Cold gnawed through everything. My breath came out in shallow bursts, and the water still dripping from my hair froze wherever it touched skin.

  Rocher wasn't faring much better—his lips were pale, shoulders trembling as he tried and failed to wring out his ruined cloak. His chest still hitched with the remnants of cold and panic.

  When he shifted, the light from my bell caught on something red. Thin trails of blood wound down his forearms, the cuts angry and raw. His hands were worse—split open along the knuckles, the faint gleam of torn skin across his elbows and shoulders where the current had thrown him against the tunnel walls.

  "Sit still," I muttered, kneeling beside him. "You're bleeding everywhere."

  "It's fine," he said automatically.

  "Not when I can see bone." My fingers were too numb to feel the leather straps as I wrestled my satchel open. Every bottle inside was slick with condensation but intact. Relief hit sharp and sudden.

  "Thank the Goddess I switched everything to reinforced gss after Castle Greymane," I murmured. "One more cheap bottle and we'd be licking potion from the floor."

  Rocher tried to smile, but his jaw trembled too hard for it to hold.

  I pulled a vial free and shoved it into his hand. "Here. Drink before you fall apart on me."

  He hesitated—then downed it in one motion. The faint golden sheen rippled through his skin as the magic took hold, knitting the deeper wounds closed while the smaller ones stayed raw and red.

  I uncorked one for myself, and sighed as the throbbing in my ribcage finally settled.

  As I dug again for bandages, my fingers brushed a tiny vial with something dry rattling inside. I pulled it free, and despite my chattering teeth, couldn't help the small, tired grin. "Well. Would you look at that."

  Rocher blinked. "Another potion?"

  "Sort of," I said. "Fire in a bottle."

  He leaned closer, squinting at the little vial. Inside was nothing but dry shavings, thin curls of wood, and what looked suspiciously like lint. "That's… kindling."

  "Exactly. My most revolutionary invention yet. Guaranteed to make pyromancers jealous."

  He gave a weak ugh—a small victory. I tapped the bottle against the stone; the oil-soaked fibers spilled out. With a whispered charm, a tiny spark leapt from my fingertip and caught. The kindling fred weakly at first, then steadied, painting the chamber in trembling gold.

  "See?" I said, rubbing my hands together. "It works."

  Rocher held his palms toward it, watching the tiny bze with reverent disbelief. "You can cast magic?"

  "Kind of." I smiled faintly. "Seraphine deserves credit. She taught me beginner fire magic. Said it was time I learned something useful for once."

  Her voice surfaced in my memory, sharp as ever.

  'You're hopeless,' she'd groaned, arms crossed as I squinted over a candle I'd only just managed to light. 'Do you even know what you did?'

  'Fire,' I'd said proudly.

  'No. Not even close. That was just Spark. It barely qualifies as magic. And it took you twenty tries!'

  I'd smiled anyway. 'It worked, didn't it?'

  She'd taught me that spell as payment for my lessons—partly out of pity, partly out of frustration at my sheer incompetence. It was supposed to be the simplest kind of beginner magic. For me, it felt like a miracle.

  The fire's warmth was pitiful but real. Steam rose from my sleeves where the heat reached, but my clothes clung ice-cold everywhere else. I exhaled through clenched teeth, shivering so hard my jaw ached.

  "We'll freeze within the hour," I muttered, tugging at my soaked shirt. "This isn't enough."

  I worked off my boots and turned them over. Water streamed out in a steady ribbon. My bare feet hit the stone with a soft, wet patter, and the cold bit straight through the soles.

  Rocher's head lifted, weary but alert. "What are you doing?"

  "Being practical." I pulled my shirt over my head and wrung out the cloth. "If we don't get these dry, the cold will finish us. Off with yours too."

  His eyes widened as I stripped off yer after yer of wet fabric. "Cire."

  I gave him a look. "Rex. You'd have to be insane to try anything in this condition."

  He made a strangled sound—half protest, half disbelief. "That's not—!"

  "Stop arguing and strip before you turn blue," I said, already peeling off my chemise.

  The firelight caught on the droplets along my colrbone, tiny sparks glimmering in motion. I spread the damp yers near the fmes, careful not to scorch them.

  "See? Perfectly innocent. It's just survival."

  Rocher froze, still clutching his torn cloak like a shield. His face was flushed—not from the heat.

  "I'm fine."

  "You're shaking," I pointed out. "That's not fine. That's pre-hypothermic."

  "Pre—what?"

  "Means you're about to start dying stupidly," I said ftly. "Take. It. Off."

  He stared for a beat longer, then finally obeyed, pulling the shredded tunic over his head. Or tried to—the fabric all but crumbled in his hands.

  The motion reopened some of his smaller cuts, red lines tracing his skin. The firelight pyed across the scars and muscle of someone who'd lived half his life in battle.

  I pretended not to notice the heat creeping up my own neck. "There. Was that so hard?"

  He muttered something I didn't catch. He was shaking too much to properly hang his clothes. I took them off his hands and draped the wet garments beside mine.

  When I turned back, he was sitting stiffly by the fire, posture ramrod straight as if waiting for judgment.

  "You look miserable," I said.

  "I'm fine," he repeated.

  I blew into my hands, teeth chattering. "We need to share body heat. It'll get us warmer faster."

  He froze. "Cire."

  "It's either that or we both freeze to death. Don't be dramatic."

  "I'm not being dramatic. I'm—"

  "Make space on your p."

  His eyes widened. "You—what—?"

  I tugged the half-dry cloak from the floor and, before he could protest again, settled myself squarely across his thighs.

  "Shush. Healing Touch." Light glowed from where our bodies made contact.

  I eased back until I was sitting flush against him, my spine pressed to his chest, my hips settling naturally into the cradle of his p.

  He made a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.

  "Stop holding your breath," I said, pulling the cloak around us both. "You'll pass out before you warm up."

  "Cire, this is—" His hands hovered awkwardly at my sides, not sure where to go.

  "Efficient," I said simply. "Let's survive first, and think about modesty ter."

  He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "You don't know what you're doing to me."

  I smiled faintly. "You're shivering less already. So yes, I do."

  The cloak was the only thing left between us and the cold—the rest, our clothes and pride alike, y steaming beside the fire. Beneath it, there was nothing but skin and breath and the faint tremor of shared warmth.

  The tension slowly drained out of him. His palms settled on my waist as his grip steadied, the touch warm and careful.

  The fire popped softly, casting ribbons of light across the chamber. I could feel his heartbeat through his chest, erratic and heavy, the heat of him pressing against my back. At this point, I was fine with anything as long as it would stave off the cold.

  After a long silence, Rocher spoke, voice low and strained against my shoulder. "If you knew what I did st night… you wouldn't be so ready to let me hold you."

  I blinked. "What you did st night?"

  He didn't answer at first. I could feel his breath against the back of my neck, rough and uneven.

  At first, I thought he was joking. "You mean… snoring? Because if that's the confession, I forgive you."

  "Cire." His voice came harsher—too raw for humor.

  Something in his tone made my smile falter.

  "All right," I said carefully. "Then what did you do?"

  He drew a breath, slow and jagged, his chest rising against my back. "You were drunk. I should've carried you to your tent. I didn't."

  I frowned, searching the haze of memory—ughter, song, the taste of wine still sharp on my tongue. Then nothing. Just warmth and sleep.

  His next words were barely audible.

  "I kissed you." A pause. "More than once."

  The words sank in slowly, the meaning trickling through the cracks of my half-frozen brain. I didn't move. The sound of the fire filled the silence, sharp and steady where my heart wasn't.

  "I see," I managed finally. "So that's what's been eating you alive all day."

  He flinched. "Don't joke about it."

  "I wasn't," I murmured. "You just sound like you're ready to drown again."

  His arms tensed around me, his breath catching near my ear. "You should hate me for it."

  I huffed, the sound more exhale than ugh. "Rocher, you nearly died saving me. I think we're even."

  His voice roughened. "No, we're not. That doesn't erase it. I crossed a line. You have to punish me."

  That got a weak ugh out of me, half disbelief, half exhaustion. "Punish you?"

  "Yes." The word came raw. "Hit me. Curse me. Anything. Just don't pretend it didn't happen."

  For a moment, I said nothing—only felt the tremor running through him as his arm circled my waist.

  I thought back to this morning, to the faint red marks I'd teased him about. Heat crept up my throat.

  "Did I kiss you back?" I asked, meekly.

  His breath hitched. "You kissed me first, actually."

  That surprised me enough to gnce over my shoulder, but I stopped halfway—his face too close, the firelight catching the guilt written all over him.

  "You didn't know what you were doing," he went on quietly. "I should've stopped you. But I didn't."

  The words nded heavy. I felt them more than heard them—against my back, through the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat.

  If it were Seraphine or Lumiere or Evelyn, what he did would have been unforgivable. But I was different, in ways he couldn't know. Inebriation was no excuse—I shared the responsibility too.

  "Rocher," I said softly. "You didn't hurt me."

  He shook his head behind me, his chin brushing my shoulder. "That's not the point."

  "You made a mistake. One night, one kiss—"

  "It wasn't one." His voice cracked. "And it doesn't matter how many. I knew better, and I still—"

  I reached down, found his hand where it rested against my hip, and squeezed gently.

  "Stop," I whispered. "Don't make this harder than it is."

  His hand twitched under mine, but he didn't pull away.

  His voice came hoarse and low. "Don't forgive me just because you think I need it."

  "Then..." I hesitated. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Punish me," he repeated, the words ghosting against my skin.

  I closed my eyes.

  "You almost died for me," I said softly. "And you want me to hurt you in return?"

  "It would be easier than you forgiving me."

  I chuckled warmly. If he'd asked anything of me now, I thought I might actually oblige. But he seemed stuck on the one request.

  I decided to indulge him.

  "Then I won't forgive you," I said, steady now. "Not yet, anyway. But I'll take something else instead."

  "Anything."

  "One favor," I said. "Carte bnche. No questions, no hesitation. When I ask, you'll do exactly what I say."

  He was quiet for a long time. I could feel the weight of his stare on the side of my neck before he finally answered. "That's it?"

  "That's it."

  There were several moments where I could have used help, but couldn't ask for it without exposing what I knew of the game. If another situation like that came, it would be different this time. I'd have an ally bound by his own guilt.

  His breath brushed the back of my neck—steady now, the worst of the shaking gone. The fire had burned low, its glow faint and gold through the folds of the cloak.

  "Get some rest," I murmured.

  Rocher didn't answer. His arms tightened just slightly around me, as if afraid I'd vanish if he let go.

  I could still feel the echo of his heartbeat against my spine—uneven, alive. I closed my eyes and let the warmth blur the edges of everything else.

  Whatever awaited us above the water, I had my favor—and for now, that was enough.