Theon climbed with urgency, branches cracking beneath his boots. When he reached her, her eyes fluttered weakly.

“I was wondering if you’d notice,” she murmured, voice dry, almost playful—but laced with exhaustion. “Or maybe not. It’d be easier that way…”

“What happened?” he breathed.

She didn’t answer at first. Then her trembling fingers reached for him, barely strong enough to tug his tunic.

“Help me,” she said softly. “Take me home.”

⸻

He didn’t ask questions—only followed her whispered directions. The hidden passage, the silent corridors, the old warded door none but her and Vaelen knew. The moment they entered the chamber, he realized just how alone she truly was. No servants. No physician. Just the cold, quiet breath of a girl who’d nearly died with no one to care.

He laid her gently on the bed, hands awkward and slow, trying not to worsen her wounds. His easygoing charm was nowhere in sight. He looked at her not with mischief—but with real fear.

“I need to clean the wound,” he said quietly. “It is quite deep and you lost a lot of blood. I… I might need to remove the layers. Sorry.”

Aelira gave the ghost of a laugh. “Do you think I care right now? I’ve bled enough to bathe in it. Just… do it.”

Still, his hands hesitated. Not out of desire, but reverence. This wasn’t the sly shadow-girl perching in trees. This was someone broken, trusting him in a way that made his heart clench.

Piece by piece, he peeled away the torn cloak, the soaked tunic, the stiff leather. Each movement revealed more bruises—black, purple, angry red—scratches, bites, gashes. On her ribs, her side, down her thigh. Some old, many new.

He washed them one by one. Silent. Focused. His brows drawn in pain that wasn’t his.

“There must’ve been someone else who could’ve helped you,” he whispered.

“There wasn’t,” she murmured. “Only you.”

He paused. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t move.

“…Idiot,” he muttered, but it came out cracked.

She closed her eyes. Her breath evened just slightly.

He wrapped the cleaned wounds with spare cloth, careful not to bind them too tightly. When he finished, he pulled the blanket up to her chest and sat beside the bed. He didn’t leave.

Theon stayed.

Through the long hours of the night, when the wind howled against the walls and shadows shifted across the chamber, he sat there. Watching her chest rise and fall. Listening to her faint breaths. Once, in the deepest dark before dawn, her hand shifted across the sheets and brushed his sleeve. He didn’t move away.

—- 

Morning light seeped into the room like a reluctant guest. The air was still, heavy with the lingering scent of blood, herbs, and silence. Aelira lay motionless, her breath shallow, but steady. The bandages wrapped around her limbs were clean—new. Someone had tended to her carefully, and not long ago.

That someone sat slouched by her bedside.

Theon.

He wasn’t asleep, but he looked like he hadn’t blinked in hours. His usual lazy grin was gone. In its place was a clenched jaw, one hand on the hilt of his dagger—not for battle, but in tension. The fire in him simmered low and slow, an ember waiting.

Then came the sharp echo of footsteps.

Measured, fast, deliberate.

The heavy door swung open.

Vaelen entered, his dark cloak billowing slightly from the brisk pace, his sharp eyes sweeping the room—and stopping. The moment he saw Theon by her side, his entire frame stilled.

A breath. A shift in air.

“…Prince Theon.”

His voice was crisp. Flat. Dangerous.

Theon slowly stood. His red hair caught the morning light like flame, but his tone was colder than ever.

“Well, well. The great Advisor Vaelen. We finally meet in private.”

Vaelen’s gaze flicked to Aelira—then back to Theon. “This chamber is off-limits. Especially to foreign guests.”

Theon didn’t move. “You should be grateful I found her. She nearly died crawling back here.”

Vaelen’s eye twitched—but he didn’t respond.

Theon tilted his head, voice slow, drawling like a knife unsheathing. “You know, I’d heard stories. That Solhara’s famed Advisor once adopted a girl so dear to him that he begged the Queen to let her live within the palace. A little flower, too precious to leave his sight.”

He gestured vaguely to Aelira’s pale, bandaged form.

“And here I find her—half-dead, alone, in a room colder than a crypt. Some father.”

Vaelen’s tone dropped to a razor’s edge. “You tread dangerously, prince.”

Theon’s eyes didn’t waver. “I do. But only because you force me to. What kind of man tells the world he treasures a girl and then lets her bleed in the dark like an expendable blade?”

Silence.

The tension crackled like a storm coiling between them.

Vaelen finally spoke. “She’s my daughter, I protect her in my own way.”

Theon laughed—quiet, bitter. “You protect her like a butcher protects livestock.”

“You know nothing about her. Or what she is.”

“I know what I see.” Theon stepped forward, voice low and sharp. “I see a girl trained to kill, locked in silence, stitched together by duty and nothing else. You made her your blade—but you forgot she’s still human.”

Vaelen’s control wavered, just for a breath. “This is not your concern.”

“She saved herself,” Theon snapped, suddenly louder. “She was dying, and there was no one—not one godsdamned soul—in this palace who would even notice.”

A pause.

“She came to me. Not you.”

Those words hit like a slap.

Theon’s voice dropped, cold and precise. “And now I know why.”

The door behind them creaked faintly. A shift.

Aelira stirred.

Her voice, though faint, cut the air cleanly: “Theon…”

He turned to her, the edge in him softening just slightly.

“Thank you. For everything last night.”

There was a pause. A hint of relief flickered in his eyes—but she didn’t stop there.

“…but can you give us the room?”

Theon froze. “You—”

“Please,” she said gently.

A heartbeat passed. Then he nodded.

But as he walked toward the door, he turned one last time, meeting Vaelen’s gaze with a quiet, chilling fire.

“If I ever find her bleeding alone again… there won’t be a next time.”

He stepped through the threshold and vanished into the hall.

Only then did Vaelen exhale. He walked to Aelira’s side and looked down at her, the faint tremor in his hands quickly buried behind his robes. His face remained unreadable.

But for a man used to silence, his heart was unbearably loud.

The door shut behind Theon with a final click, the sound echoing through the cold stone halls like a gavel.

Vaelen stepped forward, the edge of his robe whispering against the floor. He didn’t speak at first.

Aelira didn’t meet his eyes.

“I’ll do better next time,” she said quietly. Her voice held no shame, no fear—only the dull weight of responsibility. “I shouldn’t have overreached.”

She said it like a report.

Not an apology.

Vaelen’s jaw tightened. His eyes dropped briefly to the bandaged edges of her wounds. He’d seen the reports, of course. She single-handed taken down the whole castle of the rebel court. She could have leave unscratch but she chose to save the prisoned slaves. None of them were injuries, and was taken care of to the safe place. She destroyed the slave trade ring, which intended to export to the empire as foot solider against the kingdom. The whole country praise the queen, and none known of the shadow behind who dirty the hand for the cause. 

She had done more than the succeeded. 

But she’d nearly died to do it.

The words rose in his throat—You fool, you stubborn child, you could have died, …?

But instead, he said:

“You could have used the divine power.” For the past 10 years, you trained enough to be able to control some part of it. 

Aelira opened her eyes slowly. Her tone remained flat. Steady.

“I won’t risk it. There is no guarantee it is safe to used. If that happens, everything you’ve done for Kaeyla—will be undone.”

Everything you’ve done for Kaeyla.

Not we.

Not us.

Just you.

Vaelen felt the barb in that, even if she hadn’t meant to place it there.

He watched her for a long moment.

She didn’t flinch under his gaze. She didn’t look away. The girl had long since stopped shrinking in his presence. That frightened him more than it comforted him.

Because she no longer feared him.

She no longer needed to.

She had become strong.

Too strong.

And yet, somehow… still breakable.

He wanted to reach out—just once. To place a hand on her shoulder. To tell her she’d done enough. That it was not what he wanted it to be. 

But his hand stayed frozen mid-air. He could not move it.

He couldn’t afford to move it.

If she softened now… she might hesitate. She might hope. And hope, in her hands, could get her and Kaeyla killed.

So he lowered his hand. Slowly. Quietly. Letting it fall beside him like a weapon never drawn.

His voice came low, sharp as a blade unsheathed.

“Rest. Training is suspended until you heal.”

Then he turned, cloak billowing behind him as he walked away without another word.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Aelira remained still.

She didn’t thank him. Didn’t cry. Didn’t smile.

There was no expectation left inside her.

Just the knowledge: she had to recover. And grow stronger.

That was all.