Veiled Eyes

Chapter 19

Delicate – adjective: easily broken or damaged; fragile.

I stayed awake for a long time, watching the rise and fall of his chest until it steadied into something almost peaceful.

The den was still except for the faint crackle of the fire. The small pit at its center had burned low, leaving only a bed of glowing embers. Their light flickered and pulsed, casting long, shifting shadows that crawled across Kael’s face.

He looked… different in sleep. Not dangerous. Not the predator who had torn a leviathan apart with his bare hands, or who had gutted Dante before collapsing at my feet. Just… human. Or close enough to make me forget, if I let myself.

But I couldn’t forget. Not the claws, not the way his eyes glowed when the monster inside him surfaced. Not the way his blood still burned faintly under my skin, no matter how hard I scrubbed.

I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my chin there, and let my eyes trace the bandage around his torso. I told myself I was staying awake to make sure he didn’t take a turn for the worse. But the truth was more complicated—twisted somewhere between wariness and something I didn’t want to name.

I told myself I was keeping watch because it was practical—because he’d saved me and I owed him. But the truth was murkier, and I didn’t want to examine it too closely.

He shifted in his sleep, muttering something too low to catch, and I leaned in before I realized what I was doing. My name. He’d said my name.

I should have pulled away. Should have left him here and found my way to Haven. But I didn’t. He was a monster. A monster who had lied to me. A monster who had saved my life more times than I wanted to admit. Who had held me when I was freezing. Who had cleaned my wounds when I was a stranger. Who had killed for me.

Instead, I fed the fire, coaxing the flames higher until the warmth pushed back the cold, and settled in for the long night, my eyes never straying far from him.

Hours dragged by until my eyes burned and my lids felt weighted with sand. I’d tried to rest more than once, but every time I closed them, Dante was there—his twisted shape, his glowing eyes, those snapping teeth. The images clung to me like smoke I couldn’t cough out.

The fire had burned low again, little more than a dull red glow in the pit. I was nearly out of wood. Kael hadn’t moved much through the night, his stillness broken only by the occasional twitch or muffled grunt.

I’d just let my eyes fall shut, chasing the illusion of rest, when a low groan snapped me upright.

Kael’s head shifted against the bedroll, his brows drawn tight before his eyes flickered open. They were hazy, unfocused at first, but then they found me. His shoulders seemed to ease, the faintest trace of relief settling into his expression.

“You’re still here,” he rasped, his voice rough with sleep and pain.

“Didn’t exactly have anywhere else to be,” I said, aiming for lightness but unable to hide the edge in my tone. I reached for the water skin and held it out to him. “Drink.”

He braced himself, pushing up on one elbow. The movement pulled at his bandaged side, and a flicker of pain crossed his face. Without thinking, I slid a hand behind his back to steady him, feeling the solid heat of him.

His gaze flicked to mine briefly—quick, unreadable—before he accepted the water. The faint rasp of his breathing filled the quiet between us as he tipped it back. I could feel every tremor in his muscles through my palm, the weight of his exhaustion pressing against me.

When he lowered the skin, his hand lingered near mine for a fraction too long before he sank back against the bedroll. “You should’ve run,” he said quietly, his voice still rough.

“Yeah,” I murmured, drawing my hand away slowly. “I guess I should have.”

The corner of his mouth curved faintly, though it never touched his eyes. “Stubborn,” he said, the word threaded with something warm—almost amused—but edged with fatigue.

I dropped my gaze, pretending to busy myself with the bandages so he couldn’t read the flicker of heat in my expression. “And you’re awake,” I said evenly. “Which means you owe me answers, Kael.”

His gaze didn’t waver. It held me there—steady, unblinking—for a long moment. The silence between us thickened, filled with everything we hadn’t said last night: the fight, the blood, the truths we’d both tried to sidestep. Then, slowly, he inclined his head in a measured nod.

“Then ask,” he murmured, the challenge soft but unmistakable.

I shifted on my knees, the fire’s glow catching on the edges of his still-pale face. “Why did you lie to me?”

His jaw tightened—not with surprise, but like he’d been bracing for the question since the moment we met. “I didn’t lie,” he said finally, voice low. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“That’s still a lie, Kael.” My voice was steady, even as my chest pulled tight. “Why?”

Something flickered in his gaze—too quick to pin down—but he didn’t look away. “I wanted to tell you. But I knew you’d be afraid. Knew you wouldn’t trust me anymore.”

“How long?” I pressed. “How long have you been… a Harrowed?”

His eyes didn’t waver. “I was born like this, Thea.” His tone carried no apology, no shame—just fact. Another flicker passed through his gaze, there and gone before I could read it. “We don’t call ourselves Harrowed. That’s what they call us.”

“Then what do you call yourselves?” I asked, my voice quieter now, as if speaking too loud might break the fragile thread holding this conversation together.

His lips pressed into a thin line. For a long moment, I thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he leaned forward just slightly, his voice dropping to something low, almost reverent. “Veythryn.”