, the door cracked open without a knock.
"Sorry to break up the afterglow," Alina said, smirking.
But her tone was sharper than before.
"We've got a visitor. She says she knows your wife."
Silas and Moriah exchanged a look.
Another ghost from another life?
"Who is she?" Moriah asked, standing.
Alina hesitated. "She wont give a name. But shes got a mark on her wrist. A symbol I haven't seen in ten years."
Silas went still.
His face hardened like stone.
"What symbol?" he asked.
Alina turned her wrist and traced the shape in the air–an hourglass, with one side cracked and bleeding.
Moriah's breath caught in her throat.
She'd seen that symbol before.
In the final moments of one of her past deaths…
When the shadowy figure whispered her name like a curse.
Silas didn't essay a word.
He simply turned, grabbed his sword, and said, "Keep her safe."
Then he was gone.
And Moriah was left staring at Alina, whose smile had faded into something eerily unreadable.
"Looks like your story's just getting started," she murmured.