Flame in the Palace

23. Tears

Myria's room at Honeyridge is spacious enough to please any noble with a large, four-poster bed and canopy. In the hearth on the interior wall, a fire crackles, the opposite wall lined with the same arched windows seen throughout the manor. Emiri hovers in the center of the room, unsure as he presses a hand against his injured side. When Myria approaches him after closing the door, he turns around slowly to face her, his eyes wide and alarmed.

"I shouldn't be here—" he begins to object before a sharp wince cuts him off.

"You are hurt," Myria pleads with him desperately. "You got hurt defending me. Please, the least I can do is heal your injuries."

He reads the urgency in her eyes and relents, stiffly lowering himself onto the bench in front of the fireplace. She grabs the bag of moon crystals from earlier and takes a seat next to him. His hand remains pressed against his side, and Myria looks at him pointedly.

"You need to move your hand so I can see." When he continues to stall, she points out. "If I remember correctly, you've seen me in a worse state."

It is difficult to discern in the darkness, but Myria swears she sees him blush at the memory of her tournament injuries, how her bloodied dress was in tatters, how he had politely averted his gaze. Finally, Emiri yields, lowering his hand so Myria can pull up his shirt to inspect his chest.

She tries to keep her gaze clinical as she traces the dark bruise beginning to form on his ribs. She feels him struggling to not recoil beneath her touch, and she draws her hand back. "I think you have a broken rib, maybe more." Thinking quickly, she stands. "I need you to take off your shirt and lie down on your back."

To her surprise, he does not protest, complying with her instructions quickly. She has to help him pull the shirt off over his shoulders, and the effort leaves him gasping for breath. As he lies down, he strains against the pain by biting down on his bottom lip. She runs her hands down the length of his side, feeling and counting the ridges of his ribs. She estimates two broken ones beneath the bruises that are already growing hot.

Her nerve falters, and her words are barely above a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

"No," he reproaches sharply in a guttural voice. "This is not your fault. You did nothing wrong."

"I was the one who he—"

"Please," he whispers helplessly. "Don't say his name. Not here."

Myria obliges, setting to work. Holding a full moon crystal next to his burning skin, she calls upon her healing lessons to set the ribs. They snap back into place with a sickening crack that unnerves her more than it pains Emiri. The magic keeps everything painless for him, and his breath catches at the sensation until, finally, she withdraws her hands, having completed her work.

Emiri swiftly sits up to test the extent of his magical recovery. He reaches his arm high above his head, stretching with careful movements. "Thank you," he sighs, lowering his arm to his side. He appears more clear-headed now but does not immediately move to put his shirt back on. Instead, his gaze falls to her throat, and she suddenly becomes aware of the bruises shaped from Aryn's fingers. She passes Emiri the crystal and pushes back her hair to aid his inspection.

The fire casts odd shadows across his smooth face, but Myria thinks she can see something akin to anger brewing in his eyes. He does not comment on it, and instead, he brushes his thumb gently across the affected skin. While cool with the healing moon magic, his touch sparks another fire in her chest that causes her gaze to fall from his eyes to his shirtless form. When Myria realizes she is staring at the hardened planes of his chest, she averts them even lower to the ground.