Page 45 of Tempest Blazing
No answer. No one was coming. No one had ever been coming.
I was exactly as forgettable as I'd always feared.
The dream shifted, and I was in my childhood bedroom, waiting for parents who never came home from work early, never remembered school events, never noticed when I stopped trying to get their attention altogether. Then I was in college, watching friends make plans without including me, their conversations flowing around me like I wasn't even there.
And finally, I was here, in this safe house, watching through the window as dragons flew away into the distance, their riders never looking back.
I woke with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs and cold sweat coating my skin. The room was darker now—evening, maybe, or early night. The healing potion still sat untouched on the nightstand, its silver contents swirling gently in the dim light.
My throat felt raw, and I realized I might have been crying in my sleep. The dream clung to me like cobwebs, the feeling of abandonment so real I had to press my hand against my chest to feel my own heartbeat, to remind myself that I was alive, that I was here.
But the fear remained, sharp and cutting. What if they did leave? What if I became too much trouble, too much of a liability? What if they realized what I was beginning to understand—that I wasn't special at all, just lucky enough to stumble into something bigger than myself?
I pulled the quilts over my head and tried to disappear into the darkness, but even there, the weight of my own inadequacy followed me. I'd been rescued this time, but rescue wasn't the same as belonging. And belonging wasn't the same as being worth keeping.
Chapter 20
Tess
The door opened with barely a whisper, and I didn't need to look to know it was Kane. Something about the way the air shifted—controlled, precise, like even his presence was calculated. I kept my eyes on the ceiling, bracing myself for whatever version of him had decided to visit.
My emotions felt too raw, too close to the surface. Whatever mask he'd chosen to wear today, I wasn't sure I had the strength to handle it.
The floorboards barely creaked under his weight. He paused just inside the doorway—my chest tightened with anticipation mixed with dread. Then his footsteps moved toward the nightstand, measured and quiet. The bed dipped slightly as he sat on the edge, careful not to jostle me. I finally turned my head to look at him, and found his expression... unreadable. Not cold, not warm. Just focused, like he was solving a particularly complex equation.
"You haven't taken the potion," he said, picking up the vial. His voice was steady, matter-of-fact. No judgment, no frustration. Just observation.
I shrugged, the movement sending a fresh wave of aches through my shoulders. "Wasn't really in the mood for magical remedies."
"Understandable." He turned the vial in his hands, watching the silver liquid swirl. "But your body needs it. The demon did more damage than what shows on the surface."
Should have annoyed me, that clinical tone. Instead, there was something almost... gentle about it. Like he was trying to help without pushing.
"It works best if you take it slowly," he continued, his pale fingers tracing the glass. "Small sips. The warmth will start in your chest first—right here." He touched his own sternum, just above his heart. "Then it spreads outward. Arms, legs, up to your head."
I watched his face as he spoke, catching the way his eyes grew distant, like he was remembering rather than reciting. "The taste is... distinctive. Copper and citrus. Not pleasant, but not unbearable."
"You sound like you know from experience."
His gaze flicked to mine briefly before returning to the potion. "I do."
My breath hitched. Something in his tone, that quiet admission, shifted the air between us. Curiosity cut through my lingering apprehension. Kane Ellesar, master of all four elements, son of a Guild Lord Protector, brilliant strategist who always seemed three steps ahead of everyone else... when had he needed healing potions?
"Your limbs might feel heavy at first," he continued, that same distant quality creeping into his voice. "Like you're moving through water. It passes after about ten minutes. The nausea hits around the same time—count to sixty, slow breaths, and it fades."
This wasn't medical knowledge from textbooks. This was the kind of intimate familiarity that came from lying in bed, brokenand alone, cataloging every stage of recovery because you had nothing else to focus on. The way he described it... it felt etched onto him, the memory of pain and slow healing.
"Some versions dull emotional pain too," he added quietly, almost like he was talking to himself. "Though I've never been certain if that's intentional or just a side effect of the physical healing."
The image hit me—Kane, proud and controlled Kane, hurt badly enough to need potions that numbed more than just physical wounds. Broken enough to hope for that emotional dulling. Alone enough to memorize the timing of his own recovery.
My shame didn't disappear, but it... shifted. Became something less sharp, less isolating. If Kane—brilliant, powerful, seemingly untouchable Kane—had been in this place before, then maybe it wasn't about being weak. Maybe it was just about being... breakable. Even him.
I sat up slowly, ignoring the protest from my ribs, and held out my hand. "Okay."
Surprise flickered across his face—just a moment, a crack in that controlled facade—before he handed me the vial. Our fingers brushed as I took it, and I felt that familiar spark of electricity, muted but still there beneath the collar's lingering effects.
The potion was exactly as he'd described—metallic and sharp, with an underlying citrus bite that made my nose wrinkle. But I sipped it slowly, following his instructions, and felt the warmth bloom in my chest just like he'd said it would.
