Alessia forced herself to remain still, as her heart hammered in her chest, flooding her veins with adrenaline. The urge to force herself up into a defensive stance was nearly overwhelming.

  She knew damn well that moving could bring fatal consequences for both herself and Stella.

  The little girl curled tighter into Dionys’ side, going completely still and silent even as her breath hitches in palpable terror. She recognized the cadence and tone of the newcomer’s words too well. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped Dionys’ tunic like a lifeline.

  Dionys clenched his jaw, his free hand drifting toward the dagger at his belt. He didn’t stand—refused to jostle Stella—but his posture shifted into something protective and predatory.

  High King Nomaros loomed in the entrance, his gaze sweeping over the scene with slow, deliberate appraisal until it landed on Alessia’s blooded form—then it flicked up to meet Odrian’s glare.

  “Explain to me why there’s a Tharon whore stinking up my war camp?” he demanded, his voice is eerily measured.

  The words hang in the air like a noose.

  Odrian’s jaw clenched as he slowly turned to face Nomaros. His grip on Alessia’s hand never faltered.

  “Your Highness,” he said, his voice carefully neutral. The word tasted like poison. “We’re treating an injured civilian.”

  The High King stepped fully into the tent, his gilded armor clinking softly. His posture was rigid, eyes scanning the scene with disapproval.

  “An injured civilian?” he repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism. “Is that what we’re calling enemy spies now?”

  The air turned heavy, the threat unmistakable.

  Behind Nomaros, two of his personal guard shifted uncomfortably, hands resting on their sword hilts.

  Dionys’ grip tightened on Stella.

  “She’s a child,” he growled.

  “She isn’t,” Nomaros countered smoothly, his gaze flicking to Alessia’s bandaged torso and bloodied face. He arched a brow. “And yet she bleeds like one of ours.”

  Alessia was panicking—beneath the surface, in a place where years of war and agony had carved instinct so deep she couldn’t forget it if she tried. It screamed at her to defend herself, to shield Stella, to do something—

  Then Nomaros dared to imply her blood meant nothing. And that scrap of arrogance was enough to make her vision go red.

  She turned her head—slow and deliberate—to face him, her expression deathly calm despite the blood streaking her face.

  But Odrian spoke before she could.

  “An interesting accusation,” he interjected smoothly, shifting to block Nomaros’ line of sight to Alessia. “Especially from a woman who hasn’t been near our lines until two nights ago, and has been unconscious for most of that time.”

  Then softer, deceptively casual, he asked, “Unless, of course, you have proof she’s a spy?”

  The High King’s lips thinned in displeasure. His eyes didn’t leave Alessia, even with Odrian in the way. Coldly assessing her, weighing her worth—and finding her wanting. “Your concern is touching, Odrian. She’s Tharon.”

  Patrian, who had been quietly gathering up the tools he and Askarion had been using, sighed loudly. He stood, stepping into Nomaros’ line of sight beside Odrian.

  “She’s a mother,” he said, pointedly bland. “And currently under our care.” A pause, then as sweet as honey and as sharp as Dionys’ dagger, “Or shall we assume you enjoy watching women bleed?”

  Dionys shifted, placing himself more firmly between Nomaros and Stella, one hand casually resting on her head as if to shield her from even hearing the venom being spat at her mother.

  One of the guards steps up from behind Nomaros, eyeing the situation like a vulture circling carrion.

  “Forgive my interruption, High King,” he said. “But didn’t Commander Luther report an incident with a Tharon woman weeks ago? Brown haired, blue eyed, freckled?”

  His eyes flicked meaningfully toward Alessia.

  “Aquila,” Odrian said, voice dripping with false cheer and venom. “Still doing your master’s bidding, I see.”

  “And still talking out your ass,” Dionys added under his breath—just loud enough to carry. Stella giggled at his words.

  Nomaros’ eyes flicked to the small form hidden against Dionys, then back at Odrian. A slow, venomous smile spread across his face.

  “Ah, now it makes sense.” He stepped closer. “Tell me, King of Othara—how long have you been fucking the enemy?”

  Something in Odrian broke and in a single, fluid motion he closed the distance between them, his unsheathed dagger pressed to the High King’s throat.

  “Say that again,” he murmured, voice eerily calm. “I dare you.”

  And in that moment, the Owl of Othara looked every inch the ruthless strategist who burned entire fleets to ash.

  Nomaros’ breath hitched, just slightly, at the blade’s kiss. But he didn’t back down.

  “You draw steel on your King?” he asked, disbelief warring with rage. “For her?”

  The dagger doesn’t waver. “For justice.” Odrian’s smile was all teeth as he tilted his head slightly. “Unless you’d prefer to discuss your men’s violation of the Truce of Healers? Or do war crimes only count when Tharos commits them?”

  “Stand down, Odrian,” Nomaros said, each syllable grating. “This isn’t worth starting a war over.”

  “THERE’S ALREADY A WAR!” Odrian roared, shoving Nomaros back with enough force to send him stumbling several steps. His hands shook from adrenaline and fury. “One you started over your brother’s stolen bride!” He spun, gesturing sharply at Alessia with a bloodied hand. “And now you want me to stand by while your men do the same?”

  His voice cracked under the weight of unspeakable implication as he turned his glare back onto the High King.

  Dionys went rigid, Stella clutched tightly against him, as Odrian’s words landed.

  The same.

  His grip on his dagger tightened as understanding dawned.

  Not just threatened. Not just wounded. Violated.

  For the first time since entering the tent, Nomaros looked uncertain. His gaze flickered from Odrian’s enraged face to Alessia’s battered form to the child trembling in Dionys’ arms.

  “You have proof of this?” The question was quiet. Less accusation—something dangerously close to shame.

  “Check the knife,” Dionys growled, jerking his chin toward the blade that was still on the ground beside Askarion. “That blade reeks of half the noble houses in Aurel.”

  Patrian helped Alessia sit up so she could drink. “Upward thrust. Angled to maim. They wanted her to suffer.”

  Nomaros’ breath stuttered before his expression was schooled back into stern objectivity.

  “This matter will be investigated. If what you say is true, the men responsible will answer for it.” A moment of silence before he continued, grudgingly, “You have my word.”

  His gaze narrowed at Patrian, then Dionys, before landing back on Odrian.

  “But that doesn’t change that you let this into our camp,” he murmured. “And you expect me to believe you’ve not gone mad? Or is it your dick doing the thinking now?”

  Odrian’s lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. “Is that why you’re here, Nomaros? Concerned about my dick?” He knelt beside Alessia, taking her hand again. “Because if you’re offering to inspect it personally, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. You’re not my type.”

  Patrian made a sound suspiciously like a snort masquerading as a cough. Askarion, miraculously, kept his focus entirely on Alessia’s bandages.

  His shoulders twitched with what might have been laughter.

  Dionys, shielding Stella, rolled his eyes skyward as if begging the gods for patience.

  “For fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “Now he decides to be funny?”

  For a heartbeat the air itself grew thick with tension, then Nomaros broke it.

  “You always did mistake recklessness for wit,” he said, his voice a lash. “But make no mistake—this indiscretion will not go unanswered.” A final glance at Alessia—barely more than a flicker—but the contempt is scalding. “Expect my summons by dawn.”

  Outside the tent his voice rang sharp with command. “Double the watch. No one leaves this camp without my seal.”

  Alessia counted ten breaths before breathing a sigh of relief. “That … could’ve gone worse.”

  She and Stella were still alive, after all.

  “He’s not comin’ back, yeah?” she slurred at Odrian, the words nearly unintelligible. She needed to know she wasn’t going to lie to Stella before she tried to comfort the little girl.

  Odrian’s fingers tensed around hers—just slightly—before squeezing back.

  “Not today,” he murmured—too low for anyone but her to hear. “If he tries, he’ll find me blocking the way.”

  His gaze flicked to where Stella huddled against Dionys—her tiny frame trembling. An unspoken promise hung between them.

  Lie to her all you need. I’ll make it true.

  Alessia sighed in gratitude and relief.

  “Stellaki,” she said gently, as clearly as she could. A code, for Stella alone—a name only used to signal the end of peril.

  The danger is gone. We’re safe now.

  She held out her hand in the direction of the little girl.

  Stella didn’t need to hear another word. At Alessia’s outstretched hand and that name, she scrambled forward—abandoning Dionys’ protective bulk to fling herself against her mother’s uninjured side.

  Her fingers fisted in the bloody fabric of Alessia’s ruined peplos, but she didn’t cry. Not yet. She just held on—as if her sheer stubbornness could knit skin back together.

  “You said,” she whispered against Alessia’s shoulder, her voice small but fierce. “You said ‘not goin’ anywhere.”

  A reminder.

  A challenge.

  A plea.

  “M’still here, Starlight,” Alessia said gently. “Still here.”

  Odrian’s breath caught at the exchange—something fragile and unnamed tightening in his chest. For once, the ever-ready quip died on his tongue. He met Dionys’ gaze over Stella’s head—silent understanding passing between them before he turned back to Askarion.

  “Anything else?” he asked, his voice rough with exhaustion and edged with command.

  What more can we do? lingered beneath his question, unspoken.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “The wounds are both clean and stitched,” Askarion said as he wiped his hands on a cloth. “But she’s lost a lot of blood—too much. She needs rest. Clean water, if she can keep it down.” He sighed before grudgingly adding, “She’s stubborn. That helps.”

  Odrian nodded, looking down at Alessia with an expression that would have been exasperated if it weren’t so relieved.

  “Stubborn,” he echoed dryly, his thumb brushing the back of her hand. “What a shocking revelation.”

  Dionys stepped closer as Patrian gathered the last of the soil bandages.

  “We’ll take shifts,” he said. Odrian opened his mouth to argue, but Dionys cut him off with a glance. “Shifts,” he repeated, firm and unyielding. “Rest. Or I’ll let Stella sit on you.”

  Stella nodded solemnly in agreement with the threat.

  “She’s too little,” Alessia said, words slurred with exhaustion. “Let’er pile her rocks on ‘im.”

  Odrian stared at her, blinking once. Twice.

  Then, absurdly, he laughed—quiet and rough with exhaustion, but real.

  “Gods. I adore you,” he muttered before he could think better of it.

  A heartbeat. Two.

  His smile faltered—not with regret, but with something softer. “Which is terrible news for both of us.”

  Patrian froze—then fixed Odrian with a look full of gleeful, impending torment. “Oh,” he murmured, viciously delighted. “This is gold.”

  Dionys sighed—deep and long-suffering. “Please tell me you waited for that confession until after she had a blade in her, so at least she couldn’t run away.”

  And Alessia froze—her mind racing for the right quip, the perfect deflection to bury whatever just cracked open between them under ten layers of sarcasm.

  But she was tired.

  And maybe, just this once, she didn’t want to deflect.

  So instead she smiled—weak but genuine—as her fingers curled tighter around Odrian’s for just a second.

  “Too bad,” she murmured, drowsy with blood loss and the weight of unspoken things. “Now I definitely gotta live.”

  Her eyelids grew heavy, and slid closed despite her most valiant efforts. She wasn’t unconscious—not quite—but she was close. She squeezed Odrian’s hand one last time—gratitude and something else—before giving in and sinking into sleep’s embrace.

  Odrian exhaled—sharp and shaking—as her grip slackened in sleep, his own fingers tightening once around hers before lifting her hand to press her palm to his lips in a gesture too tender for a king.

  For a moment he just looked at her—hair matted with blood, cheeks too pale, but breathing.

  Alive.

  Then softly, only for himself, only to her he whispered, “Damn right you do.”

  Later he’ll claim it was a threat. But now, in the quiet dark, it’s something else entirely.

  Patrian and Dionys exchanged knowing smirks while pretending not to.

  Askarion pointedly finished packing his supplies with excessive loudness.

  “Goodnight, children,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “Try not to wake my patient with your pining.”

  And then he was gone, back to his own tent to try to get another hour or two of sleep before the day truly began.

  Dionys huffed as he turned to Odrian, “Go. Sleep. Or I will let her rocks be your pillow.”

  The threat is real. The concern beneath it rare.

  Odrian opened his mouth—and yawned. Because Dionys had a point. He shot Dionys a withering look.

  “Fine. Four hour shifts. Wake me if anything changes. If you let her die on your watch, I’m throwing you into the Myrian.”

  It’s a threat. It’s a plea. It’s the closest he would come to admitting how much this—she—mattered.

  He doesn’t thank Dionys, doesn’t insist the other man tell him if Alessia so much as twitched. Dionys nodded anyway.

  “And if Nomaros comes back…wake me first,” Odrian said.

  “Sleep,” Dionys ordered gruffly. “You’re no use to anyone like this.”

  Odrian didn’t argue, just dragged a hand down his face and staggered toward the spare bedroll—collapsing onto it with none of his usual grace.

  Patrian lingered just long enough to lean down and murmur in Odrian’s ear, too soft to hear over the rustling of his cloak. His grin was dagger-sharp.

  “You owe me so much wine for this.”

  Then he slipped into the night before anyone could retaliate, leaving behind only the ghost of amusement in his wake—and the implication that the conversation was far from over.

  Dionys took his turn at watch, his usual battle-hardened edges softened by the lateness of the hour and the vulnerability of those in his care. He fetched fresh water and a clean cloth, dipping it gently into the basin before wringing it out. His hands, so accustomed to gripping spears and twisting in combat, moved with surprising tenderness as he wiped the drying blood from Alessia’s temple, the hollow of her throat, the line of her jaw.

  He hesitated a moment at the sight of her peplos, stiff and rusty with blood, before deciding that he wouldn’t leave her in that state—not when the linen had turned rough and cold, clinging to her sweat-damp skin. He found one of his own spare chitons, short but serviceable and soft from wear. Carefully, mindful of her wounds, he braced her upright enough to peel the ruined fabric from her shoulders. His fingers stilled when he saw the scars beneath—old stripes and burns, the cruel geometry of suffering laid bare. His jaw tightened.

  He glanced at Stella, her small face pressed against Alessia’s side, and exhaled through his nose to focus on his task. He didn’t linger on what the marks might mean, doesn’t let himself dwell on the hands that put them there. Instead, he eased the fresh tunic over Alessia’s head, guiding it over her with quiet efficiency.

  Then, with more care than most would credit him for, Dionys lifted her just enough to slide the bedroll beneath her, before settling her back into the furs. Stella, still stubbornly attached to her mother’s side, barely stirs. Dionys tucked the edges of the bedroll around them both before adding his own cloak as an extra layer against the night’s lingering chill.

  “Stubborn women,” he whispered, barely more than a breath, the words full of affectionate exhaustion.

  And for a moment, he just stared at them. A woman too small for the scars she carried, a child too young for the fear in her tight grip. His fingers brushed once over Stella’s hair before he forced himself back into the rigid posture of a sentry.

  He had no taste for softness, no patience for sentiment,

  (And yet … )

  Dionys didn’t know that Odrian was still awake and watching him from behind half-lidded eyes. Odrian said nothing—doesn’t even shift to let Dionys know he saw.

  Some truths are better left unspoken. Some moments are too private to intrude upon.

  But when Dionys finally settled back into his watch, his spine rigid and his gaze unreadable again, Odrian exhaled and let his own eyes fall shut.

  Because if Dionys—stoic, ruthless, unyielding Dionys—could shed his armor so completely for these two strangers, then maybe … maybe there was hope for the rest of them yet.

  ─ ·??☆?°· ─

  Nomaros summoned Odrian and Dionys to his tent with two of his personal guard flanking the entrance. The air reeked of myrrh and wet wool, undercut by thinly veiled ambition. Patrian and Askarion were already there when the other two arrived.

  “Explain,” he demanded. “And save me your usual dramatics.”

  Odrian barely managed to stifle a yawn as he stepped forward, exhaustion evident in the dark circles under his eyes. But his voice was steady as he spoke—no dramatics, no biting wit.

  “She needed help. We gave it. That’s all there is to it.”

  Nomaros scoffed—a harsh, dismissive sound. “Really? That’s how you justify harboring Tharon scum—”

  “If by ‘scum’,” Dionys interrupted bluntly, his voice still rough from the long night, “you mean a five-year-old girl—then yes.” His expression darkened, a silent challenge. “We’re monsters, clearly.”

  Nomaros’ jaw clenched, his fingers pausing mid-drum against the table. “We are at war, Dionys. Or have you forgotten?”

  “War has rules,” Patrian countered softly. “Even Tharos’ rules forbid what was done to her.” His hands, still stained with Alessia’s blood, curled at his sides. “That wound was no accident. Neither of them were.”

  Ever the pragmatist, Askarion finally spoke, his voice as measured as his sutures were precise.

  “The angle, the depth. The delay in treatment—” A pause, heavy with implication. “Whoever did that wanted her to suffer. To die slow. That’s not war, that’s butchery. And I won’t stand for it.”

  Not when it mirrors wounds he’s seen on other battlefields. On other bodies.

  Odrian stepped forward again, his exhaustion burning away under the slow simmer of his anger.

  “She came to us for help and we failed her—twice. Once when your men ran her through, and again when we didn’t realize the infection had set in.” His gaze flickered to the others, then back to Nomaros. “We don’t get to call ourselves honorable if we turn our backs on that.”

  His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.

  Nomaros’ expression darkened, but he didn’t refute what they were saying. Instead he just exhaled sharply and turned to the maps sprawled across his table.

  “You’ll have your ‘justice’,” he muttered—dismissive and begrudging. “But mark my words, Odrian: This creature you’ve taken in? She will be the death of you.” Then, so soft it was almost to himself, “And not quickly.”

  Odrian smiled, cold and knife-sharp. “I’d like to see her try.”

  His mind drifted, just for a heartbeat, to the way Alessia had looked at him in the tent, bloodied but unbroken.

  Nomaros’ lips pressed into a thin line—something unsettling flitting across his face before vanishing again.

  “You have ten days,” he said—calm as a judge pronouncing a death sentence. “Prove the Tharon woman’s use to me—or I send her back where she belongs.”

  A pause. A cutting smile.

  “Along with whatever blemishes she’s acquired in your care.”

  The threat was clear. Alessia and Stella would be returned to Tharos—to Walus—alive enough for the Butcher to finish the job himself.

  Odrian didn’t flinch.

  “You’d trade a potential asset for petty spite?”

  “‘Asset’?” Nomaros echoed as he leaned forward just enough for the lamplight to catch the silver in his beard. “If she’s who I think she is, the report says she’s Walus’ favorite punching bag. Not a spy, not a strategist. A broken toy.” His finger tapped the stolen missive on the table between them. “Ten days, Odrian. Don’t waste them on sentiment.”

  Then, with a sharp glance at Odrian he added one more condition.

  “She and the child will remain under guard at all times.” He cut off any protestation with a raised hand. “My guard.”

  Odrian stiffened, instinct screaming danger. But Dionys interjects before he can argue.

  “Will all due respect, Highness, absolutely not.”

  Nomaros’ gaze snapped to Dionys, clearly unused to being interrupted—defied—by anyone outside his inner circle. “Excuse me?”

  Dionys didn’t flinch. “You don’t have the men to spare from the siege lines. Ours already know the stakes.”

  He didn’t say Your men might finish what they started, but the implication hung thick in the air.

  Nomaros’ eyes narrowed—but surprisingly he didn’t press further. Instead he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned back to Odrian.

  “Ten days,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “But if she so much as blinks suspiciously, you’ll answer for it with more than clever words.”

  “Understood,” Odrian said through clenched teeth. He forced himself to nod.

  And if Alessia was still too weak to face him? Odrian had broken oaths before.

  Dionys clapped a hand on Odrian’s shoulder—brief but firm—before turning toward the exit. A silent Let’s go.

  As they turned to leave, Nomaros added one last parting shot.

  “Odrian?”

  “Highness?” Odrian’s muscles were coiled tight beneath his tunic as he turned halfway toward Nomaros. He didn’t trust the quiet in the High King’s voice.

  “Do not make me regret this.”

  ─ ·??☆?°· ─

  “Ten days? That’s barely enough time to mend a scratch, let alone—”

  Askarion cut Patrian off with a look as they entered the healing tent.

  “Lucky for us,” he declared, loud enough for any eavesdroppers outside to hear, “the patient’s injuries are far graver than we initially observed!”

  He slammed a tray of tools down for emphasis. “Internal bleeding. High risk of putrefaction. She’ll need a month’s bedrest, at least.”

  Patrian blinked in surprise. “… You lying bastard—” he said softly.

  Askarion smiled—thin and razor-edged. “Tell the High King he’s welcome to examine her himself if he doubts my diagnosis.”

  They both knew Nomaros would sooner lick a leper than step foot in a medical tent.

  ─ ·??☆?°· ─

  Odrian lifted the tent flap just as the first true sliver of morning light cut through the canvas. His posture was rigid, his jaw set—but his steps slow to near-silence the moment he sees her and Stella curled together, still asleep.

  Instead of entering he stopped and turned toward Dionys.

  “Ten days,” he muttered. “Ten godsdamned days to prove Alessia is more useful alive than as some … some bargaining chip.”

  Dionys leaned against a tent post, arms crossed, as he watched Odrian wear a trench into the earth outside the tent.

  “Should’ve asked for twenty,” he deadpanned. “He might’ve bargained down to fifteen.

  Odrian stopped pacing long enough to shoot Dionys a look.

  The other man shrugged. “What? You played that like a merchant, not a king. No leverage, no theatrics.” He tapped his temple. “Next time, tell him she’s got intel on Ellun’s grain stores. That’ll buy time.”

  “He already knows she’s no spy,” Odrian scowled.

  “Does he?” Dionys asked. “Or does he just think you think she isn’t one?”

  A heartbeat, and then Odrian exhaled—slow and calculating. “You are infuriatingly good at this.”

  Dionys smirked, “And you’re dead on your feet. Go sleep. I’ll wake you if she stirs.”

  Odrian dragged a hand over his face—suddenly aware of how little he’d slept.

  “Go,” Dionys repeated. “I’ve got watch.”

  Odrian didn’t argue. He just collapsed onto the blankets, asleep before his head even hit the ground..

  For now the storm had been weathered.

  The war would still be there later.

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