The sun had barely crested the horizon when Stella woke, her tiny fists already tugging at Alessia’s tunic with the urgency of a general marshaling her troops.
“Mama,” she whispered conspiratorially, “the birds are stealing breakfast.”
Alessia groaned and buried her face against Dionys’ shoulder.
“Tell the birds to come back later,” she mumbled.
Dionys—who had rarely slept so deeply—cracked one eye open to assess the supposed avian threat.
“That’s a seagull,” he informed Stella flatly. “In our tent.”
Stella nodded solemnly. “Thief bird.”
Alessia lifted her head just enough to peer at the offending creature—a particularly bold seagull perched on top of one of the supply crates, systematically pillaging a loaf of bread.
“…That is the most Aurean thing I’ve ever seen,” she muttered before flopping back down.
Dionys’ lip curled. Then—without looking away from the bird—he reached over Alessia’s head, grabbed a nearby sandal, and hurled it with lethal precision.
The seagull squawked indignantly as it retreated—bread still clutched in its beak—leaving a very smug warlord in its wake.
“Fixed.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to come back to bite us,” Alessia muttered, picturing a vengeful seagull army descending upon the Aurean lines later. Still, she didn’t move—content to stay half-sprawled across Dionys, his warmth more comforting than she’d ever admit.
“Odrian’s rubbing off on you,” she teased. “Next, you’ll be dramatically declaring war on seabirds.”
Dionys huffed—barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes—before tugging her closer.
“I negotiated,” he corrected dryly. “Politely.”
“Mm. Sure. Politely,” Alessia echoed with a snort, burrowing further into Dionys’ side.
Meanwhile, outside, Odrian could be heard loudly chastising the retreating gull for its “unconscionable theft”—while simultaneously offering it a second loaf of bread.
“…He’s the one declaring war,” Dionys said. He tugged the blanket over her head with a grunt, mostly shielding her from the morning light, and mostly muffling Odrian’s increasingly elaborate negotiations,
(Let the birds have their war; his duty was here.)
“Sleep,” he ordered, though it came out closer to ‘please.’
As if Alessia could, with Odrian’s impassioned “YOU CALL THAT A FAIR TRADE?!” echoing through the camp.
She drifted—not quite sleeping, not quite awake—suspended in a rare, golden moment of peace.
This was enough.
The seagull crowed. Odrian vowed vengeance. Stella declared herself monarch of the shoreline.
This was everything.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Dionys was not scowling.
(He absolutely was scowling.)
In ten minutes, chaos incarnate that she was, Stella had turned the washing basin into a tide pool, declared herself High Admiral of All Coastal Creatures, and got sand in Dionys’ wine.
His patience—legendary, unwavering—was drying up faster than the seawater on his boots.
“Enough.” His voice was a thunderclap. “You—both of you—” he included Alessia, who was supposed to be supervising but was instead lounging on a nearby crate, laughing at the chaos, “—are going into the sea.”
He stomped toward them—half-heartedly, but with enough intensity to make Stella shriek and bolt, zigzagging her way toward the shore like a tiny, chaotic crab.
Alessia, still grinning, didn’t even attempt to escape, letting him haul her up over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“Oh no,” she deadpanned, kicking weakly. “Whatever shall I do~?”
“Drown,” Dionys growled, adjusting his grip as he marched after Stella.
“Love you, too,” Alessia shot back with a snort.
And then she froze.
So did Dionys.
Alessia could feel her cheeks warming with a blush.
‘…Sweet Hera, did I just say that?!’
‘… Yes, I absolutely did just say that …’
‘Oh. Oh no.’
Her eyes snapped to Dionys, who was standing preternaturally still.
‘Shit.’
Stella—blissfully oblivious and now hiding behind Odrian’s legs—giggled.
Then, slowly, Dionys leaned down and bit Alessia’s shoulder.
Not hard. Just enough to make her yelp.
“… Tch.”
Alessia—half laughing, half startled—shoved at his face.
“What was that for?!”
She’s giggling too hard to say anything else—and she couldn’t bring herself to regret the words, no matter how impulsive they were.
“For being annoying,” Dionys muttered. His arms tightened around her waist, hauling her further up his shoulder as if daring her to take it back.
Stella, suddenly inspired, tugged urgently on Odrian’s tunic.
“Bite him back, Mama!”
Alessia, still dangling over Dionys’ shoulder like an unruly lamb, narrowed her eyes at Stella’s suggestion, then at Dionys’ smug expression.
She shifted so she could lean over and nip his ear.
Not hard. Just enough to make him growl.
Her lips lingered a second too long, her teeth softening into something suspiciously like a kiss, although she’d never admit it. It was his fault for being so damn biteable.
Dionys stiffened, then growled in earnest, his grip shifting to drag her into his arms.
His ears were red.
“Unacceptable.”
Then he kissed her properly—right in front of Odrian and Stella and every gossiping soldier within a five-mile radius.
Alessia pulled back just enough to breathe—grinning wildly, flushed from head to toe—only for Dionys to growl and tug her in again.
Somewhere beyond them, Odrian was absolutely cackling.
Alessia didn’t care.
Not with Dionys’ hands tangled in her hair and Stella’s laughter ringing like bells.
Odrian gagged—loudly—before covering Stella’s eyes with a dramatic flourish.
“Scandalous! Think of the child!”
Stella squirmed, trying to peek between Odrian’s fingers.
“I like scandalous!”
Then, because she was Stella, she blew a raspberry at them, clearly not the least bit scandalized.
Dionys glared over Alessia’s shoulder—daring Odrian to keep mocking them. Just to make his point very clear, he kissed Alessia again.
Odrian squawked, feigning horror, but his eyes were alight with mischief and something softer. Something warm.
“Stella, sweetheart, sappy adults have infiltrated us,” he said mournfully. “Terrible fate.”
Alessia laughed against Dionys’ lips—breathless and happy—before pulling back just enough to smirk at Odrian.
“Jealous?”
He gasped, clutching his chest like she’d run him through, before breaking into a grin that was as sharp as glass.
“Oh, Princess,” he purred, suddenly right there, crowding into their space with all the grace of a prowling cat. “I don’t get jealous.”
His fingers brushed her chin—lightning-quick—before adding, low and wicked, “I intervene.”
And then, because he was Odrian, he stole the next kiss for himself.
Alessia squeaked—completely caught off guard—before melting into it.
Dionys growls—though it’s half-hearted at best—before yanking Odrian away by the back of his tunic.
“Mine,” he muttered, as if that settled it.
(It does. Mostly because Odrian was laughing too hard to argue.)
Stella, utterly delighted by this turn of events, clapped her hands. “More!” she demanded—like she was watching particularly entertaining street theater.
Dionys snorted—then, because he had apparently lost all sense of self-preservation, he hauled Odrian in by the collar and kissed him, too.
Brief. Chaste. Devastating.
“There,” he growled—threatening—although the effect was ruined by the way his thumb stroked the nape of Odrian’s neck. “Happy?”
Odrian—king of Othara, scourge of the seas, general of a thousand men—blinked.
Then he beamed.
“Ecstatic.”
Stella dramatically flopped backward onto the sand with a groan.
“Ew,” she declared, despite grinning ear to ear. “So mushy.”
Alessia reached out, ruffling Stella’s hair.
“Better get used to it, Starlight.”
Her voice shook just a little with the sheer wonder of it all.
No one mentioned it. They just held her tighter.
In the fragile moment, Dionys tugged Alessia and Odrian both into his arms—a tangle of limbs and warmth.
And there, under the sunlight, amidst Stella’s giggling and sand that would never come out of their clothes—
They stayed.
For as long as she’d let them.
For as long as they all lived.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
After the chaos of the day—the seagull wars and impromptu family kisses—Alessia lingered near Askarion’s tent.
She hesitated at the entrance, fingers brushing the fresh bandages beneath her tunic.
They were clean. No old blood, no festering pain. Just careful stitches and poultices that smelled of herbs, not rot.
She cleared her throat.
“Do you have a minute?”
Askarion didn’t look up from his worktable; instead, he grunted and jerked his chin toward an empty stool.
“If you’re here to whine about the stitches itching,” he muttered, “save it. Everyone whines. Even kings.”
Alessia snorted as she took the seat.
“Not here to whine.” A beat. “Mostly.”
Askarion arched a brow, unimpressed, but set down his mortar and pestle.
“Then what?”
The question was gruff, but his hands—already reaching for a jar of salve—betrayed him.
Alessia exhaled slowly.
“Walus never let me learn,” she admitted, the words quiet, but steady. “Medicine, I mean. He always had his own physicians. Kept me ignorant on purpose.”
Her fingers curled against her thighs.
“I hated it. Hated not knowing how to help Stella when she was sick. Hated needing someone else.”
Askarion’s hands stilled.
Then, with a soft tch, he reached across the table and slapped a worn, leather-bound journal in front of her.
“First lesson,” he grunted. “Willow bark. Good for fever. Tastes like piss. Don’t let the brat complain.”
Alessia blinked—then laughed, sharp and startled, before she flipped the journal open.
Inside were pressed flowers and meticulous notes. Dosages. Symptoms. Remedies both common and obscure.
She traced a fingertip over the pages—carefully, like they might vanish—before glancing up.
“…Why?”
Askarion rolled his eyes.
“Because stupid patients are the worst patients.” He paused, and then continued, gruffer. “And you’re not stupid.”
Alessia swallowed hard.
It shouldn’t have meant so much, but it did.
She was about to answer when—
“MAMA!”
Stella exploded into the tent like a tiny hurricane—followed by at least three crabs, a suspiciously compliant seagull, and a goat that was absolutely stolen from somewhere.
Alessia barely had time to yelp before Stella skidded to a stop—beaming—and thrust a very disgruntled crab toward Askarion.
“Fix him!” she demanded. “He walks sideways!”
Alessia snorted.
“Stell, he’s a crab. They’re supposed to walk sideways.”
Askarion didn’t even blink. He just leaned down, glaring at the crab like it was a particularly incompetent recruit—before snatching it up and examining it with alarming seriousness.
“…Diagnosis: crab.” He said before he plopped it into Stella’s waiting hands. “Treatment: Stop stealing livestock.”
Stella gasped, offended, before spinning to Odrian (who had, of course, followed the chaos inside).
“Uncle Ody! Tell him crabs are noble steeds!”
Odrian stroked his chin, nodding sagely. “A fierce cavalry, truly. But even the finest warhorse needs rest.” He plucked the crab from her grip and set it gently on the ground. “Go on, Admiral. Dismissed.”
Alessia picked the crab back up before it could scuttle away.
“Let’s release him back into the ocean. Pretty sure he’d like it there more than here.”
“Fine,” Stella huffed, but her lower lip wobbled, just a little. “Can I throw him?”
She clearly expects a ‘no’.
Askarion exhales—long suffering—and shoved the crab toward her. “Throw. Then wash your hands.”
Stella beamed—already spinning toward the shore when Askarion added, flatly. “And no more stolen goats.”
Her gasp was pure betrayal. “BUT THEY’RE GOOD AT EATING SCRAPS!”
Askarion rubbed his temples and glared at Alessia—as if this was her fault.
It was.
“What?” Alessia demanded. “She inherited the sticky fingers honestly.” She turned to Odrian and Dionys, hovering near the tent flap. “…Right?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Odrian agreed—while very slowly pocketing a handful of Askarion’s best herbs.
Dionys sighed, resigning himself to a life of theft and anarchy, before he grabbed Odrian’s wrist and forcefully returned the stolen goods. “…No.”
Askarion snatched the herbs back with a growl, but there was no real heat in it—just exhausted, exasperated fondness.
Then he tossed a second journal at Alessia. Smaller, newer.
“For her,” he muttered, jutting his chin toward Stella—who was currently attempting to ride the goat. “If she can sit still long enough to learn.”
A test.
A challenge.
A gift.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia had just washed the considerable amount of sand from her hair—courtesy of Stella’s oceanic delegation—when Odrian materialized beside her, a rolled-up parchment in hand and mischief in his eyes.
She knew that look. Knew it far too well.
She flicked water at him. “What.”
Odrian just grinned—delighted by her suspicion—before unfurling the scroll with a flourish.
“Be it known,” he announced, loud enough for half the camp to hear, “that on this day, the illustrious Alessia of Tharos—mother of crabs, tamer of goats, supreme nuisance—has been officially instated as—”
He paused dramatically.
“—Court Physician’s Apprentice!”
Alessia blinked.
Askarion, lurking nearby, grunted in approval before tossing her a fresh bandage roll.
“Pay’s terrible,” he deadpanned. “Hours are worse.”
Alessia grinned.
“When do I start?”
Tiny Raven 
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