Tiny Raven

Dawn found them tangled together, Stella between Alessia and Dionys.

The little girl woke first—poking Dionys’ bicep with the academic curiosity of a child who had discovered a wall where there wasn’t one before.

Alessia woke slowly to the sound of Stella’s enthusiastic poking and Odrian’s poorly stifled laughter.

She cracked open an eye—wincing at the morning light—to find Stella fascinated by the fact that Dionys was still asleep.

“Shhh,” she murmured to Stella, pressing a finger to her lips.

Stella grinned—suddenly conspiratorial—and nodded before immediately leaning in to poke Dionys again.

Alessia sighed, but didn’t stop her.

Dionys’ eyelid twitched—the only warning before his hand snapped up, catching Stella’s tiny wrist mid-poke.

“…No.” His voice was gravel-rough with sleep, but there was no real heat in it—just weary exasperation.

His grip is gentle as he tugs her into the crook of his arm instead of shoving her away—a secret between him and the morning sun.

Stella giggled—delighted by the development—and immediately cuddled into his side with all the triumph of a conquering general.

“You’re warm,” she informed him, as if it were both a scientific breakthrough and a personal insult.

Alessia hid her laughter with a cough as she watched Dionys blink groggily at the tiny human barnacle attached to him.

“You know, if you keep being this comfortable, you’re going to become her favorite.”

Dionys squinted at her—the full force of his sleep-rumpled glare undermined by the fact that Stella was now nesting against him like a particularly stubborn chick.

“…This,” he muttered, “is sabotage.”

But he didn’t move her. Not even a little.

Alessia bit her lip, failing to stifle another laugh.

She watched them—the mighty Dionys, lounging in bed with a five-year-old using him as a heated rock—and something warm and light bloomed in her chest.

She could get used to this.

She wanted to get used to this.

Slowly, careful of her stitches, she shifted closer—close enough to press a fleeting kiss to Stella’s wild curls, close enough for her shoulder to brush Dionys’ arm.

Stay.

She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to.

Dionys glared with all the heat of the sun. “…Traitor,” he muttered, the growl in his voice undercut by the way his thumb absentmindedly brushed Stella’s shoulder.

A surrender. A precious one.

Alessia watched them with her chest so full it ached.

Then she snorted and flopped back onto the bedding, yanking a pillow over her face.

“Five more minutes.”

Dionys reached over without looking and flicked the pillow from her face.

“No.”

Stella, sensing an opportunity, immediately gasped before scrambling over Dionys with all the grace of a drunk kitten. She landed squarely on Alessia’s stomach, somehow avoiding any of her injuries.

“NO SLEEPIN’! BREAKFAST!”

Dionys made a sound disturbingly close to a laugh as Alessia let out a dramatic oof—but he didn’t lift a finger to help.

Odrian, lounging at the tent flap, leaned over to murmur conspiratorially to Stella.

“I heard someone stole honey cakes from the kitchen tent…”

Chaos, as always, was his love language.

Stella’s eyes went wide as she scrambled toward the exit with single-minded determination. “I’mma find them!”

Dionys moved, snagging the back of her tunic before she could bolt.

“Sandals,” he ordered gruffly. 

Stella huffed, but obediently shoved her feet into her sandals before pausing, turning back to Alessia with sudden solemnity. “…Mama, too?”

Alessia let out an exaggerated groan as she sat up, pressing a kiss to Stella’s forehead before shooing her toward Odrian. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

As soon as she could convince her limbs that moving was an acceptable life choice.

Dionys watched Stella drag Odrian out into the morning light—already chattering about strategic honey cake locations—before he turned back to Alessia.

“…Five more minutes,” he allowed as he pulled her back down against his chest with a sigh.

They both knew it was a lie. He’d let her doze as long as she needed. But for now, they’d steal the quiet.

Alessia didn’t argue, just curled into him with a hum, tucking her head under his chin.

Outside the tent, Stella’s laughter rang bright as bells.

Inside, Alessia breathed easy for the first time in years.

Dionys pressed his lips to her hair—silent and savoring—as the morning sun painted the tent in gold.

No oaths. No grand declarations. Just her weight against him, the scent of salt and herbs in her hair. The distant sound of Odrian pretending to lose a debate with a five-year-old about appropriate breakfast portion sizes.

As Alessia lay nestled into Dionys, with the weight of exhaustion and relief pressing her into the bedding, she listened to the muffled sounds of the camp waking around them.

She should get up. She knew she should get up. Stella was already out with Odrian, probably making trouble. But—

But for once, she let herself stay, just a little longer.

For the first time in years, she finally felt safe.

She exhaled, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of Dionys’ tunic as she surrendered back to sleep’s pull.

The war would still be there when she woke. The danger, the fear, the questions that lingered—none of it had vanished.

Dionys tightened his arm around her—silent and wordless—as her breathing evened out against his chest. He didn’t sleep, didn’t even close his eyes. He just watched over her, over them as he listened to the rhythmic cadence of Stella’s giggles outside.

He should wake Alessia, make sure she ate. But she looked peaceful like this—soft and young and unafraid—and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin it.

Let the war rage. Let the universe spin on without them.

Here, in this stolen moment, they were untouchable.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Alessia stirred at the sound of careful footsteps nearing the tent—lighter than Dionys’ or Odrian’s, with an unfamiliar cadence. She forced her eyes open as the flap lifted, revealing a man with dark hair tied back, sharp brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard.

Patrian.

She vaguely recognized him as the person who had been there with Askarion after someone had stabbed her. He had sung in harmony with Odrian.

“You’re alive,” he said softly and slightly bewildered, as though he hadn’t believed his own stitching would hold.

Quieter, more hesitantly, he gestured to her bandages.

“…May I?”

“Of course,” Alessia said as she shifted her tunic so he could check her wounds.

Patrian knelt beside her, his gentle hands already unwinding the bandages with practiced ease. His gaze flicked briefly to Dottie, then back to Alessia’s face.

“Your work is careful,” he murmured. “But fabric can only bear so many repairs before the original threads fray beyond use.”

Alessia hummed in agreement, unsure what to say, and they fell silent as he continued to examine her wounds, fingers gentle and sure. His brows furrowed at the angry edges near her ribs—a lingering shadow of infection—before he nodded, satisfied.

“…You almost died on my table,” he said so casually that it took a moment for the weight of the words to land. “Lost a lot of blood, nearly drowned in it.”

His gaze flicked up, sharp and assessing.

“And yet, here you are. Sitting. Talking. Laughing with them.” He paused. “Should I be impressed? Or wary?”

Alessia exhaled, meeting his eyes.

“Both, probably,” she admitted, with a one-sided shrug. “I am a thief. And a liar.”

Patrian was quiet for another moment.

“Why did you approach the Aurean camp that day?”

There was no judgment or accusation in his voice, just curiosity wrapped in a quiet, fierce protectiveness.

He wasn’t looking at her as he asked, focusing instead on applying fresh salve to her wounds with steady fingers—but his shoulders were tense. Waiting.

Then, softer, almost to himself, he amended his question. “Or, no. The real question is: Why didn’t you leave Stella somewhere safe first?” His fingers paused. “Were you alone?”

There was no suspicion in his voice, only grief. He had seen too many children caught in the war’s crossfire. Too many on both sides.

“I left her in the safest place I could,” Alessia said, hoping she didn’t sound too defensive. “Back at the shack we’d been hiding in. It’s just been us since we left Ellun.” She sighed. “She had started getting fevers. They weren’t too bad, and they broke quickly, but I was worried. I didn’t—I don’t know enough herb lore to treat anything more than a head cold.” She looked away as she finished. “She knew what to do if I didn’t return by dusk.”

Patrian’s fingers stilled. “…Dusk?”

The word was quiet, disbelieving. He didn’t know Stella well, but he understood children, and no five-year-old, no matter how clever, should have been left alone.

“How long had she been feverish when you came to us?”

His voice was too light, as if he were bracing for her answer.

“About a week,” Alessia admitted. “I kept hoping they’d stop on their own if I just…” she trailed off, feeling foolish. “…If I just took better care of her. I started stealing more to feed her, tried to keep her as warm as I could.”

Patrian exhaled before reaching into his satchel for a cloth and a fresh vial of salve. “She wouldn’t have lasted another week,” he murmured. Not cruel, just clinical. “Not without proper medicine.”

He didn’t say, ‘You should have come sooner.’ He didn’t need to. The tightness in his jaw said it for him.

His voice dropped, quiet enough that Alessia had to strain to hear him.

“You had to know our reputation.” The pillaged villages, the burned fields. The prisoners who didn’t return. “So why? Why them?” His eyes flicked toward the tent flap, where Odrian’s laughter echoed, mingling with Stella’s. “Why him?”

His gaze flicked up—searching, knowing—but not unkind.

He wasn’t asking as a healer. He was asking as a man who had spent years stitching his friends back together after battles they started.

“Do you know who I am?” Alessia asked in return.

Patrian leaned back slightly, a silent ‘no’. He didn’t know the important parts. He didn’t know the scars beneath the scars.

His fingers resumed their careful work, but his gaze stuck to her face, waiting.

He would listen, but he’d let her choose the words, and when to say them.

Alessia nodded, unsurprised.

“My … “ she faltered for a moment before sighing. “The easiest term for him is ‘husband’, but he wasn’t … our relationship wasn’t what you would expect from that term. My husband was—is—Commander Walus. I assume you recognize his name.”

Patrian’s hands didn’t falter—he kept working, methodical and steady—but his breath caught.

Commander Walus.

The Butcher of Tharos. The man who skinned deserters alive. Who left prisoners strung up along the city’s walls like macabre banners.

“Ah.”

It wasn’t shock or pity. It was just recognition clicking into place.

“So that’s why Nomaros was sniffing around,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Then, because he had to know—

“Did he send you? To spy?” The question was quiet. Careful and backed with bronze.

Not an accusation. A calculation—because if she had been sent, if this was a trap…

…Patrian would be the one to end it.

Quietly.

Before Dionys and Odrian found out.

“You think I’d admit it if I were?” Alessia asked. She shook her head and waved a dismissive hand. “No, I didn’t come to spy,” she said. “If he had sent me, he wouldn’t have let me bring Stella. The Butcher isn’t a man in the habit of letting his leverage go.” She met his eyes again, serious. “I’m not his anymore.”

Patrian’s lips twitched—almost a smile—at her answer. “Fair point.”

Silence fell between them for a moment.

“I chose the Aurean camps because I couldn’t risk being identified near Tharos,” she said. “They would have returned us to Walus. The Aurean camps were safer.” She looked away, cheeks flushing slightly. “I also…naively…believed things my mother told me. That the tradition of guest rights made Aureans more civilized than Tharons.” She sighed, “I didn’t account for the rules being different during war.”

She hesitated before continuing. “I chose Odrian’s camp by luck. I’d been rotating camps for weeks. It just lined up that I stole from him the same night he laid a trap for me.” She sighed. “And I trusted him simply because he didn’t kill me on sight. He knew I was a thief. He knew I was the one stealing from the camp. No one would have questioned it if he had killed me or brought me back in chains. By rights, he should have. But he didn’t.”

Patrian listened—really listened—his fingers only briefly stilling when she mentioned her mother. Then he exhaled, shaking his head slightly as he resumed cleaning her wound.

“Luck,” Patrian repeated, dry as desert sand. “Luck that you stumbled into the one camp whose king would sooner let a dagger in his ribs than turn away a child.” A pause. “Luck that his warlord apparently purrs.”

There was no mockery in it, just a quiet resignation.

Then, softer, he added, “…Your mother wasn’t wrong.” His fingers pressed a fresh bandage into place. “We acted civilized. Once.” He met her gaze, suddenly weary. “War changes people.”

He didn’t say, ‘but not all of us.’ He didn’t need to. The careful hands tending her wounds said it clearly enough.

“If you had found another camp—if they had helped—would you still have stolen from us?”

“Only if I had to,” Alessia said. “I never wanted to steal to begin with.” She swallowed hard. “The first time I approached the camp was months ago, before I ran out of jewelry to barter. I asked for work. I was … turned away. About a month later, when I ran out of jewelry, I came back. Different sentries. Different sigils. Same result.” She huffed a small, mirthless laugh. “I don’t like thieving, even if I am good at it.”

Patrian finished securing the bandage—his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary—before he sat back with a sigh of his own.

“You are good at it,” he agreed, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise solemn gaze. “But that’s not what I asked.”

He leaned back on his heels, studying her.

“You knew stealing from us was a risk. You knew our men don’t take kindly to thieves. And yet—” His fingers drummed idly against his knee. “—you kept coming back to this camp. Even after that wound.”

He motioned at her shoulder.

“So I’ll ask again: why us?”

Because there was a difference between desperation and trust. Between luck and instinct.

And Patrian was a man who understood both.

“I had no other options,” Alessia said. “I was stealing drachmae to get enough to buy our way onto a caravan going north. I had enough to pay for passage, but not enough to cover a bribe to make it worthwhile not to sell us back to Tharos. Leaving on my own wasn’t an option. I can fight, but not well—especially not if I have to keep an eye out for Stella. The Tharos camps weren’t an option because they were even more likely to turn me in than the caravans.”

Patrian exhaled—slowly, considering—before nodding once.

“Fair,” he said, “But you stayed. Even after Odrian caught you. Even after he brought you here.”

His fingers stilled, his gaze sharpening.

“So I’ll ask once more: Why us?”

A test.

A challenge

Prove you won’t hurt them.

Prove you’re worth the risk.

Prove you see them.

Prove you choose them.

Or admit you’re still running.

“Ah,” Alessia said as she realized what Patrian was getting at. She gave a small, rueful smile. “Because I’m not so stupid, I’d walk away from the first people to treat me like a person in nearly a decade. You, them, Askarion … none of you had to help me, but you did. And you never asked for repayment.”

Stella’s laugh drifted into the tent from somewhere outside.

“Besides, she likes it here,” Alessia said with a fond smile. “So do I.”

Patrian went still—just for a moment—before exhaling sharply through his nose.

“…You love the girl.”

It wasn’t a question.

“With all my heart,” Alessia said.

“Then we’re on the same side,” Patrian said as he tied the bandage with a final tug. “Stella deserves safety. You both do.”

His gaze flicked to the tent flap—where distant laughter betrayed Odrian’s location—before returning to her.

He added softly. “And they deserve someone who won’t break their hearts.”

Alessia inhaled sharply and suddenly, as if struck. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? She could leave. Could disappear into the night with Stella if things got bad. But they—reckless, loyal, hers—would follow.

“I won’t,” she whispered, her voice rough. “I can’t. Not after—”

Not after their hands in hers, their promises, their names in Stella’s bright lexicon—Uncle Ody. Uncle Dio.

She exhaled.

“…I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

A single word. But the way his shoulders relaxed—the way his fingers resumed their work, gentler now—said everything.

With deliberate care, he reached into his satchel to pull out a small bundle of linen—freshly laundered and neatly folded.

“For the doll,” he muttered, placing it beside her before standing. “If you’re remaking her.”

He didn’t wait for thanks, just nodded once and turned to leave.

“Askarion needs an assistant. Someone with steady hands and no patience for fools.” A beat of silence to let the offer land. “You’ll need to learn proper herb work, though.”

He paused at the tent flap. “…They’re good men,” he breathed. “Don’t make me regret vouching for you.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a plea.

Then he was gone—leaving Alessia with cloth softer than anything she had touched in years, and the weight of a second chance heavy in her hands.

She traced a finger over the edge of the bundle, marveling at the way it felt beneath her fingertips.

“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing Patrian wouldn’t hear her.

Because that was trust, that was faith—an offering with no strings.

She looked up to see Stella standing at the tent’s entrance, grinning and covered in honey cake crumbs—then back to the linen, and she knew.

This was worth fighting for. This was worth staying for.

And when Dionys returned moments later with food, when Odrian trotted in behind him, already launching into some ridiculous story about Stella’s negotiation tactics with the cooks—

—Alessia just smiled, tucked the fabric into her satchel, and let herself belong.

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