The inside of the tent was organized chaos—maps weighed down with daggers, a half-strung bow propped in the corner, and Dionys sprawled across a bedroll, gripping a spear even in sleep.
Odrian didn’t hesitate. He nudged Dionys’ ribs with his foot.
“Wake up, we’ve got guests,” he said. He shot a wry glance at Alessia before continuing. “One has a demon’s wit and the other hoards rocks like a dragon hoards treasure.”
In the dim firelight, he almost looked content.
Dionys jolted awake instantly, his spear coming up in a trained defensive motion. He lowered it just as quickly when he recognized Odrian.
His eyes flicked to Alessia and Stella, assessing them in a single glance that lingered on the child’s fever-flushed face.
“Stealing children now, are we?” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. He was already pushing himself upright, grabbing his waterskin. He handed it to Alessia without hesitation, then turned to rummage for a clean cloth.
His movements were efficient and purposeful—the instincts of a warrior who had treated his fair share of wounded comrades.
“Next time,” he grumbled at Odrian—dry but without bite—“wake me before bringing thieves into our tent.”
Stella stirred at the voices, her small face scrunching in discomfort as she coughed, but she didn’t wake. Her fingers twitched, as if reaching for something.
Alessia worried her lip with her teeth. Stella’s breathing was too shallow, too quick, and her skin was alarmingly warm to the touch.
A faint whimper escaped the child, and then she was still again.
Alessia reached into her satchel and pulled a threadbare rag doll from the mess of rocks. She placed it in Stella’s now-still hands.
Odrian watched as the doll settled into Stella’s grip—the way her fingers instinctively curled around it, even in unconsciousness. His expression did something complicated, going soft and unguarded.
A sight as rare as a quiet dawn during wartime.
Then it was gone. He cleared his throat, all business again.
“Dionys. The Thasari physician left a fever remedy with you yesterday, right? Where’d you stash it?”
His tone was brisk, edged with urgency. He was already stepping toward their supplies, shoving aside a spare tunic to dig through a small chest of salves and herbs.
He had no patience for keeping things neat, not when Stella was getting worse by the moment.
Dionys pulled a small clay jar from the chest nearest him then tossed it to Odrian. “Willow bark, chamomile, poppy sap, and honey. Mix it with watered wine. Should break the fever fast, if she can keep it down.”
His thumb brushed against Stella’s forehead—a gentle motion, checking her temperature. “Light dose. She’s small.”
He glanced up at Alessia, his voice dropping, blunt but not unkind. “Has she been like this long?”
“Fever started a little over a day ago. Before that, she was coughing—but she usually gets coughs this time of year, when the air changes.”
Odrian paused mid-motion, his hands freezing over the watered wine, as though Alessia’s words were a physical blow.
His head snapped up, gaze sharpened to a blade’s edge.
“Coughs ‘this time of year’?” he repeated slowly, each word too careful. “You mean every autumn? Reliable?”
There was something in his stance—alarm, tension—a man who’d just connected scattered clues into a dire picture. He and Dionys exchanged a loaded glance.
Before Alessia could answer, Odrian crossed back to her, crouching eye-level with Stella’s flushed face. His fingers hovered near the child’s lips—not touching, assessing the rhythm of her breaths.
“Describe the cough,” he rasped. “Dry? Wet? Worse at night? Where were you last autumn?”
Each question landed like a spear-thrust—precise, urgent.
The unspoken fear hung thick in the tent.
Plague.
Alessia blinked, surprised by the questions, until she realized what the two men feared.
“Dry, worse as the day goes on.” She lowered her voice as she answered the final question. “Up until six months ago, we’d never left the city. It’s not something she caught from either the shack or Ellun.”
At least, the cough wasn’t. The fever… Alessia was fairly certain that came from too long without proper food, rest, or shelter.
Odrian’s shoulders loosened marginally—not quite relief, but something close. “City air is thicker than Hephaestus’ forge smoke,” he muttered, mostly to himself. Still, he held the jar of medicine out toward Dionys, beginning to measure water and wine again. “The willow bark will still help. We can give her honeyed water after, unless you want her screaming curses at us worthy of Ares himself.”
He gave a quick, tired smirk as he began to roll up his sleeves. “I had a cousin like that. Weak lungs, would all but cough them up every autumn. Saltwater baths helped.”
Alessia’s fingers tightened on the blanket.
Odrian hesitated, then added quietly, “You won’t go back to Ellun, not while the war lasts. That’s not negotiable.” He was silent a beat, then continued grudgingly, “If you need something from the city—tell me first.”
The unspoken offer hung, clumsy but genuine.
Alessia nodded in acceptance. “I don’t want to go back to Ellun anyway. There’s nothing there for us anymore.”
Just a monster who would kill them both if he could only get his hands on them.
Odrian hummed, thoughtful—less agreement than acknowledgment of her words.
But he didn’t press for more information.
“Dionys will tend to your girl.” He nodded toward the taller, broader man, who was already preparing a dose of medicine for the child. “And if the little terror wakes mid-dose, tell her it’s ambrosia stolen from Zeus himself. That always worked on my son.”
The lie was so casual, effortless, and fond that even Dionys rolled his eyes.
Alessia grinned, tired but confident.
“I can get her to take it willingly.”
Then, instead of trying to give Stella the dose while she slept, Alessia woke her.
“Starlight,” she asked softly. “Would you like a story?”
Stella stirred at her mother’s voice, whimpering softly. Her dark lashes fluttered open just enough to meet her mother’s eyes. Her tiny fingers curled tight around her doll, and she gave a weak, trusting nod—always eager for stories, even when half-asleep and burning up with fever.
Perhaps especially then.
“I thought you might,” Alessia said with a smile. “How about Little Star? I have a new story, if you’d like to hear it.”
Little Star’s stories were some of the girl’s favorites—made and told just for her to soothe, comfort, and teach.
Stella’s fever-glazed eyes brightened immediately at the mention of Little Star, her small shoulders shifting as she tried to sit up in spite of her exhaustion. The movement made her cough—dry and rattling—but she managed a wobbly, eager smile.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Long ago, a little star fell from the sky.
She was small, and afraid, and she could see the other stars far, far above her, reaching for her. But the distance was too great.
She would have to journey a great way to get to them.
Once, while Little Star was trying to find her way back to the sky, she found she was losing her glow. She didn’t know why—she just knew that day by day she was dimming. She felt tired and achy. Too hot, even while she shivered as if caught in a midwinter storm. It was hard to breathe, and she coughed so much her ribs ached. She knew something was wrong. As she journeyed, her glow diminishing, she came across a clever Fox.
“Mister Fox,” she said, “I am losing my glow, fading away. Do you know anyone who can help me?”
It just so happened that the Fox did know someone who could help—a powerful Sorceress, one who was wise and knew all sorts of potions and magic. It was said the Sorceress could cure any illness or malady. Even better, her palace was in the very forest Little Star traveled through! The Fox saw that Little Star was brave and pure of heart, hospitable and polite. So he decided to help her.
“Follow me,” the Fox said. “And I will lead you to a Sorceress who can help.”
When they reached the Sorceress’ palace, Little Star bowed before her.
“Great Sorceress,” she said. “My glow is fading and I do not know why. I have been told you can help, would you?”
Now, the Sorceress was powerful indeed, and she had, in fact, been keeping an eye on Little Star the moment she entered her domain. She, like the Fox, had seen how brave and kind Little Star was, and so she agreed to make a magic potion that would rekindle Little Star’s glow.
For a day and a night and a day again the Sorceress worked in her potion-brewing room. She put all sorts of yucky things into the potion, but she swore on the Styx that it would return Little Star’s glow.
The second night she gave Little Star the first vial.
The potion smelled terrible, and tasted worse—even with honey to sweeten it! But Little Star was brave, and she had to get to the highest point of the highest mountain so she could return to her family in the sky. And to do that she would need her shine.
And so, she took the vial from the Sorceress, uncorked it, took a deep breath, and drank it all in one biiiiiiiig gulp!
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia tipped the cup against Stella’s lips, and while she grimaced at the taste, she drank it all without complaint.
Odrian watched in silent astonishment, freezing mid-reach for a waterskin—his strategic mind caught utterly off-guard by the sheer efficiency of the maneuver. His lips parted slightly, as if to protest the absurdity of disguising a medicine as a fairy tale, but—
Stella drank it. Without screaming. Without spitting it back at them like a tiny, enraged harpy.
It was a near miracle.
‘A tactical masterpiece,’ he thought.
If only he could manage High King Nomaros so neatly with just a bedtime story and a grimace.
The last swallow barely cleared Stella’s lips before she stuck out her tongue dramatically, her tiny face scrunched in betrayal.
“Th’ real sorceress would’ve put honey in it!” she croaked. Her words held no genuine anger, just the exhausted theatrics of a child clinging to the illusion of discontentment because it was better than admitting she was afraid.
“…Mama?” Stella asked as she lay back down. “Did Little Star make it home t’the sky?”
The words were soft. Her fingers fiddled anxiously with her doll’s frayed yarn hair, seeking comfort in routine.
Alessia smiled down at her, brushing some of her sweat-soaked curls from her forehead.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
The potion didn’t work immediately, and Little Star had to take more than one dose. It made her tired, and she spent much of her time sleeping over the next few days. While she healed, she stayed with the Sorceress in her palace and learned to make her own potions and elixirs.
Little by little, day by day, Little Star’s glow began to come back—until one day she woke and realized she was glowing brighter than ever before!
Grateful, Little Star left a gift of stardust for the Sorceress in thanks. She left the Sorceress’ palace and continued on her journey to find the mountain that would take her home.
Little Star still had many trials and adventures on her way, but after it all, she made it to the highest peak of the tallest mountain. At the summit she was so close to the sky she could almost reach up and touch it. And as she looked up, she saw her family’s constellation. There they were, waiting for her, arms outstretched, smiles radiant.
And so, on wings made of moonlight and gossamer hope, Little Star leapt from the mountain and flew—up, up, up into the sky, until she found herself surrounded by those she loved, those who loved her.
Little Star had finally returned home.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia bent down and kissed Stella’s forehead softly.
“And now it’s time for this little star to go back to sleep,” she said.
Already drowsy from the medicine, Stella let out a tiny, contented sigh—her grip on the doll loosening just a little. Her breathing evened out, the furrow in her brow smoothing—
Until at the last moment her hand fluttered up weakly to catch Alessia’s sleeve again—her voice barely a whisper, slurred with exhaustion but insistent,
“… Don’ leave ’til I’m ‘sleep, okay?”
A plea disguised as a demand.
Alessia smiled, soft and fond, and brushed her fingers through Stella’s curls. Even in the safety of the tent, even with exhaustion and poppy dragging her to sleep, Stella wouldn’t let herself rest until she was certain her mother wouldn’t vanish into the dark.
“I’m not going anywhere, Starlight,” Alessia promised.
Something in Odrian’s chest tightened at the exchange. He turned abruptly, pretending to reorganize his already-meticulous supplies.
The motion just jerky enough that Dionys raised an eyebrow at him.
“She’ll sleep deep now,” Odrian muttered—firmly ignoring how hoarse his own voice sounded. “The poppy does that. Rest. We’ll take the watch.”
He didn’t say what they both knew—that this tent was safer than a shack by the river.
He tossed Alessia a spare cloak—coarse but clean—and jerked his chin toward the spare bedroll. No more fanfare. No more sentiment.
“Rest,” he repeated. “You need it.”
Orders were easier than promises, but the intent was the same.
Alessia nodded once, acceptance and gratitude all rolled together, and she lifted Stella and carried her and the cloak to the bedroll. She tucked Stella in first, ensuring the girl was comfortable before laying down beside her—habitually putting herself between the small child and the rest of the tent. A shield—thin and weak as it was.
She didn’t last long against the pull of sleep once she was lying down, exhaustion overwhelming her almost instantly.
Dionys watched with quiet assessment as they settled—how Alessia positioned herself as a living barricade, the instinctive way Stella curled toward her mother in her sleep. Something in his stoic expression softened, just fractionally.
“They stay,” Odrian murmured, his voice dropped low so only Dionys could catch it.
“Until the war ends,” Dionys agreed, too soft to wake the sleeping mother and daughter. It wasn’t a question or a suggestion.
It was a king’s decree.
Odrian met Dionys’ gaze—silent for once, letting the weight of shared understanding settle between them. He dipped his chin in a subtle nod, the firelight catching on the sharp angles of his face.
He leaned back against the tent post, crossing his arms. .
“And if anyone comes looking for them? They’ll learn why it’s unwise to provoke the kings of both Othara and Kareth.”
Outside the tent the camp was still.
Inside, the oil lamps flickered.
For now the fragile alliance held.
Tiny Raven 
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