Content Warning:
This chapter contains themes of past abuse, threats made toward a child, intense fear-based coercion, discussion of a parent preparing a fatal “backup plan” for herself and her child, references to severe mistreatment by a former captor, and strong emotional distress. It also includes characters reacting with overwhelming anger and protective intensity. Please be safe while reading. A summary of events is included in the post-chapter author note.
After Alessia put Stella to bed, she sat by the fire, watching the flames dance as she absentmindedly toyed with a small vial sealed with wax.
It was among her last secrets. Beyond the vial, there were only three others—Dolos, her dreams, and what she did for Walus. She would tell them about Dolos in time. She would tell them about what Walus had made her do.
But the dreams were a secret she would take to her pyre. She knew what happened to those cursed with the prophecy. She remembered what had happened to the prince and princess when others had discovered their abilities.
Odrian spotted her by the fire—just a silhouette against the flickering light—and paused. For the first time all day, he was quiet.
Then, because he’s Odrian, he plopped down beside her and stole the vial right out of her fingers.
“…This looks important,” he mused, turning it over. “Dangerously so.” A beat and then, “So. What’s the last secret, Alessia of Ellun?”
Dionys appeared on her other side like a shadow given form—silent, sudden, there. He didn’t ask about the vial, just stared at it like it was a blade pressed to her throat.
If she said nothing, he would walk away.
If she said everything, he would burn the world.
But the choice is hers.
Alessia took the vial back from Odrian and turned it over in her fingers.
“Three years ago, I tried running after Walus hurt Stella. One of his lieutenants caught us. Didn’t even get to the city gates. That’s when Walus put the shackle on me. I was under constant guard, only allowed three places in his villa—the training yard, his bedroom, and a cell under his villa. But it wasn’t my only punishment.” She took a deep breath, her hand clenching around the vial. “He gave me a warning. Told me that if I ever tried to run again, when he caught us, he would kill Stella. You know what he does to prisoners and traitors. The torture, the long deaths. He told me those would look like mercy compared to what he would do to her. He said he’d make me watch.”
She swallowed hard, “I stole jewelry when we ran. I traded some of it for this almost as soon as we were out of the city. I…I had to be sure.”
Dionys moved before she could finish, kneeling in front of her, his hands braced on her knees. “Alessia.” His voice was rough, blistering. “What’s in the vial?”
He already knows. Gods, he already knows. But he needs to hear her say it.
Odrian had gone very still beside her—his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach but didn’t dare. When he spoke, his voice was too light.
“Alessia. Sweetheart. You didn’t.”
A plea. A denial. Anything but this.
“Bitter almond,” Alessia said softly, resigned. “Fast, painless … or relatively so. Enough for an adult and a child.”
Dionys rocked back like she struck him—just once—before surging forward again, dragging her into his arms so suddenly the vial clattered to the ground.
His grip was crushing. His breath hitched against her shoulder—just once—before he muttered, thick with fury and grief and relief, “You idiot—”
You are not alone.
You are not dying.
Not while I breathe.
Odrian—unusually quiet—plucked the vial from the ground and stood, walking to the fire. For a moment, he just stared into the flames.
Then he tossed the vial in.
The wax seal blackens.
The clay cracks.
The poison burns.
He didn’t turn back right away. Just watched it crumble to ash before exhaling roughly.
“No more contingencies,” he murmured—half to himself, half to the night. “Only us.”
Dionys’ grip on Alessia didn’t loosen—if anything, it tightened, a silent promise in the press of his fingers.
“We don’t lose.”
No room for arguments. No room for doubt.
Alessia was shaking. Not from fear now—from something else. Something raw and aching and hopeful. Tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying bled from her shoulders.
They burned it. They burned her out.
The fire crackled, the last of the vial’s remains collapsing into embers, and something in her chest unfurled.
“…Okay,” she whispered with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
It’s surrender. It’s trust. It’s everything.
Dionys exhales—rough, relieved—before dragging her tighter against her chest, his arms locking around her like she might vanish if he let go. His pulse was a drumbeat against her cheek—fast, alive, furious.
“…Okay,” he echoed—gruff, tender—into her hair.
Odrian didn’t crowd them, just sank back onto the log, close enough that his knee brushed Alessia’s, and watched the fire consume the last of the poison. His fingers tapped absently against his thigh—counting, planning—but his posture was relaxed. Certain.
Dionys finally loosens his grip—just enough to tilt Alessia’s face up, his thumb sweeping under her eye. “No more running,” he muttered. It wasn’t a request. “No more sacrifices.”
Odrian leaned in then—close enough to press his forehead to Alessia’s temple, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“You wouldn’t have used it,” he said softly. “Not really.” A desperate hope. “You’re too damn stubborn to die.”
Alessia let out a wet, trembling laugh as she leaned into Dionys’ touch—just for a moment—before pulling away,
She stared at the burning remnants of the vial.
“I wasn’t going to—” She stopped, shook her head. “Not unless there was no other choice. Not unless he had us. And even then …”
Her fingers twitched as she glanced toward the tent where Stella slept.
She exhaled, slow and shuddering. “I didn’t want to. But the world isn’t certain. The Fates aren’t kind. They hear our plans and oaths and laugh as they weave.” She wrung her hands together. “I believe…I know you would both die before letting us get taken again, but if it comes down to me or her, promise me you’ll protect her. Always her.” She swallowed hard, “Even if he gets me, Walus won’t kill me. Not immediately. I’ve survived him before. I can do it again. But Stella…” She trailed off, the words catching in her throat. She was shaking, terrified they’d see her as the monster she felt like for even considering what she had.
“I need to know she’ll be okay.”
She felt like a monster.
Dionys’ hand closed over hers—rough, warm, unyielding. His voice was barely more than a growl.
“No one is ever touching her again,” he swore. “No one is ever hurting you again.” His grip tightened, “Not while I live.”
A pause, then—so quietly only she could hear—“And if the Fates laugh?” His jaw set. “I’ll carve our names into their threads myself.”
Odrian’s fingers brushed her temple—gentle, steady—as he leaned in.
“Alessia,” he murmured. “Listen to me, really listen.”
He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“You don’t have to be ready to die for her anymore,” he said, each word deliberate. “Because we are here. And we are not letting either of you go.”
His thumb traced the line of her cheek before he added, softer, “You don’t have to be the monster, Thelktria. That’s our job now.”
Alessia’s breath hitched—hard—at the name. Thelktria.
She’d heard the word before—only in stories, in the old myths her mother would whisper at bedtime.
The woman who wove silver from moonlight.
The sorceress who made kings kneel with a glance.
Her fingers curled around Dionys’, her other hand fisting into Odrian’s tunic as she shook.
She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t. But her vision blurred anyway.
“…You can’t promise that,” she whispered. “You don’t know what—”
Dionys tugged—sharp and insistent—forcing her to meet his gaze. “Yes. We can.”
His eyes were alight—not with anger, not anymore, but with something hotter. Something unbreakable.
“You don’t get to argue with kings, thief.”
Odrian chuckled darkly as his hand slid to the back of her neck, grounding. “Darling, Sweetheart. You forget—we’re Aurean.”
A beat, his grin turned feral.
“Which means we cheat.”
Alessia’s laugh was half sob, but she leaned into them both—letting their certainty, their fire, seep into her bones.
Maybe she didn’t have to carry this alone anymore. Maybe she could believe.
“…Fine,” she muttered. “But if you two idiots get yourselves killed, I’m going to the Underworld just to yell at you.”
Dionys snorted, sharp and satisfied, before flicking her forehead.
“Good.”
He didn’t say we’d drag you back. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said it for him.
Odrian’s fingers tightened against her nape, his smirk all teeth. “Promise?”
He didn’t want her in the Underworld. Not ever. But the thought of her rage, of her storming after them even into death—
It was the most Alessia thing imaginable.
“Yes,” she said. “I promise.”
Dionys exhaled before pressing his forehead against hers, “Good.”
It’s a growl. A prayer. A promise.
Then he locked eyes with Odrian over her shoulder to snarl, “We’re keeping them.”
It isn’t a request. It isn’t even a declaration. It was a law of nature.
Odrian didn’t smirk, didn’t argue. He just met Dionys’ glare head-on and nodded—sharp and final.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
The fire wasn’t quite loud enough to cover the crack in his voice, but they all pretended it was.
“Never again,” he murmured to Alessia—fervent and desperate. “You hear me? No more backup plans. No more exit strategies.”
His thumb swiped at the dampness on her cheek. “You don’t need it. Not while we’re here.”
Dionys’ arms tightened—just slightly—before he pulled back, gripping her shoulders hard enough to bruise.
“You run,” he growled, “we chase you. You fight, we fight beside you. You die—” He draws in a ragged breath. “—we burn the world after you.”
It isn’t poetry. It isn’t pretty. It is a promise carved in blood and bone.
“But you don’t get to leave first.”
Alessia closed her eyes. Breathed.
They’re keeping us.
It settled in her chest—warm, solid, and real.
No more poisons. No more running. No more alone.
When she opened her eyes again, she was smiling.
“…Does this mean I get to call you my kings now?”
Dionys snorted and flicked her forehead. “No.”
Odrian gasped, clutching his chest like she had mortally wounded him. “Barbarian. After all our bonding? After the olives?”
He’s teasing, but his fingers brush her wrist—gently. “You’re stuck with us, thief.”
Alessia grinned, bright and alive, before she stole the wineskin from his hand.
“Good.”
Odrian’s grin softened, something unbearably fond in his eyes as he watched Alessia and Dionys.
“To family,” he murmured as he took the wineskin back and tipped it to his lips, half toast and half prayer. There was no mischief in it, just truth.
He rested his cheek against Alessia’s hair, just for a breath, before murmuring again, “We should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“Planning homicide takes energy,” Dionys said with a nod.
“Not homicide,” Odrian corrected, his smirk almost audible. “Just a long-overdue demotion.” He paused. “…To corpse.”
Dionys huffed and stood, then offered a hand to Alessia. “Bed,” he ordered—no room for argument. But his thumb brushed her wrist, just once.
Alessia took his hand with a grateful squeeze, letting him pull her up—she swayed slightly, exhaustion and relief hitting her all at once.
She glanced toward the tent, where Stella slept in safety and warmth, and then back to the two of them—these impossible, stubborn, wonderful men who had somehow become hers.
Hers.
“Bed,” she agreed, her voice rough but steady. Then, softer—for them alone, “Thank you.”
Not just for that night. For everything. For seeing her—really seeing her—and staying, anyway.
Alessia was home.
And they were hers.
Odrian pressed a kiss to the crown of her head—quick, playful, affectionate—before nudging her toward the tent. “Save the mushy stuff for after we’ve murdered your ex.”
“Too late,” Dionys muttered—but he’s looking at Odrian, not Alessia, with something dangerously close to fondness in his glare. “You’ve already gone soft.”
He tugged Alessia toward the tent, stopping just long enough to mock-glare at Odrian. “You’re on first watch.”
It wasn’t a request.
Odrian clutched his chest—gasping, betrayed—but he didn’t argue. He just watched them disappear into the tent before turning back to the fire, his grin softening into something quieter. Something warm.
His strategist. His warrior. His impossible, vicious, perfectly matched set.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia let Dionys steer her into the tent, settling beside Stella—who instinctively curled into her, the second she felt the dip of the bedroll.
Dionys lingered—just for a heartbeat—to brush a calloused knuckle against Stella’s cheek, checking her temperature with gruff tenderness.
Then—without a word—he turned to leave.
Alessia caught his wrist before he could go.
“…Stay?” she murmured—half question, half plea.
It was too soon. Too much. But she didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to wake from nightmares to an empty tent.
She was so tired of being alone.
Dionys stilled. For one endless second, he just stared at her hand on his wrist, like he’d seen nothing like it before.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
“…Move over.”
He didn’t ask whether she was sure. Didn’t hesitate. Just toed off his sandals and folded himself onto the bedroll beside her with all the grace of a man settling into a siege.
“Move once and I push you off,” he grumbled.
A lie. If Alessia woke screaming tonight, he would be there. If Stella cried out, he’d answer.
If the world burned, he would stand between them and the flames.
His arms locked around her waist like a steel band. His heartbeat was thunder against her spine. He didn’t let go.
Alessia let out a shaky breath—half laugh, half relief—and curled into him, savoring the warmth, the weight, the sheer solidness of him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she whispered.
And she meant it.
Stella, sensing the shift even in sleep, wriggled closer—nestling against Alessia’s chest with a contented sigh, her tiny fingers clutching her mother’s tunic.
Alessia closed her eyes—breathing them in. With Dionys at her back, Stella in her arms—and for the first time in years—she let herself rest.
Outside the tent, Odrian watched the fire dim, his gaze occasionally flickering toward the tent as his smirk softened.
Safe, he thinks. They’re safe.
Then—because someone needed to be dramatic about it—he tossed a pebble at the tent’s canvas. It barely made a sound, but it was enough.
“Goodnight, paramour.”
His voice was barely louder than the wind, but he knew Dionys heard him. Knew Alessia did, too.
It’s enough.
Summary
Alessia sits by the fire after putting Stella to bed, turning over a small sealed vial—her last and most desperate contingency. When Odrian and Dionys join her, she finally admits what the vial is: something she acquired long ago as a final escape if Walus ever caught them again. The revelation hits both men hard—Dionys with raw panic and fury, Odrian with a quieter but just as devastating grief. They burn the vial, making it clear that she doesn’t need that kind of plan anymore, not with them.
The rest of the chapter is the emotional aftermath of that confession. Alessia struggles with the guilt of having even considered such an option, while Odrian and Dionys ground her with fierce, absolute assurances that she and Stella are safe now—and that she no longer has to survive the world alone. The scene ends with the three of them settling into a fragile but real sense of family, safety, and mutual trust, with Dionys staying beside her and Stella as they sleep and Odrian standing guard just outside.
Tiny Raven 
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