“You’ve packed nearly nothing useful.”
Lucan’s voice carried dry amusement as he surveyed the modest collection of holy relics and traveling clothes laid across Ren’s bed, though his eyes lingered longer on the thin silver dagger tucked discreetly among the folded fabric.
“I’ve packed exactly what I need.”
“You’ve packed like a woman who intends to survive on speed and improvisation rather than proper equipment.” He picked up the dagger, testing its weight with clinical appreciation.
“This is a fine blade. Thief-made, unless I miss my guess. Not standard church issue.”
“It’s served me well so far.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He set the dagger back down carefully, exactly where she’d placed it, and something in the gesture felt oddly respectful — acknowledging the weapon, and the woman who carried it, without the possessive need to remake either into something more conventional.
“But the Wastes require more than a good blade and quick instincts. You’ll need protection that can withstand corrupted fiends without shattering the first time something claws at you.”
“And you have a solution, I assume.”
“I do.” He crossed to the door and gestured someone forward — a servant carrying a long case that Lucan took personally, dismissing the man with a nod before setting the case across the bed.
“Custom armor. Lightweight, runic-warded, fitted specifically for you.”
Ren opened the case and found the armor inside — sleek, dark leather reinforced with fine silver mesh, runes etched delicate along every seam, nothing like the heavy plate the Inquisitorial guard wore.
“This must have taken weeks to commission.”
“It took three days, considerable bribery, and a favor I intend to regret calling in eventually.” He lifted the breastplate from its casing, studying the craftsmanship with a critical eye.
“I had it commissioned the night after the fountain incident. I suspected, even then, that I’d need something to protect you eventually, though I confess I imagined the danger coming from Malachi rather than a wasteland expedition.”
“You planned this weeks ago.”
“I plan for danger the way other men plan for weather. It’s simply prudent.” He set the breastplate down and reached for her instead, hands settling at her waist with a gentleness that contradicted the clinical efficiency of his voice.
“Turn around. Let me fit it properly.”
Ren obeyed, and felt him work with careful, deliberate hands — lacing the leather snug against her ribs, adjusting the silver mesh where it crossed her shoulders, his fingers lingering at each strap longer than strictly necessary for the task.
“You’re stalling,” she said. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“I am.” His hands stilled at the small of her back, breath warm against her nape.
“I keep finding excuses to touch you before we leave for a wasteland that might very well kill us both. Forgive me the indulgence.”
“I don’t mind the indulgence.”
“Good.” His mouth pressed briefly to the curve of her shoulder where the armor left skin bare, and Ren shivered despite the practical purpose of the moment.
“Because I intend to take considerably more of it before sunrise.”
He continued fitting the armor with the same careful attention, tightening straps along her hips, checking the give of the leather at her knees, his hands mapping every inch of the fitting with a thoroughness that felt equal parts practical and reverent.
When he finally circled back to face her, something more serious had settled behind his eyes.
“There’s one more piece,” he said.
He reached into the case and drew out a final object — a collar, dark obsidian polished smooth, etched with runes far more intricate than anything on the rest of the armor.
Ren’s stomach tightened.
“What is that?”
“A conduit. Ancient design, older than most of what the church still practices openly.” He turned it over in his hands, studying the runes with something like reluctance.
“It links two life forces together. If one wearer falls unconscious, or is critically wounded, the other feels it instantly, regardless of distance. In the Wastes, separated from Citadel wards, it could mean the difference between finding you in time or losing you to the dark entirely.”
“That sounds like more than a practical safety measure.”
“It is more.” He met her eyes directly, something raw bleeding through the careful explanation.
“It’s also permanent, Caelia. Once bound, the link doesn’t break easily. I won’t lie to you about what it means.”
“It means I’ll feel your pain as my own, wherever you are. It means, if you’re injured, I’ll know instantly and be unable to rest until I reach you. It means tying myself to you in a way considerably more binding than anything either of us has admitted to each other yet.” His voice dropped lower, rougher.
“I want it anyway. I want to know, every second we’re out there, exactly how you’re faring, without having to wonder or hope or pray to gods I’ve mostly stopped believing in.”
Ren studied the collar in his hands, understanding fully the weight of what he was offering — not simply protection, but a permanent, physical tether between them, undeniable proof to anyone who ever discovered it exactly how deep his devotion truly ran.
“Put it on me,” she said.
Something shifted in his expression, relief and gratitude and fierce possessiveness all tangled together as he stepped behind her, lifting her hair aside with careful hands.
The obsidian settled cool against her throat, runes flaring briefly gold-black as the magic activated, and Ren felt an immediate, subtle awareness bloom at the base of her skull — not quite a voice, but a presence, steady and warm, unmistakably him.
“Can you feel it?” he murmured against her ear.
“Yes.” She reached up, fingers tracing the smooth stone.
“It’s strange. Like knowing exactly where you’re standing without having to look.”
“That’s precisely what it’s meant to do.” His arms wrapped around her from behind, chin resting against her shoulder as he studied their reflection in the mirror across the room — armor gleaming dark and silver, obsidian collar catching the candlelight, the two of them bound together now by something considerably more permanent than either of them had voiced aloud.
“I need you to survive out there, Caelia. Whatever else happens in the Wastes, whatever Malachi hopes for, I need you to come back to me.”
“I intend to.”
“Good.” He pressed one final kiss to the side of her throat, just above the collar, and Ren felt the phantom warmth of it echo strangely through the new bond between them, doubled somehow, shared.
“Because I’ve decided something, standing here fitting you for a war neither of us asked for.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m done letting fear of consequence dictate how deeply I let myself want you.” He turned her gently to face him, hands framing her face with a tenderness that made her chest ache.
“Whatever we find in that wasteland. Whatever Malachi plans back here in our absence. I want you to know, clearly, without any more careful half-truths between us, that you are the only thing in this entire Empire I actually care about protecting.”
Ren reached up, covering his hands with her own, feeling the collar’s steady presence hum warm against her throat — a physical, undeniable thread now connecting them, impossible to hide, impossible to deny.
“Then let’s survive this together,” she said quietly, “and figure out what comes after once we’re both still breathing to find out.”