By the time they reached the Healing Halls, Clara was only halfway aware of the world. She remembered being carried by Zarek, she thought, his arms like iron—and the corridor lights flickering past, and the sound of Celia's voice somewhere far behind. Then the shock hit, and her world shrank to the pulse of pain and the coppery taste of blood on her tongue.

The Healing Halls smelled of beeswax, old herbs, and the colder tang of earth magic drawn through the floor like a river. Clara had been here before, but always for scraped knees, or the time she'd gotten a pencil through her palm, or the time Atlas had dared her to drink an entire jar of pepper sauce. Never like this. Never with a whole wing of the castle stopping to gawk as the Wolf of the North swept in carrying the Princess Heir, her ankle twisted and purple, her eyes unfocused, her dress torn and muddy.

"Set her down here," came the voice of the chief healer, Dr. Matthias Thornheart, the palace's tireless, prematurely gray physician, whose hands were already glowing with the golden haze of diagnostic magic.

Zarek lowered her onto a padded table so gently she barely felt the shift, but the instant her weight left his arms, the pain returned full force. Clara tried to bite back a scream, but it escaped anyway—a high, wounded thing that filled the chamber and echoed down the stone corridor. Zarek took a step back before leaving the room so the medical team could tend to Clara without his massive frame blocking the way.

"Easy, Clara," Dr. Thornheart murmured, eyes scanning her from toes to crown. "This will sting for just a moment." He pressed his palm to her forehead, and suddenly the pain ebbed to a dull, distant throb.

"Can you move your toes?" he asked, voice calm and precise. Clara blinked at him, not trusting her voice, and managed a weak wiggle.

"Good. No spinal damage. We'll need to set the bone before we try a full healing." The doctor was already gesturing for his assistants—three young women and a boy, all in blue linen, hands clean and eager.

From the doorway, Clara could see the line of worried faces: Celia and Atlas, Queen Zia, even Lucas, who looked genuinely shaken for once in his life. Lue stood behind them, face unreadable, one hand pressed to the sword hilt at his side.

Dr. Thornheart's assistant was already rolling up Clara's skirt, baring the swollen, lumpy mess that was her left shin. "It's broken," she heard someone whisper. "Gods, look at the bend."

Dr. Thornheart ignored the commentary. "You're going to feel a pop, and then it will get very hot. Then it will be over," he told Clara,

Clara nodded, gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles blanched.

"On three," he said. "One. Two—"

He yanked hard, and Clara's vision went white. She barely registered the next seconds, only the rush of blood in her ears and the warmth flooding her leg as the doctor and his team wove their magic.

When she came to, the pain had subsided into something distant and cold. Dr. Thornheart was wrapping her leg with a bandage that shimmered faintly, gold threads worked through the linen.

"Don't try to walk for two days," he said. "You'll be sore, but the bone is set and knitting already. No athletics, no duels, no tree climbing. You understand?" He ordered her sternly.

Clara managed a weak nod. "I hate this," she said, her voice thin and raw.

The doctor's expression softened a fraction. "You're alive. That's better than most who fall from that height." He patted her hand and then turned away, already barking orders at his assistants to prepare tinctures for swelling.

Clara slumped back, letting the hum of healing magic settle her. She stared at the ceiling's slow-moving mural—celestial beasts in an endless chase—and waited for the others to decide what to do next.

In a chamber off the Healing Halls—less an actual room, more a nook with high windows and a perpetual scent of lemon balm—King Noah, Queen Zia, Zarek Starforge, and the Advisor had gathered for crisis management. The table was set for tea, but the silver was untouched, the cups empty.

Noah was the first to speak. "You saw it, Zarek? The whole thing?" He asked that they had just entered the gardens when Clara started climbing the tree, and they were just in time to see Clara fall. Zarek was tall enough to see over the hedges.

The Wolf of the North nodded, his hands folded in his lap. "Most of it, she climbed with impressive speed. The branch was not strong enough." He stated it without judgment, as if reporting on the weather.

The Advisor, Aldrich Thornweaver, scribbled in his ledger, lips pursed. "We have had problems with those trees before. Perhaps a sign to reinforce the gardens," he muttered, but no one acknowledged him.

"Where was Lue?" Noah demanded, his words sharp.

"Behind her, Your Majesty," Zarek replied. "He had no chance to intervene; it seemed to have happened too fast. Clara made the decision herself." He said, his voice calm.

The King's jaw flexed. "That's not an excuse. He's her guard. He's supposed to predict her stupidity." He muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Zia's eyes narrowed. "Lue is not to blame," she said, each word clipped as a frostbitten branch. "If he had tried to stop her, she would have found another way." She gave a small, knowing smile, the sort that mothers shared when they knew their child better than the world ever could.

Noah grunted, conceding the point without liking it. He flicked a glance at Zarek. "You're still willing to go through with this?" he asked, not quite managing to keep the skepticism out of his tone.

Zarek inclined his head. "I am. If anything, I respect her more. She does not fear pain or consequence." He said this as though it were the highest of compliments.

Zia smiled, soft and strange. "She has the spirit of the north, even if she is terrible at keeping her bones inside her body." She quipped and then picked up her fan to fan her face.

The Advisor coughed delicately. "Speaking of which, there is the matter of the wedding announcement. Several of the other houses have sent inquiries—some in person, some by courier—requesting another audience with the princess. A few suitors are… persistent." He mentioned with a weary voice.

Noah waved a hand, dismissing the idea. "They can save their parchment. Clara has already made her choice, one way or another." His gaze shifted to Zarek, then to the Queen. "We announce the engagement as soon as the healers clear her. The rest will fall in line." He stated with a firm tone.

Aldrich nodded and made a note. "The announcement, then. And the date?" He questioned as he looked up, quill in hand, ready to write.

Zarek spoke. "If possible, before autumn. I wish to spend the cold months in the north, to show Clara the land and to prepare for the next planting season." His eyes did not leave the King's. "Winter is harsh, but it is easier with two rulers than one." He explained.

Zia's lips twitched, amused. "You assume she will rule with you." She commented.

"She will." Zarek's certainty was as absolute as a blizzard.

Noah barked a short laugh. "Then you had better start teaching her to walk in snow. She has trouble enough with flat ground." He sat back, the lines in his face easing, and for a moment looked almost like the man he'd been before the kingdom's troubles.

The Advisor shuffled his papers. "We can prepare the necessary documentation. And as for the matter of the north—Kestrel Hawkwind is managing in your absence, yes?" He questioned as he wrote down the notes.

Zarek nodded. "He is loyal. But the province would be better with a permanent lord." He replied to The Advisor.

Noah's brows rose. "You plan to keep the title of Duke after you become my son-in-law?" He asked as he glanced over at Zarek.

"Only until a replacement is chosen. I have no desire for more crowns than necessary." Zarek said, and meant it. It would be too much trouble.

"You have your own ideas for a successor?" Zia leaned forward, eyes sharp.

Zarek was silent for a beat. "There are candidates, but none I trust without trial. If it pleases you, I would take one of Clara's brothers to serve as warden for a season. They could learn the north, and I could evaluate their fitness." He suggested, after all, she had four; they could be put to good use.

Noah grunted. "Atlas would freeze by midwinter. Theodor would rebel by month two. Jasper already has his hands full helping the East Province and the West, but Lucas—" He smiled, wolfish. "Maybe the cold would do him good." He suggested.

Zia shook her head, a fondness underlying her exasperation. "Or send all three and see which survives. If Jasper wishes, maybe all four." Zia countered with a smile.

"The north rewards the clever. It does not forgive the lazy." Zarek allowed himself a hint of a smile.

"Good. Then it is decided." The Queen's smile widened.

The Advisor made a final note, then shut his ledger with a decisive snap. "I will see to the arrangements, Majesties. Lord Starforge." He bowed and slipped from the room, leaving the three to their tea.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the garden birds beyond the window, and the faint noise of Clara yelling something at the healers from two rooms away.

Noah regarded Zarek, expression inscrutable. "You know, you're not what I expected." He commented and nodded his head towards Zerak.

"I am often not." Zarek inclined his head.

"We could do worse for a son-in-law." Noah raised his cup in a silent toast, then drained it.

Dr. Thornheart entered the tea chamber, his robes flecked with what looked like gold dust. He bowed to the Queen and King, and then to Zarek.

"The Princess will heal," he announced, sparing them the preamble. "The leg is set, and the fractures are mending. She will have pain for a few days, but no permanent damage. I recommend rest, and less tree climbing." He explained in a formal tone.

Noah snorted. "We'll see what we can do." He responded as he refilled his teacup.

Dr. Thornheart's gaze flicked to Zarek, measuring. "Lord Starforge. If you wish, you may see her. She is awake now. A bit woozy, but awake." He offered and stepped back.

Zarek stood, bowed to the Queen, and excused himself. Zia watched him go, then turned to her husband. Dr. Thornheart followed Zarek.

"He is more at home with the wounded than the courtiers, isn't he?" she observed.

"Maybe that's what this family needs." Noah leaned back, an old tension finally leaving his frame.

Zia poured herself tea, her hands steady, her eyes fixed on the closed door. "Maybe so," she said, and for the first time in a week, she allowed herself to hope.

Clara was awake, if groggy, when Zarek entered the recovery chamber. She was propped up on pillows, one leg bound and elevated, a tray of untouched broth steaming on the stand beside her.

"Hey," Clara said, her voice hoarse. "Did I miss anything?" She asked with a small smile.

Zarek took the seat beside her, folding his hands atop his knees. "Only the announcement that you are officially the most reckless princess in three kingdoms," he said, deadpan.

"I'll add it to my resume." Clara tried to smile.

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the soft glow of the healing wards casting a warm, forgiving light over everything.

Zarek pulled the stool closer to Clara's bedside, and he leaned over her slightly. As his ice-blue gaze locked onto hers, Clara felt her breath catch at how intensely he was staring at her. "You could have died, Clara." His deep voice rumbled between them, barely above a whisper yet somehow filling the space. The scent of pine and winter snow clung to him. "I do not wish that." His voice lowered further.

The nearness of him sent a flutter through Clara's chest; it was something she was not used to. She looked up at him, her usual defenses crumbling. "I didn't think I would. I just wanted to prove..." Her words faded as she searched for what she truly meant, distracted by the way his jaw clenched with concern.

"You have nothing left to prove," Zarek murmured. He lifted his hand, hesitating just shy of touching her cheek, the warmth of his skin radiating between them. "Not to your family. Not to the court." His fingers finally brushed against her skin, feather-light. "And not to me."

Clara's pulse quickened at his touch. The world around them seemed to still, the winter air crackling with unspoken words.

"I only wish to survive the winter with you," he added. Such simple words, yet they carried the weight of mountains.

Clara let the silence stretch between them, savoring the tenderness in his usually stoic expression. The Wolf of the North, feared by many, looked at her now with such raw vulnerability that it stole her breath. She reached for his hand, her fingers sliding against his calloused palm.

"We'll make it," she whispered, the corner of her mouth lifting in a teasing smile. "If the wolves don't eat us first." She added.

Zarek's expression transformed, warmth spreading across his features like sunrise breaking over the northern mountains. His smile, when it came, was slow and genuine—a rare gift.

"I like our odds," he replied, his thumb tracing delicate patterns across her knuckles as he enveloped her small hand in his. The contrast between his battle-hardened strength and this gentle touch made Clara's chest tighten with something she wasn't ready to name.

From the window, the last light of evening streamed in, gilding the room in gold. The world was still broken, still raw, but for now, it was enough.