Tiny Raven

Alessia drifted in and out of consciousness, unable to fully wake.

Her shoulder throbbed with every heartbeat. She couldn’t remember if she had mentioned the injury to Odrian the night before. She certainly hadn’t told him her concerns about potential infection.

She hadn’t thought of it in the wake of Stella’s fever. She’d just been so relieved to see her daughter finally breathing easier.

And now she couldn’t tell them. She couldn’t do anything but drift on the edge of consciousness and hope one of them noticed.

Hopefully, before Stella woke up.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Odrian noticed first—his sharp eyes catching the way Alessia’s breathing had become shallow. He saw the unhealthy pallor creeping up her neck. He was at her side in two long strides, barely remembering to keep his voice low enough to avoid waking Stella.

“Dionys.”

Just his name, clipped and urgent. Odrian’s fingers hovered over Alessia’s brow—not quite touching, but close enough he could feel the heat radiating from her skin.

Dionys was moving before Odrian finished saying his name, his knees hitting the ground next to the bedroll. He pressed his palm to Alessia’s forehead before pulling back with a hissed curse.

“Fever. Bad.”

He reached for the discarded medicine jar to prepare some for Alessia, assuming she had the same thing as Stella. But he stopped when he noticed the way she was holding her left side—stiff, even in sleep.

“She’s hurt,” he said as he tugged aside the fabric at her collarbone, far enough to reveal the dirty bandage she’d kept hidden from them. The deep rust of old blood and the sickly yellow-green of infection stained the once-white linen. He unpinned the shoulder of her chiton with another curse.

“It’s infected,” he said as he began unwrapping the bandage. The putrid smell of the injury filled the tent, but neither Dionys nor Odrian faltered. 

“Deep,” Dionys continued. He tossed the filthy bandage into the brazier, burning away the disease along with the ruined fabric. “She should have said something.”

But there was no time for reprimands. Dionys was already at their medicine chest, reaching for a bottle of strong, undiluted wine to flush out the wound. His gaze flicked to Odrian.

“Hold her still. This is going to hurt.”

He didn’t wait for acknowledgement or agreement, simply pulling his knife from its sheath. He would have to remove her sutures first.

Boiled horsehair. Not the worst thing she could have picked, but not ideal either.

“We should have asked,” Odrian corrected as he carefully shifted Alessia off of the furs to a cloak he’d laid on the floor of the tent.

He didn’t mean the wound—or at least, he didn’t mean only that. They should have asked her about everything. He had brought Alessia into the camp half dead, and he—he had been too busy calculating her usefulness to see the infection festering beneath her skin.

He looked at the sack of supplies she had taken that night. Willow bark and feverfew, garlic and bitterroot. The former two were for fever, but the latter…Those were for injuries. To draw out the infection.

“She stole bitterroot. Garlic. I should have realized…”

He glanced at Stella, still asleep on the bedroll, debating whether he should wake her or let her sleep. Either way she would wake soon.

Either way, he’d be explaining why her mother was screaming.

He grabbed a nearby leather strop and worked it between Alessia’s teeth.

“Bite down, thief,” he said gently. “This is going to hurt.”

He braced a hand against her uninjured shoulder, straddling her lower body to keep her from flailing. With his other hand, he took hers, squeezing it once. A fleeting reassurance.

‘I’m here. You’re not alone.’

“Do it.”

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Even in her delirium, Alessia sensed the shift. The looming threat of pain sliced through the fog of her fever. Her fingers spasmed against Odrian’s. She wasn’t sure if it was a silent plea or an instinctive recoil. Her breathing had worsened, now coming in pained gasps, quick and shallow.

She couldn’t open her eyes.

“Do it,” Odrian said from above her.

She didn’t have time to brace. Didn’t have the focus to brace.

The moment the alcohol hit the wound, Alessia’s back arched violently off the bedroll and a hoarse, shattered cry tore from her throat.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Stella bolted upright at her mother’s wail. She didn’t cry or scream. For a moment she just stared, utterly frozen. Her tiny fists clenched in the blanket as she held her breath and took in the scene. Her gaze darted to the soiled cloth in Dionys’ hand, then to the glint of the knife.

Then to her mother’s sweat-slicked face, twisted in pain.

In a voice too soft, too calm for a child witnessing the nightmare in front of her, she whispered the only thing she could think.

“…You promised.”

Two words that sliced deeper than any blade. Children didn’t understand brutal necessity. They knew oaths were sacred.

And now Stella was learning another truth: adults lie.

Odrian held Alessia fast, keeping her from thrashing. He knew any weakness now would mean death later.

“Again,” he grunted as soon as Alessia had slumped back, drenched in sweat and panting.

The wound was still seeping its poison, fetid pus escaping from the swollen flesh.

Dionys cursed as he looked at the wound.

“I have to reopen it in order to drain it properly.”

He didn’t hesitate. He cut into the wound and pressed clean linen to it, draining the poison with the pus. Alessia whimpered in pain—raw, wet, and wrong.

Odrian’s grip on her shoulder tightened reflexively, but when he spoke his voice remained steady.

“Breathe, thief. Or your star wakes to see you break,” he said calmly.

A challenge.

A lifeline.

A choice.

“…You promised.” Stella repeated softly.

Odrian clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. He refused to look away from Alessia’s face—he didn’t dare—and his grip on her hand tightened.

“I did,” he said with a nod. The words were gravel-rough and deliberate. “And I mean to keep it.”

The implication hung between them—that this horror was part of keeping his promise. That the pain meant he was keeping Alessia safe.

Odrian didn’t expect Stella to understand, but he refused to lie to her.

Promises were sacred in Othara, too.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Alessia choked on a sob as Dionys flushed the wound again. Her breath hitched—sharp, involuntary—as the wave of alcohol burned over her torn flesh.

Stella flinched at the sound—not the choked whine itself, but the guttural wrongness of it, muffled behind the leather strap. Fear flickered across her face for the first time since waking.

Then she was moving, her bare feet planted on the ground, small hands scrabbling for purchase on Odrian’s arm as she tried to fight him off of her mother.

“Stop!” she cried, her voice cracking. “You’re hurting her!”

The accusation was wild and desperate. She fought as though the sheer force of her will could undo the necessity of Alessia’s pain.

Odrian released Alessia’s shoulder to catch Stella’s wrist before she could move on to attacking Dionys—gentle but firm as he pulled her against his side.

“Listen to me,” he said, his tone low and urgent. Stella stilled, recognizing it as the same one her mother used when she really needed to obey. To keep both herself and Stella alive and safe. Odrian met Stella’s glare without flinching. “This is how we fix it. The bad thing is already inside her. We have to get it out.”

It was the truth—raw and ugly. He didn’t sugarcoat it. He didn’t lie. Somehow he could tell that Stella would notice if he did.

“I know—I know it hurts. But we have to do this or we’ll lose her entirely.”

His thumb brushed over Stella’s knuckles—an apology, etched in blood and necessity.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Stella’s panic pulled Alessia from unconsciousness just enough for her to reach for her daughter. She understood only a fraction of what was happening around her, her thoughts muddled and confused in a haze of pain, fear, and fever. She clung to the dim awareness desperately, like flotsam in a storm.

She understood she was sick. She knew that letting her injury fester had been idiotic. She should have mentioned it. Said something before it got this bad.

She’d been too afraid to show weakness. To ask for help for herself. She thought she would be fine.

She always was.

But she didn’t, regardless of her reasons, and now she really was helpless as the wound poisoned her.

She understood Odrian and Dionys were doing their best to save her.

And she understood Stella was afraid.

“S’okay, Starlight,” she slurred. The leather strap, which Odrian removed when she tried to speak, muffled her words. “They’re tryin’ t’help.”

Stella’s breath hitched, caught between outrage and trust. She hesitated, her small fingers clutching Odrian’s sleeve, torn between yanking away and clinging tighter.

“…Promise?” she whispered, her voice wobbling.

If Alessia promised it, Stella would believe her. Even now, with the smell of rot and blood and alcohol in the tent air like a miasma. With the way Alessia’s hand trembled in Odrian’s grip.

“Nose-touch promise,” Alessia said, solemn as a prayer.

Stella lurched forward, her small hands on either side of Alessia’s face. She bumped their noses together—clumsy, childish, meaningful.

Stella squeezed her eyes shut, sealing the promise into existence.

Almost too quiet to hear, she whispered, “…Okay.”

Odrian exhaled as he watched the exchange. His grip on Alessia’s hand remained steady, as his thumb continued to brush absently over her knuckles, keeping her grounded. He didn’t tease, didn’t make any dry observations.

He was just … quiet.

“Listen well, little warrior,” he said after a moment, his voice low and sure as bronze. “Your mother fights a battle only she can win. But we’re bringing her every weapon we have. Do you understand?”

He pulled her hand over Alessia’s chest before pressing it down over her sternum, letting Stella feel the too-fast beat of her mother’s heart beneath the fever-hot skin.

“This is your post now,” Odrian said. “Keep her anchored while we—“ he glanced at Dionys, who was watching the interaction, his gaze firmly on Stella. “—do the messy work.”

Alessia reached toward Stella, weak and shaking, curling her fingers around the small hand on her chest.

“Yer gonna hate th’ story for this one,” she slurred dryly. She fixed her gaze on Odrian. “S’gonna start with a princess who was a dumbass.”

Odrian’s laugh suddenly escaped him—brief and sharp, yet not unkind.

“Princesses rarely admit to being dumbasses,” he pointed out, tone wry. He shifted to brace Alessia’s shoulder as Dionys began to work again. “Consider me intrigued.”

Then quieter, almost to himself, “And impressed.”

Because if Alessia could mock herself while half-dead from infection, the odds of her survival tripled.

Stella’s fingers tightened on Alessia’s as she glared at Odrian.

“Don’t laugh at her!” she ordered, her voice shaking. Never mind that Alessia had made the joke.

Only she got to mock her mother.

Then, tilting her chin up at Alessia, with all the solemnity of a judge passing sentence, she added, “But you are a dumbass, Mama.”

The insult was so seriously delivered that Dionys snorted, almost dropping the bandages he had picked up to begin the next phase of treatment.

Odrian caught Dionys’ eye over Stella’s head — a silent, mutual acknowledgement that this woman and her child had become theirs.

No need for discussion. No need for debate.

Simple inevitability.

Somehow, this furious, brilliant thief and her tiny, rock-hoarding shadow had slipped past their defenses.

He grinned as he mimicked Alessia’s drowsy, pain-filled slur right back at her. “Princess better finish th’ damn story after we save her fool life.”

It was a distraction as much as a promise. A way to keep Stella’s focus on Alessia’s words, not the knife in Dionys’ hand.

But there was an unmistakable warmth beneath the sarcasm.

“Makin’ fun’ve me now?” Alessia snarked back. Her words dissolved into a dry cough that turned into a soft whimper as it pulled at her shoulder. After a moment, she glared at Odrian. “Rude.”

She turned her attention back to Stella, her focus sharpening as she took in her daughter’s face. She reached out, brushing a tear from the little girl’s cheek.

She knew she shouldn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. And she couldn’t be certain that she would be okay. She couldn’t promise she’d survive this. She understood the outcome of festering wounds.

She’d seen it often enough growing up in the slums.

It wasn’t up to her. It wasn’t up to any of them.

It was up to Dionys’ knife, the wine, and the Fates. Apollo, if he was feeling generous.

But … she also knew Stella needed to hear the words. Stella needed reassurance that her mother wouldn’t abandon her.

She lowered her hand, placing it over Stella’s.

“Still got lotsa stories t’tell ya, Stella. M’not goin’ anywhere.”

Her words slurred from fever and exhaustion, but it was the clearest she had spoken since clawing her way back to consciousness.

It was more than a promise.

It was a sacred vow.

One she was too damn stubborn to break.

Stella straightened a little at being addressed by name, something like protectiveness filling her too-small frame.

“It’s clean,” Dionys said. “Now we need to pack it.”

Alessia whimpered, knowing it had to be done but dreading the pain.

“Bite down,” Odrian whispered, almost too quiet for Alessia to hear, as he offered her the leather strop again. He still braced against her, keeping her from flailing.

She closed her eyes as Dionys picked up the salve, the muscles in her jaw flexing as she bit down on the strip of leather. She reached out blindly, grabbing both Stella’s and Odrian’s hands to ground herself.

She didn’t scream when the poultice touched the open wound.

Her vision whited out. For a heartbeat, she was somewhere else. Somewhen else.

Somewhere with the smell of the harbor on the wind and someone calling a name. A different name, one she hadn’t used in years …

“Skia!”

And then nothing.

Nothing at all.

She barely registered Dionys continuing to pack her wound, the burn of the salve too much to think through. She didn’t notice him stitching her shoulder back together, or that she was breathing far too fast.

Pain overwhelmed any thoughts she had.

Oh gods, it hurts, I can’t breathe—

I can’t—

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Odrian saw the panic in Alessia’s wide, unseeing eyes. He saw the way her body locked up against the pain. The way she struggled to inhale, choking on air and her own saliva.

He reacted without hesitation, his palm smacking her sternum, grounding her with its sheer weight. His other hand grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

“Breathe,” he ordered, commanding. “You’ll pass out if you don’t. In—now.” He drew an audible, obvious breath through his nose, exaggerating for Alessia’s benefit. Demonstrating as if she were one of his greenest recruits. “Good. Out—slow.”

His gaze flicked to Stella for half a moment—just long enough to confirm she hadn’t bolted or shattered—before his attention snapped back to Alessia’s ashen face.

“Keep holding her hand,” he ordered. “Both of you. That’s an order.”

He wouldn’t let them drown in this. Not here. Not now.

(And if he noticed Stella had continued to guide her mother through the breaths? Well, he said nothing.)

Alessia stared at him mutely for a long moment as she tried to remember how to breathe, copying him and Stella despite the pain. Despite the terror clawing at her lungs, threatening to suffocate her.

“Bossy bastard,” Alessia gritted out as her breathing finally found a rhythm.

“And yet, you’re still breathing.”

Odrian leaned back to let Dionys finish bandaging Alessia’s arm and chest, keeping his voice low and firm, holding Alessia’s focus. “Your tiny tyrant would have had me skinned alive if I had let you faint.”

His hand lingered a moment longer, checking the rhythm of her heart beneath her ribs, before he withdrew.

The warmth of her skin lingered against his palm.

He ignored it.

Dionys tied off the fresh bandage—efficient and tight—and tossed the bloodied rags into the fire where they ignited with a hiss. The tent filled with the stench of alcohol and burning cloth.

Stella hadn’t moved an inch. Her fingers remained tangled with her mother’s, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Odrian nudged a waterskin toward her.

“Drink, little strategist,” he said, his tone fond. “I’m promoting you to field medic.”

They had cleared the first hurdle.

Now they waited.

Alessia looked at Stella with weary pride. She had known her daughter was more resilient than she thought. This had proven it.

“M’still here, Stellaki,” she said as she gently tugged Stella to her uninjured side.

Stellaki. A message just for her. You can relax. The worst is over.

“Y’saved me today,” Alessia said as she pressed a kiss to the crown of Stella’s head. “Thank you.”

Stella collapsed against her side with the boneless relief of a child who had been clinging to bravery for far too long. Her hands trembled as they fisted in Alessia’s tunic, laughter and tears bursting from her all at once.

“Y-you promised stories,” she sniffled, pressing her face against Alessia’s uninjured shoulder. “S-so you gotta be okay. It’s th’rules.”

She said it as though it were an unshakable law of the world.

Rivers must run to the sea, stars must wheel in the sky at night, promises must be kept.

“Well, I wouldn’t wanna break th’rules,” Alessia said softly. She placed another kiss on the top of Stella’s head. “‘M sorry I scared you,” she mumbled. The words were for Stella, but her gaze went to Odrian and Dionys, including them in the apology.

Even though she knew neither of them would accept it.

Odrian scoffed—deliberately loud and exaggerated—before he flicked one of Stella’s braids with feigned irritation. “Scared us? Please. You think a little blood and screaming frightens me? Never.”

It was a blatant lie. They all knew it.

He leaned back on his hands with theatrical arrogance, daring one of them to call him on it.

“Next time you plan on dying dramatically—warn us. I would have brought snacks.”

The joke landed as he hoped—drawing a watery giggle from Stella as it cut through the remaining dread. But his eyes, when they met Alessia’s, were solemn.

“Besides,” he said with a fond smirk, “you’re only sorry because you lost the chance to brag about stitching yourself up.”

And when his eyes flicked back up to meet hers, there was something earnest beneath his dry humor.

“…You should’ve told us sooner, princess.”

He should have minded ‘princess’ slipping out unbidden.

He didn’t.

Alessia huffed something that was almost a laugh.

“I’ll be sure t’let y’know in advance next time,” she said. “At least a week.”

Hopefully, there wouldn’t be a ‘next time.’

Odrian rolled his eyes with an exasperated laugh, then turned his back to her, straightening the medical supplies with needless precision.

“See that you do,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “Two weeks advance notice. At least.”

Dionys watched him with a raised eyebrow, as though he knew exactly what Odrian was thinking. He tossed a clean rag at the other king’s head.

Odrian batted it away without looking, his mouth twisting into a scowl that fooled absolutely no one.

Stella watched the entire exchange with stoic, exhausted fascination.

“…Mama? Are all kings this grumpy?”

Dionys barked a surprised laugh as Stella’s question broke the last of the tension that had settled over the tent.

Odrian should have felt offended.

He was too busy trying not to smile.

“Not all’ve ‘em,” Alessia said with a tired, wry grin. In a stage whisper she added, “Some’re worse.”

Odrian gasped in mock outrage, his hand flying over his heart as if her words had dealt a mortal blow. He fell back against the chest he had just finished organizing.

“Betrayal!” he declared to the tent at large, loud enough that any eavesdropping soldier would hear every overplayed syllable. “And from my very own court physician! Is this the thanks I get for—”

—rescuing you from fevered oblivion?

—making Stella laugh?

—ensuring you both survive another dawn?

“—graciously allowing you access to my finest stolen rations?!”

Dionys choked on air.

Stella watched Odrian’s dramatics with wide-eyed delight.

She couldn’t believe that this flailing, overacting braggart was the same terrifying king who had loomed over her mother with a knife.

Giggles bubbled from her as the last of her fears melted away.

“Mama’s right!” she affirmed cheerfully. She pointed at Odrian as if he were the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. “Way worse.”

Then, with things put right in the world again, she snuggled closer to her mother with a yawn.

Alessia pulled her in with a gentle squeeze.

“Go back t’sleep, Starlight,” Alessia murmured softly. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

And she meant it. Partly because she had no intention of leaving her daughter behind. Mostly because she wasn’t sure she could even manage thinking about moving—let alone actually doing so.

Odrian watched Stella burrow beneath Alessia’s arm. He saw the way Alessia’s eyelids drooped. He deliberately turned his back to them, granting them some privacy.

“Sleep,” he muttered gruffly, low enough that only the tent’s canvas would hear the deep fondness in his words. “Someone has to keep watch while you two are useless.”

He waved a dismissive hand as he strode across the tent toward the entrance.

Dionys snorted, soft and knowing, as he moved to follow.

Both men lingered just a second too long at the threshold, glancing back at the nearly sleeping pair. Just to be certain.

Neither of them would ever admit to it.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Alessia was nearly asleep when Stella patted her face to wake her.

“Yeah, Starlight?” she mumbled, soft and bleary. “What izzit?”

“I like them,” Stella whispered, clearly drowsy herself but stubbornly fighting sleep until she had told Alessia what was on her mind. “I’m glad they found us.”

Alessia’s smile softened, and she kissed Stella’s forehead.

“Me too, Starlight,” she whispered back. “Me too.”

Her eyelids grew heavy, but she refused to fall asleep before she saw Stella’s breathing even out. She was determined to hold on to the moment, the fragile peace they had somehow wrestled away from the world, for as long as she could.

Somehow, over the course of a single night, against all odds, the tent had become a kind of home.

And the two kings had become something like family.

Alessia shook her head in disbelief before closing her eyes and slipping into sleep.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

At the entrance of the tent, Odrian was pretending very hard that he hadn’t been eavesdropping.

“…Hmph.”

He pointedly adjusted the drape of his cloak to hide the fact that he was grinning like an idiot.

Dionys leaned against the tent post beside him, arms crossed as he glared at the still sleeping camp beyond the tent. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, which was somehow worse than any outright teasing.

“‘Hmph?’” he echoed with a soft laugh, his voice pitched low to not wake the sleeping women. “Eloquent as always, my king.”

Odrian elbowed him in the ribs.

Neither king acknowledged the way their shoulders pressed together a little longer than necessary before they separated. both pretended their focus was on the early morning watch.

The rising sun cast long shadows as the camp began to stir, soldiers waking to start a new day—stoking fires, pulling on armor, beginning drills. In the tent guarded by two kings, two women’s breaths—one steady and deep, the other soft and snuffling—evened out as the pair fell asleep.

“Princess Dumbass,” Odrian mused. He caught Dionys’ eye with a smile.

“Our Princess Dumbass,” Dionys muttered, his own lips quirking into a lopsided smile.

War made strangers of them all.

But sometimes, when the gods and Fates were feeling generous, it forged family, too.

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