Tiny Raven

Odrian and Dionys were on their feet in an instant.

“Stella!” Odrian screamed.

Both men rushed toward the tent, their weapons drawn as they pushed past one another to reach the women first.

A shadow detached itself from the tent and fled into the darkness.

Dionys and Odrian exchanged one look—a single, wordless understanding—before Dionys bolted after the fleeing shadow, dagger already in hand.

Odrian doesn’t hesitate. He should follow, should help hunt down the threat, but—

Stella.

The tent flap was already torn, the fabric fluttering like a ragged wound. Odrian ducked inside, xiphos ready.

He was plunged into a nightmare.

Stella’s tiny form was curled up on her side near the back wall, hands over her ears as she rocked back and forth in terrified silence.

And Alessia …

Alessia was sprawled awkwardly across their shared bedroll and blankets. A nasty gash split her temple, oozing blood. Her mouth was slack with surprise, her lips parted as if she had been silenced mid-scream. Her eyes were partially closed.

A knife protruded up under her ribs.

Her hand was still outstretched toward Stella, her fingers curled as if reaching to comfort her daughter, but never quite making it.

The only evidence she was alive was her chest moving with shallow, wet breaths.

Odrian’s breath left him in a ragged, mangled sound—a noise that should not come from a king, a warrior, a man who had seen battlefields painted red.

“ALESSIA—!” Odrian’s voice cracked with panic as his sword clattered to the ground.

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands already pressing against the wound in her ribs, her blood hot and slick between his fingers. His voice was a broken rasp, shattered with something too raw to name.

“No, no, NO—!”

He tore a strip from his own tunic, pressing it hard against the knife wound. The metal hilt was still warm from the assassin’s grip.

“Stay with me—” he pleads. “Don’t you dare—”

His other hand found her face, tilting her slack jaw up—begging her eyes to focus, to see him.

“You have to hold on—you promised—”

Somewhere behind him, Stella whimpered, but he couldn’t turn, couldn’t look. Not when Alessia’s blood is pooling beneath his knees, when her pulse flutters like a dying bird under his fingertips.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, his eyes flicking over her body before looking back at her face. “Alessia … please … please wake up … ”

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Dionys is fast. Faster than any man his size has a right to be.

He caught the fleeing shadow just beyond the firelight, tackling them into the dirt with a snarl. The assassin twisted, but Dioonys’ dagger was already at their throat.

“Who sent you?” he demanded, his voice low, lethal.

The figure laughed—wet and gurgling—before biting down.

Dionys wrenched their jaw open too late. Foam spilled from their lips.

Dead.

Dionys stared at the corpse—motionless—for less than a heartbeat before he whirled and sprinted back toward the tent.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

The moment he saw Alessia—the blood, the knife, Odrian’s shaking hands pressed to her ribs—his dagger clattered to the ground.

“Stella,” he snapped—not a request but a command—as he scooped the child into his arms without waiting for permission. His voice, for her alone, drops into something softer. “I’ve got you, little one.”

He moved away from the bedrolls, cradling Stella close as she buried her face against his shoulder, sobbing.

Dionys looked to Odrian, worry etched on his features.

“How bad?”

No panic, no hesitation. Just razor-sharp focus of a soldier aware of how little time they had.

Odrian didn’t look up from Alessia’s ashen face, his hands pressing harder against the wound as if sheer willpower could stitch her back together. His voice was stripped raw.

“Bad.”

A pause, the word hanging between them. Heavy. Final.

“Alessia, wake up,” he urged again as his fingers found a faint but present pulse at her neck.

He exhaled shakily in relief before looking back to Dionys.

“Right … we need … fuck I don’t know what we need.” He looked around wildly, his mind racing. “Bandages, clean water-”

A low groan interrupted his thoughts and he whipped his head toward the sound just as Alessia’s eyes fluttered open.

“O-Odri…?” she choked out before coughing wetly. Blood bubbled from the corner of her mouth, trickling down her chin to pool in the notch of her collarbone. “C-Can’t … breathe … ?”

For a moment she panicked, feeling like she was drowning. She knew she couldn’t be—she could speak, her head was above water—but the burn in her chest felt the same.

“Easy,” Odrian murmured—desperately working to keep the sheer terror out of his voice as he cupped her cheek with one trembling hand. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

His other hand pressed gently against the wound in her side, applying just enough pressure to slow the bleeding without driving the knife deeper. He can feel the wrongness—the way each ragged breath made her shudder, the wet, gurgling hitch in her lungs.

“Breathe through it,” he ordered—soft but firm. “Slow and deep as you can. Look at me.”

His thumb stroked once over her clammy skin, grounding her in the present. Then—sharply—he turned to Dionys. “Get Askarion. Patrian. Now.”

The camp physician and one of their best healers. Men they could trust.

There was no room for argument, not when every second counted. Not when Alessia’s life flickered in the balance like a candle in a storm.

“On it,” Dionys said, and then he moved, shifting Stella to his hip with one arm while he holds his knife in the other, scanning the darkness beyond the tent for more threats. His eyes lock onto Odrian’s. For the first time in years there’s no jest, no deflection—just raw fear laid bare between them.

“Hold on,” he said to Alessia. “We’re going to get you through this.”

Promise made he sprinted off into the night toward the main camp where the healer tents stand, already calling for Askarion, Stella held tightly in his arms.

Odrian exhaled sharply—jaw clenched—before turning his attention back to Alessia. His hands were steady, practical, as he shoved a wad of fabric against the knife wound to staunch the bleeding.

But his voice …

His voice nearly breaks when he speaks again.

“Stay with me, Alessia,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers for just a heartbeat. “Please.”

He doesn’t say I can’t lose you, too. Doesn’t say you promised Stella stories. Doesn’t say I was supposed to keep you safe. But the words hang in the air, unspoken, between each labored breath.

Then he saw it.

Beneath Alessia’s hip, slowly turning red with her blood, a scrap of papyrus with a single word scrawled across it.

TRAITOR

“Hey,” his voice was soft as his fingers moved from her cheek to brush hair from her bloodied temple. He forced himself to look away from the papyrus. “Look at me.”

Her gaze meets his again—glassy eyed but clearer than moments ago.

“I need you to stay with us, okay? Don’t go to sleep.” His thumb rubbed gentle circles on her skin.

“We need stop … meetin’ like this … ” Alessia slurred in a whisper.

Odrian huffed—half-laugh, half-sob—before carefully gathering her into his arms, one hand still pressed firmly to her wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, but he refused to let go.

“You’re fine,” he lied, his voice ragged but stubbornly cheerful as he adjusted his grip. “Just a minor stabbing. A flesh wound! You’ll be back to stealing my rations by dawn.”

It might have been cruel for him to joke while she bled. But if terror could be fought with audacity, then by the gods he would fight.

Outside the tent, the first shouts of alarm began to ring out—Dionys’ voice cutting through the camp like a blade, rallying help. But Odrian didn’t look away from Alessia’s face.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead—quick, fierce, a promise more than a comfort.

“Next time? Next time, you’ll meet me in a tavern. Or a garden. Or literally anywhere that doesn’t involve impalement.”

“Issa date, King,” Alessia said. She frowned and tried to look around. “S-Stella?”

“Safe,” Odrian promised, his voice rough. “Dionys has her. No one is taking her from you.” His thumb swiped blood from her lip, gentler than the moonlight. “Not ever.”

His unspoken I won’t let them is etched into the way his hands trembled as they held her. The way his breath hitched when hers did.

Alessia sighed gratefully, some of her tension unspooling, until the motion jostled her ribs and another lance of pain shot through her. She whimpered.

“Easy, easy,” Odrian soothed, his fingers tightening just slightly against her ribs—a silent plea for her to stay still. His other hand brushed sweat-damp hair from her forehead. “Breathe through it. Slow.”

Outside the tent, the drumbeat of footsteps grew louder—help was coming. But until then…

Until then he pressed his lips to the crown of her head again and murmured, voice cracking, “Just hold on. Please.”

For Stella. For him. For the stories still left unwritten.

Alessia tried to breathe slowly, but ti hurt, and the deep breaths quickly became pained, whimpering gasps.

Her vision swims, Odrian’s face going in and out of focus.

This is bad…

She reached out, weakly, for his hand.

“I-I think I m-might need help…” she said with a pained smile. A weak joke, mocking her own inability to ask for help. She whined softly. “H-H-Help…?”

Somewhere in her mind she knew it wasn’t fair to Odrian for her to say such things. He was helping, or at least trying to. He was keeping her conscious.

But she was scared. And he’d said she was safe…

And she needed to know if that meant she was safe enough to ask. Even if it wasn’t fair, even if it was painful.

Could she be selfish? Just this once?

Odrian’s fingers tightened around hers before she could even finish the shaky request—holding onto her like she was the last solid thing in the world.

“Always,” he rasped, his voice raw. The word was half-snarl, half-plea. “Always. Just stay with me long enough to hear me say it again—”

Somewhere beyond the tent the distant shouts and running feet grew closer. Dionys’ voice boomed through the chaos.

“—they’re coming.” Odrian said as he pressed his forehead to her knuckles, a king’s prayer in the dark. “Hold on.”

For a few moments all Alessia can do is breathe.

And there was something in the corner of her vision that wasn’t there. That couldn’t be there.

A boy, only fifteen or so, with wide, dark eyes and messy hair escaping from where he had tied it back. He wasn’t smiling, not like he used to.

He looked sad.

Worried.

It looks wrong on him.

“‘m scared,” Alessia whispered as her hand tightened around Odrian’s—barely, as her strength failed.

His grip on her hand tightened instantly—a vice-like anchor before he cradled her cheek, forcing her gaze back to him. Forcing it away from whatever phantoms haunted the edges of her vision.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice breaking and rough as gravel. “Only me.”

A heartbeat.

Two.

His thumb dragged across her jaw, smearing blood and tears alike.

“You listen to me, Alessia of Tharos—” and it’s the first time he ever called her that. Not ‘thief’, not ‘princess’, but Alessia of Tharos in all her stubborn, twice-stabbed glory. “—you drag your stubborn ass back from that edge, or I swear, by every god in the sky, I will haunt you.”

“Tha’s backwards,” Alessia mumbled. Her eyes closed for a moment, exhaustion pulling her down, but she fought it. Forced her eyes open again. Forced herself to focus.

“I don’ wan’ die…” she whispered, her voice soft. “N-Not now that I met you ‘nd Dionys…” Not now that she had something building with them, something almost like family, nascent and unproven. “I don’t wanna die.”

She repeated it for emphasis, forcing the words to come out clearly. Like the very fact that she wanted to live was a new experience for her.

It was.

The fear of it, fear for herself—not just the fear of leaving Stella alone—was something she had never experienced before.

“Then don’t,” Odrian ordered—hoarse and furious and begging all at once. His forehead pressed to hers, bloody and desperate. “Live. Live to spite me. Live to steal my rations and mock my speeches and teach Stella how to fluster kings twice her size—”

Outside the clamor grew—Dionys barking orders, the camp roaring to life around them. A servant rushed in to light the braziers, lighting the tent in something more than moonlight.

“—Live,” Odrian breathed against Alessia’s skin. “Because I refuse to let go.”

“Listen to him, Skia. Live. It ain’t your time yet,” the ghost boy in the corner whispered in Tharon. “Y’still got stories t’tell that wild thing y’call a daughter, yeah?”

Alessia’s breath hitched at the sound of his voice. At that name. Not Alessia—Skia. A name no one had called her in years. A name only one person ever called her.

She tried to turn toward the sound, despite the agony the movement caused.

“D-Dol…?” she whispered, blood bubbling at her lips. Her fingers twitch in Odrian’s grip—not pulling away but reaching, searching for something only she can see.

But the corner was empty, just shadows and dust. Just the echoes of a boy long dead.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a perilous second before she forced them open again, locking onto Odrian’s face like it was the only thing anchoring her to the world.

(Maybe it was.)

“Don’…don’ let m’sleep,” she slurred, clinging to his hand with the last of her strength. “‘M scared I won’…won’ wake up.”

“Not a chance,” Odrian growled, low and fierce, cupping her face with his free hand to keep her gaze locked onto his. “Eyes open, Alessia. Look at me.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone, smearing blood and sweat and tears alike. “You don’t get to leave. Not today. Not like this.”

His voice cracked, just once, before he steeled it into something steadier, something commanding.

“Remember our deal? Tavern next time. No stabbings allowed.” A breath. “So stay.”

The ghost’s voice came again, distant as the world around Alessia seemed to slow.

“Y’made it further’n any of us thought ya would, Skia,” his voice was gentle. Proud. “Y’got outta Ellun for good—Y’got Stella away. Y’found kings who’d take y’both in—who’d burn the world for ya. Ya did good.” The shade laughed. “Don’t gimme that look, I ain’t lyin’. Y’ain’t done yet. Listen t’yer king. He’s bein’ real dramatic about it, but he’s gotta point—Y’got stories t’tell that little wildling of yers. So live t’tell ‘em. And when it’s actually yer time? I’ll be waitin’ t’hear ‘em. Promise.”

“I know you’re scared,” Odrian said softly, his voice overlapping with the ghost’s as his fingers tightened gently around hers. “You’re not going to die, Alessia…not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”

He squeezed her hand just a little tighter.

“Promise,” the word is a quiet vow against her flesh. “You—“

A sudden commotion outside interrupted his words, abruptly cutting off whatever else he was about to say. The tent flap was thrown open with urgency as Dionys burst in, Askarion following close behind with two of his apprentices.

“I got him!” Dionys panted, slightly out of breath from his sprint through camp. “Askarion’s here! And Patrian is on his way.”

The physician looked harried but focused as he moved toward Alessia immediately.

Stella’s small voice broke through—shaky and insistent as she crawled over to kneel beside Odrian.

“…Mama?” she asked softly as she peered up at him with wide eyes full of fear and confusion. “Is Mama gonna be okay?”

Odrian’s eyes flicked briefly toward the child before looking back down into Alessia’s own gaze—unspoken communication passing between them in that single glance.

“…She will,” he said firmly after the moment of hesitation. His voice was soft but held an underlying conviction to his words.

We can’t lose her. The thought echoed through his mind, unbidden and unwelcome yet somehow undeniable.

“Starlight,” Alessia said softly, as she reached out to cup Stella’s cheek, stopping when she realized her hand was covered in blood.

Stella didn’t even flinch. She just leaned into Alessia’s touch with a tiny, hiccuping sob.

“Y-You gotta promise,” she whispered, gripping Alessia’s wrist with fierce, trembling fingers. “Like in the story. The—the sky family always waits—” her tiny voice cracked. “So promise.”

Dionys knelt beside Stella, his large hand settling on her tiny shoulder—steadying her without restraining. His other arm braced behind Alessia’s head, easing her into a better angle for Askarion to work. His voice, when it came, was rough but calm.

“She will keep her promise, firefly. But right now we need you to be very brave for her. Can you do that?”

“Still gotta bunch’ve stories t’tell ya, ‘member?” Alessia said as clearly, as strongly as she could, smiling through her pain. Knowing it probably looked more gruesome than comforting, with the blood in her mouth. “Not goin’ anywhere, Starlight. Yer stuck with me.”

Stella hiccuped—once, twice—before planting her tiny hands on either side of Alessia’s face with startling gentleness.

 “Nose-touch promise,” she whispered with all the solemnity a five-year-old could muster as she pressed their foreheads together so hard it almost hurt. “No take-backs.”

She doesn’t let go. Not even when Askarion nudges her aside to begin working. Or when the first pained gasp escaped Alessia’s lips as the physician probed the wound.

Some oaths were stronger than fear.

“No take-backs,” Alessia echoed softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Then, with every ounce of strength she had left, she lifted her hand again—this time careful to use the back of it—to wipe away Stella’s tears. The gesture is slow and deliberate, a mother’s touch despite the blood, despite the pain.

“Love you more’n the stars love the sky, Stell,” she murmured.

Her eyelids were so heavy, too heavy. But she held onto consciousness, even if just for a single moment longer, for Stella.

Live, Odrian had said. Live just to spite me.

And she wasn’t going to let him down. Not now. Not after everything.

Stella wiped at her eyes with one tiny fist, smearing blood and tears while still clutching Alessia’s hand in the other.

She looked up at Askarion, clearly scared but trusting that he would help.

“P-please fix her,” the child whispered, her words broken.

“How bad is it?” Dionys asked quietly, eyes flicking between Alessia’s pale face and the physician’s grim expression.

Askarion exhales sharply through his nose, eyes narrowing as he continues his examination for several agonizing moments.

“Bad,” he said finally, voice grim yet clinical. “…But not necessarily fatal. Her lung’s nicked,” Askarion muttered, packing the wound with honey-soaked linen. “But not collapsed. She’ll be cursing us all by morning,” he muttered, already threading his needle.

Then softer, just for Stella, “Hold her hand tight, little one. She’ll need it.”

He turned to Odrian.

“We need more light.”

Odrian nodded immediately, shifting so he could place Stella down beside Dionys before standing to gather the nearby lamps—lighting them quickly with hands shaking from adrenaline.

“Here,” he murmured as he returned to crouch beside Askarion, handing the lit lantern to one of the apprentices.

The physician nodded curtly before returning his attention back to the wound—probing carefully around the knife hilt to assess the damage beneath the skin.

Odrian took Alessia’s hand again, his thumb rubbing slow circles over her knuckles, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Don’t you dare leave us,” he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear. “Not when you just agreed to that date.”

Askarion’s fingers ghosted lightly over the knife hilt—hesitating short of pulling it out to meet Alessia’s gaze.

“I need to remove this…and it will hurt like Hades itself.” The warning is blunt, but not unkind. “Do you understand.”

“Izzit bad if I pass out?” Alessia slurred in response.

“Yes,” Askarion’s answer was immediate and firm. “You need to stay awake.”

Odrian moved closer instinctively—hands hovering near Alessia’s shoulders as if physically willing her to stay conscious.

“Focus on me,” he urged softly, shifting so his face filled her wavering vision. “Count my freckles, argue with me about terrible jokes, whatever you need—just stay.”

Dionys turned Stella’s face gently against his shoulder—shielding her from the worst of what would come next.

Alessia looked up at Odrian, her thoughts swimming in a haze of pain and shock.

Stay awake.

She couldn’t sleep if she was talking …

“M’mom used t’sing a lull’by,” she slurred, voice soft. Uncertain if she was even understandable. “By the time I wanted t’use it, I forgot th’ words. I asked everyone I could if they recognized it.” She sighed, “Must’ve been Aurean, cuz nobody did.” She chuckled, “Or they were all lyin’ assholes.”

It wasn’t the right time to learn the words, but when she made it through—because she had to survive—Stella would hear them someday, too.

Odrian’s grip tightened unconsciously on her shoulders—grounding and steadying as if trying to channel strength directly into her failing body.

“Stubborn woman…” There was warmth beneath the exasperation. “You really pick now to tell me this?”

The knife shifts slightly beneath Askarion’s careful fingers and Odrian winced sympathetically at Alessia’s resulting gasp of pain.

“Hafta stay ‘wake,” she murmured. “Can’t sleep if I’m talkin’. Seemed good a time as any.”

“Keep talking then,” Odrian said, as his thumbs brushed gentle reassurances over her collarbone, just shy of her wounds. “Tell me … Tell me what words you do remember.”

His voice was steady despite the increasingly frantic rhythm of his own heart.

Stay awake. Stay with me. Stay alive.

The silent pleas repeated like a mantra in his mind as he met her gaze—willing them into truth through sheer stubborn resolve.

“Don’ remember th’ words,” Alessia said. “But the tune …”

She hummed a tune, trailing off partway through as she fought to stay conscious.

“Think the words were somethin’ ‘bout the waves an’ usin’ the stars as guides.” She chuckled weakly. “Waves’n’stars are kind’ve a runnin’ theme.”

The ring, the comb, Little Star…They were two constants in Alessia’s life. The predictable rhythm of the tide and the cold cycle of the stars wheeling above.

She realized how odd it was to find comfort in the waves, when she was terrified of the water.

Odrian’s fingers tightened imperceptibly at the mention of waves and guiding skies—a seafarer’s lullaby, then.

“Easy now,” he murmured as her humming faltered. “Just keep breathing. I’ll sing the rest for you.”

And in a voice that was rough but steady he wove her half-forgotten melody into something whole again.

“Sleep now little sailor,

The tide will bear you home…”

Alessia blinked at him with wide-eyed wonder, like she couldn’t believe he could sing at all.

“…Your voice is nice,” she slurred. “N-Not like you need th’confidence boost.”

His breath caught halfway through the next verse—part exasperation, part stunned relief that she was still her, even now. The corners of his mouth twitched upward despite the blood soaking both of their clothes.

“Insufferable woman,” he muttered—fondness bleeding through the insult as his fingers carefully skimmed along her jawline, checking for any signs of fading consciousness.

“You’ll have to live just to spite me further.”

Outside the tent, unseen by them, Patrian arrived at a run—still fastening on his healer’s belt as he skidded to a stop at the entrance. He paused—for half a heartbeat—to take in the scene. Then he was at Askarion’s side, pressing fresh bandages into the physician’s hands without needing to be asked.

The older healer muttered his thanks, moving with renewed focus.

“Hold her steady,” he instructed Odrian grimly as his fingers wrapped firmly around the knife hilt. “…This will be the worst part.”

His warning hangs heavy in the air for a single, stretched moment…Then with a sharp, practiced motion, he withdrew the blade.

The sound it made was wet and terrible.

Odrian’s hands braced Alessia’s shoulders the instant before Askarion pulled—anchoring her through the agony as he continued to sing.

“…Silver stars will light your way,

No matter where you roam…”

The blood welled up fast, but Patrian was there—pressing thick linen to the wound with both hands, his own voice joining Odrian’s in startling harmony.

“So close your eyes, but don’t you fear,

The dawn will find you safe—“

The last word cracked as the bandages bloomed crimson beneath his fingers. He swallowed hard and pressed down firmly.

“—safe right here.” Odrian finished, eyes locked onto Alessia’s face as if daring her to slip away now.

His pulse hammered loud enough that he can feel it in his ears, but outwardly he remained a steady presence by her side—one hand moving up to brush sweat-slick hair back from her forehead.

“Almost done,” he lied smoothly—because what was one more deception if it kept her fighting.

The pain was bright, searing hot, more intense than Alessia could have ever imagined—worse than when she was stabbed, worse than the infection. For a moment she was certain that she was going to die right there, with Stella watching. Panic fizzled through her veins at the thought.

But then their voices. Odrian’s rough, steady cadence. Patrian’s unexpected harmony.

The song.

It was familiar.

It wasn’t the same one her mother sang, but it was close. Close enough that it snagged on something deep inside Alessia, something primal and aching and alive.

Her fingers twitched—seeking, weak—toward Stella, toward Odrian, toward anything she could grab onto to anchor herself there, with them.

“…S’not how the song goes.”

Her voice is thready, her grip weak, but she’s present. Still fighting. Still stubborn.

The ghost in the corner smiled at her. At the proof of her fighting, the proof of her living.

“Told ya,” the boy said. “Ain’t your time yet, Skia.”

Then he laughed, bright as the sun and flashed her a final grin of the familiar mischief in his dark eyes before he faded like morning mist.

Nothing more than a trick of the light, an illusion of exhaustion and pain and desperate, wild hope.

But for a single, fleeting moment, he was there.

Odrian’s laugh is abrupt—half incredulous, half relieved—as his free hand came up to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed away a streak of blood with surprising gentleness.

“You,” he murmured, voice rough, “are going to be the death of me with that mouth of yours.”

But his expression—softening at the edges despite itself—told an entirely different story.

You’re staying. You’re fighting. Thank the gods.

Still pressing down hard on the wound Patrian snorted, eyes flicking up just long enough to give Odrian a dry look.

“Sounds like she’s in perfect hands,” he deadpanned.

Askarion nodded, picking up the threaded needle with steady hands. “Hold her still,” he instructed. “This part requires precision.”

Alessia exhaled harshly through her nose at the sight of the needle.

“Oh good, more pain,” she managed to choke out. “Mus’ be m’nameday.”

Stella whimpered and the sound forced Alessia still. She couldn’t bear the thought of letting Stella see her panicking and thrashing. So she grit her teeth and braced.

Askarion’s needle flashed silver in the lamplight before sinking into flesh with ruthless precision. He didn’t flinch at Alessia’s gasp, didn’t hesitate when her fingers crushed Odrian’s. His voice, when he spoke, was flat—like he was commenting on the weather and not sewing a woman back together.

“Head wound’s shallow. More blood than damage. This—” he pulls the suture tight. “This is the one that nearly killed her.”

Patrian kept pressure steady on the wound below Askarion’s working hands—but his gaze lingered on her face as he assessed her.

Mother. Thief. Survivor.

“Don’t suppose,” he mused lightly, “You’ve considered not getting stabbed?” His fingers pressed harder when she gasped, but his voice doesn’t waver. “It’s quite the revolutionary concept.”

There was something wary in his eyes when they flicked toward Odrian’s protective stance. Something calculating.

He needed to learn this woman’s name.

Alessia squeezed Odrian’s hand tighter—although she was so weak her grip was barely there. She breathed through the pain, her teeth gritted. Sweat beaded at her temple, her jaw clenched, but she stayed as still as she could.

She had tolerated worse, endured worse.

Survived worse.

Patrian’s dry comment startled a breathless, pained laugh ou of her.

“S’not like I went lookin’ for trouble,” she rasped. “I jus’ got a talent for it findin’ me.”

Odrian squeezed her hand right back—digging his thumb into the dip of her pal in silent solidarity as Askarion’s needle bit again. His other hand remained cupped around her cheek, anchoring.

“Trouble,” he muttered, dry as sun-bleached bone. “Clearly.” His eyes flicked to Patrian for the barest second, “She’s got a knack for being exactly where she shouldn’t.”

His tone was light, teasing, but beneath it was an unspoken warning—She’s mine to protect.

Patrian didn’t react beyond a faint quirk of his brow, but his next press against her wound was noticeably gentler.

Askarion tied off a mother stitch—quick, efficient—before reaching for a linen pad soaked in honey and herbs. “Four more,” he said to no one in particular as he packed the poultice against the wound. “Then we’ll address the head.”

His glare at Alessia was impressively flat for a man currently elbow-deep in her blood. “Try not to move this time.”

Stella buried her face deeper into Dionys’ shoulder before sniffling—loudly—and mumbling, “Mama never stays still.”

The indignation in her tiny voice is palpable.

“She says it’s ‘an occ’pational haz’rd.” The phrase was clearly parroted, but the gravitas it was delivered with was notable.

“ ‘Occupational hazard’s’ right, Starbeam,” Alessia said with a grin at Stella’s comment. Her slurring worsened as she became more and more exhausted. “Someone tell me when he’s done so I can start breathin’ again.

She tried to keep her focus on Odrian, on Stella, on anything but the needle. But her vision blurred at the edges, darkening with every stitch as her grip on Odrian’s hand slackened.

“Tell me…tell me about th’stars,” she mumbled. “Keep talkin’.”

Patrian spared a glance at Odrian, “First time meeting your newest stray and she’s already giving orders while bleeding out. Bold choice.”

His tone was dry but his hands remained steady—the hands of a man who had stitched comrades back together on battlefields far worse than this.

Odrian’s fingers twitched reflexively at the world stray—like it was a blade grazing too close to skin. But his voice is deceptively light.

“You have no idea,” he said. He waited a beat before deliberately—eyes locked on Alessia’s as if daring her to look away—“The North Star is fixed. Sailors use it to navigate when everything else is storm and chaos.”

His thumb traced her knuckles—once, twice—as Askarion’s needle flashed again.

“Steadiest light in the sky,” he murmured. “Just like you.”

A beat, just long enough for the words to land, then Patrian’s lips quirked, ever so slightly, as he ripped a fresh bandage with his teeth. “And here I thought Dionys was the only one you waxed poetic about.”

The jab was precise. The glance he flicked toward Alessia—still assessing, amused—even more so.

Dionys snorted from his post near the tent flap, “You’re jealous.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but his smirk is just a little too sharp.

Odrian doesn’t quite throw something at them, but his glare could melt bronze.

“Focus on the patient, you insufferable—”

He cuts himself off as Askarion ties off the last stitch with a sharp tug before immediately moving to assess the head wound. His fingers probe gently—assessing the damage, the swelling—before nodding to his assistants. “Boil me some catgut. And fetch the willow bark.”

Patrian peeled back the sodden bandages to inspect their work. “Good, clean job,” he muttered to Askarion. Then to Alessia—“You’ve got the pain tolerance of a warhorse.” He paused, then smirked. “And about as much sense.”

“Got plen’y’ve sense,” Alessia argued. “Jus’ got bad ideas about where t’store knives.”

Patrian’s fingers checked her pulse—lingering just a second longer than strictly necessary—before nodding to himself. “Strong, stubborn.” He glanced at Odrian, “Familiar.”

There was something knowing in his eyes, something that said he saw exactly what was unfolding and he was absolutely going to torment Odrian about it later.

Askarion snorted, focusing on Alessia’s head wound. “The blade glanced off,” he murmured. “Lucky. Another inch deeper and we’d be having a very different conversation.”

His fingers worked quickly, cleaning the gash with practiced efficiency before threading a smaller needle for the finer work 

“This won’t need as many stitches,” he assured—although his tone suggested it wouldn’t be pleasant either. “But you’ll have a scar to match your charm.”

“Jus’ ‘nother one for the collection,” Alessia said offhanded. Most of her scars weren’t visible with her peplos on, but she was certain they had noticed some on her arms by this point.

Askarion huffed something between a sigh and a laugh, but he didn’t deny it.

Odrian exhaled sharply as well, something between exasperation and helpless admiration, as his fingers squeezed hers again. “Do you ever stop talking?”

But his thumb brushed her wrist—just once—checking her pulse. Still there. Still fighting.

Still his.

“Not when I’m s’posed to stay awake,” Alessia said.

Patrian raised an eyebrow, “This is what you’ve brought into our camp? A woman who backtalks healers mid-suture?”

He sounded appalled. He was also very clearly fascinated.

“She’s just getting started,” Odrian said with the kind of grin that preceded spectacularly bad ideas. His hand stays locked with hers, fingers tangled tight, even as the needle bit into her flesh again. “Wait ’til you hear her opinion on Aurean battle formations.”

“Or,” Dionys interjects from the corner, suddenly very invested in the ceiling, “her thoughts on honey cake theft.”

Stella, still half-hidden in Dionys’ arms, nods solemnly. “All the cakes,” she whispered, clearly feeling that this was the gravest of betrayals.

Patrian looked between them all for a long moment before snorting. “You are all ridiculous, and I’m the only sane one here.” He paused before adding, “Which is deeply concerning.”

Odrian opened his mouth, undoubtedly to argue, but was cut off by Askarion tying off the final stitch with a sharp tug and a clear, “Done.”

He sat back on his heels, wiping his bloodied hands on a clean rag. His glare was completely unimpressed. “If you must bicker like children, at least do it after my patient isn’t actively bleeding out.”

A beat, sterner – to Alessia. “No moving. No talking. Sleep. If you tear these stitches, I’m not redoing them.”

“Don’t do anythin’ but sleep,” Alessia said with a nod. “I can manage that.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “Prob’ly.”

Suddenly Stella peeled away from Dionys to scoot closer to Alessia, crawling right up to her face with the fearless determination of a child who decided that now is the time for serious negotiations.

“Mama,” she whispered, her tiny hands framing Alessia’s cheeks. “No more letting knives find you, okay?” Her lower lip wobbled, just once, before she added, “Or I’ll tell Dolos.”

Odrian stiffened at the name, but he didn’t say anything.

Alessia stiffened as well. She never spoke about Dolos, the wound too ragged, the scar too sensitive.

She wondered if she had mentioned him during a nightmare.

“Well,”  she said as calmly as she could. “We wouldn’t wan’ that.”

Odrian exhaled sharply through his nose as he leaned in closer—his forehead nearly brushing Alessia’s temple.

“Tell me more about that song,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, just for her. Distraction, grounding, urgency, all woven into the words. “Where did your mother learn it? Was she from the islands?”

“Only ever knew she was from Aurel,” Alessia slurred as she started to drift off. “Never talked ‘bout where. Got a ring she gave me—silver, two bands intertwined like waves. She always said it’d ‘guide me home’. Comb, too—spine has waves carved in it. Wal-” She frowned, cutting herself off before continuing. “An asshole broke it. Still have it, though.”

Odrian’s breath caught at the detail—two bands like waves—too precise to be a coincidence. But before he can press further a boot scuffs outside the tent flap.

Then, crisp and cold as the winter surf, “What in Hades’ name is going on here?”

The voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

Every muscle in Odrian’s body locked up—his grip on Alessia’s hand tightening reflexively.

He doesn’t need to turn to know who stands behind him. The oppressive weight of command in those words could only belong to one man.

Nomaros, High King of Aurel, had arrived.

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