Burning Embers: Scorching Tales of Desire
he said quietly, and there was no space in his tone for refusal.
The king was slumped against the pillows, skin clammy, lips pale. His breathing rattled.
Khaled stood behind me, one hand on my shoulder, his weight a warning I could feel in my bones.
“Do it,” the king rasped.
I didn’t answer, just stepped forward. My heart was steady. My seed had stitched torn flesh, revived soldiers half-dead in the field. If it could do that, it could burn the sickness out of him.
I undid the fastening at my waist. The king’s eyes flickered, not in shame, only in understanding. My power didn’t come from chants or light. It came from me.
Sikat na Kabanata