“To dóro ton theón,” translated Enrique aloud. “The … gift … of gods?”

“The gods gifted us a rock wall?” asked Hypnos.

Séverin ignored him. “What did the gods gift humans? Earth, perhaps?”

Enrique knelt, scooping some of the silt into his hands. He flung it onto the rock. Nothing changed.

“Fire?” said Hypnos. “That was Prometheus’s gift to humans, was it not?”

“The wall is fire resistant,” said Zofia. “I’m sure about that.”

“Maybe there’s another clue along the wall?” asked Enrique.

“We can split up and look,” said Séverin. “Our torches don’t carry very far. If you see something, call out. I’ll stay here and see if anything else appears beside the writing.”

Laila nodded. “I’ll take the left side.”

Enrique and Zofia set off to explore the wall on the right, and Hypnos jogged after them, a bright bouncing beam in the dark.

Laila had barely moved six meters when a painful twinge in her ankle made her slip. She flung out her hand, catching herself on one of the jagged rocks and wincing. An ache flared behind her ribs, and Laila dimly recalled Séverin elbowing her out of the way of a grasping, skeletal hand as they fled to the bridge. She hadn’t felt it then, but she did now.

More aches dribbled slowly through her senses, setting her teeth on edge. She took a few more steps before pain shot through her ankle once more. This time when she slipped, it was not the rocks that caught her, but Séverin.

“What aren’t you telling me?” asked Séverin, his voice low and dark.

“God!” yelped Laila in alarm, spinning out of his grip.

Her lantern light caught his smirk. “Not yet.”

“How very charming and blasphemous, now excuse me—”

“What are you hiding from me?”

“It’s nothing—”

Séverin blocked her. “Haven’t we played that game enough times?”

Laila bit her lip, hard. Too hard. At once, the feeling of numbness eased away. Once more, her eyes could pick out the plum and scarlet colors in the dark stones of the cave wall. She could smell the lake water, the cloying earth, taste the metal sweetness of her own blood on her tongue. Slicing through all of it, Séverin’s presence. He smelled of smoke and cloves, and he stood before her, half-haloed in the light, expectant and victorious as a king. It was no different from that night in the mascherari, when his touch had returned her to herself and his smile had been so smug. As if he already knew that only he could have this effect.

“Why must you do that to me?” she asked.

Séverin looked away, shame flashing in his eyes. “The only thing I am doing is checking that you are well, since you looked as though you’d hurt yourself. I only wished to help you. I … I am not here to corner you with my feelings, Laila. I realize how selfish you think me, but give me this benefit, at least.”

Laila almost laughed. How could she tell him that it had nothing to do with that?

“I am merely acting as a friend would,” said Séverin.

“Does that make us friends, then?”

Séverin arched an eyebrow. “I think we’re past that.”

Laila looked up at him and then quickly wished she hadn’t. The slanting light drew out the regal angles of his face and the wolfish set of his mouth. He looked far too comfortable in the dark, and yet he wondered why she didn’t consider him safe.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Laila,” he said softly. “Tell me, so I may fix it.”

Laila hesitated a moment, and then the words she’d been fighting down burst from her. “Your presence … your touch, rather, does more than enough.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Laila flashed a weary smile. “I’m dying, Séverin. And my body, I suppose, is preparing itself. When I’m injured, pain takes hours to find me. My blood no longer looks red. Sometimes I cannot hear. Or see.”

Horror crept into his eyes. A muscle in his jaw clenched.

“Do not worry too much on my account,” said Laila. “Perhaps it will please you to know that the blank sensations tend to dissipate faster when you…” Her glibness faltered. “When you touch me. And before you think it is your doing alone, know that eventually it does come back to me, but you … I suppose you amplify it in a way. I don’t know how. There. Are you pleased with yourself and your divine abilities? Will you crow about it to everyone?”

Séverin’s voice was soft. “Laila—”

“Shall I beg for you to make me feel alive?” she asked, a harsh laugh leaving her throat.

Her laugh made the lantern light gutter, then go out. An abrupt darkness fell over them. Séverin was quiet for a moment, and then his voice found her in the shadows. He had moved closer. “There’s no need to beg for something I’d give without question. Is that what you want from me, Laila?”

Laila might not have heard the siren song in the cave, but her blood answered to a different call. The thrum of memory filled her—his mouth on her skin, her name on his lips.

The world told her she was a thousand things—a girl sculpted from grave dirt, a snow maiden flirting with spring’s thaw, an exotic phantasm for men to pin their lusts upon just to keep her in place.

But with Séverin, she was always Laila.

The wet ground squelched underfoot. He had stepped toward her, closing the distance between them even more. Even in the dark, she could tell Séverin was standing utterly still.

For once, he was the one waiting, and Laila savored it for only a breath before she reached out, touching his face. Séverin groaned, whatever stillness he had mastered vanishing the second she touched him. The lantern crashed to the ground, and he crushed her to him in a kiss.

Laila thought often of what it meant to be lost in a kiss. The sensation so heady and drowning that the world beyond it ceased to exist. But in this kiss, Laila was not lost, but found. Her senses turned diamond-sharp, her body felt like a column of flame greedily devouring every scent, texture, taste it could find as he pushed her up against the wall.

“Are you all right?” shouted Enrique. “What was that sound?”

Laila wrenched away. There was a pause, a soft sigh, and then—

“We’re fine,” called Séverin, out of breath. “I dropped the lantern.”

There was a familiar rip of the match as Séverin relit the dead wick. Light flared between them, and with it, the too-bright knowledge of what a selfish mistake she’d committed. She looked up at Séverin, ready to apologize, but the sight of him stopped her short. Séverin’s violet eyes might have been the precise color of sleep, but his gaze was restless and alive, fever-bright with longing. For her.

It was too much. All the bruises he’d left on her heart made it too tender to hold that gaze, and so she said the first thing that came to her mind.

“Thank you.”

Séverin closed his eyes, and immediately Laila knew she’d said the wrong thing. “Please don’t thank me for something I already wanted to give.”

“I … I have nothing else to offer.”