Stella was finally asleep after a long day of exploring the camp under Odrian’s indulgent supervision. Alessia—still sore but restless—was sitting outside their tent under the moonlight, carefully cutting the linen Patrian had given her.
The night air was cool against her skin, the fire beside her crackling softly as she worked. She could hear the distant murmur of camp life—laughter, the clink of metal, the occasional barked order—but here, in this quiet corner, it was just her and the whisper of the blade through fabric.
She didn’t notice Patrian approaching until his shadow fell across her lap.
He didn’t announce himself; instead, he just stood there for a moment, watching her hands. The precision of her cuts, the way she turned the fabric to avoid fraying—before he cleared his throat softly.
“You’re favoring your left side less,” he noted, nodding to the way she was sitting straighter. “That’s good.”
Before Alessia could respond, he held out a small clay pot. “For the fever. In case it comes back.”
No explanations or conditions. Just an offer.
Dionys stepped into the firelight next—silent as ever—holding two steaming cups. He handed one to Patrian without a word before settling beside Alessia, pressing the other into her hands.
“Drink.”
An order. A gift.
His free hand brushed the linen on her lap—just once—before he leaned back, stretching his legs toward the fire with a sigh.
No questions. No suspicions.
Just this.
Odrian materialized from the darkness a moment later, Stella drowsing in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. He sank onto the log beside Patrian, careful not to jostle her, and grinned.
“She haggled Euryan out of half his rations. I’m proud.”
Alessia snorted, “Did she actually take them, or just convince him to give them to her—and then return them afterwards?”
“Oh, she took them,” Odrian said, grinning as he adjusted Stella’s weight against his shoulder. “But—” he added conspiratorially, “—only after thoroughly inspecting each one for ‘quality’.”
He mimed Stella’s solemn scrutiny perfectly—brow furrowed, finger tapping his chin like a merchant assessing goods—before dissolving into quiet laughter.
“Then she handed half back and informed him they were a ‘trade’ for his ‘bad knife skills.’”
“Harsh,” Alessia said with a chuckle and a shake of her head.
“Harsh?” Odrian echoed, voice pitched with theatrical offense as he shifted Stella’s weight in his arms. “That was mercy. She could have taken all his rations and left him with nothing but wounded pride and the knowledge that a five-year-old outmaneuvered him.”
He grinned, sharp and unrepentant, before adding, lower, “Though I’ll admit, watching Euryan try to argue with her was the highlight of my week. The man’s a brilliant tactician, but he folded faster than a cheap tent when she called his knife ‘unbalanced.’”
Patrian snorted into his cup, the sound low and amused despite himself.
“Girl’s already got better negotiation skills than half the High Council.” He set his drink down, giving Alessa a pointed, half-smiling look. “Better hope she doesn’t figure out she can leverage those against us for bedtime delays.
“Just offer to tell her a story,” Alessia said with a shrug. “Do it right, and she’ll pass out before you’re halfway through.”
“She’s already figured out my tricks,” Dionys grunted, gaze fixed on the fire. “Last night, she made me promise the villain would get redemption halfway through. Fell asleep before the hero even drew his sword.”
He took a sip from his cup before adding—softer, almost to himself—“Smart enough to demand a better ending, even in her dreams.”
Odrian pressed a kiss to Stella’s sleeping forehead, his grin turning impossibly smug.
“Of course, she demanded a redemption arc,” he murmured, voice thick with pride. “She’s already learned that even villains deserve better fates than the ones we’re dealt.”
He shifted her gently in his arms, careful not to wake her as he leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Though I’ll have you know, Dio, she also made me promise that if the villain got redeemed, he’d have to apologize to every crab he’d ever wronged.”
He paused dramatically.
“Then she listed three specific crabs by name.”
He caught Alessia’s gaze over the fire, his expression softening into something rare and unguarded.
“She’s going to rule the world one day,” he said. “And we’ll be the idiots who taught her how.”
“I can think of worse fates,” Alessia said with a fond smile at her sleeping daughter.
“Oh, absolutely,” Odrian agreed, voice pitched with theatrical solemnity. “Ruling the world is exhausting. Far better to be the loyal—and very well compensated—advisor who gets to drink all the good wine while the queen is busy with statecraft.” He paused, grin impossibly wide. “Though I do reserve the right to veto any legislation that harms the dignity of goats.”
He shifted Stella carefully in his arms, cradling her closer as he leaned into the warmth of the fire, his gaze catching Alessia’s over the flames.
“But for her? I’d burn the world down and build it anew. Twice.” The words were quiet, sincere. Stripped of his usual flamboyance. “And you’d both be at my side while I did it.”
A beat. His smirk returned, tempered with something softer.
“So yes, I can think of worse fates. But this one? This is …” he trailed off, his thumb tracing idle patterns on Stella’s sleeping hand.
“…This is home.”
“Then we keep it,” Dionys said.
Patrian watched them, tangled together as if they’d always been this way, and felt something in his chest loosen that he hadn’t realized was tightly wound.
“She’s already claimed the goat,” he said dryly, nodding toward Stella. “Might as well claim the rest of us while she’s at it.”
A pause, then softer, almost to himself but pitched just loud enough to carry.
“Just … try not to get yourselves killed before she learns how to negotiate with seabirds properly.”
He took another sip from his cup, gaze lingering on the fire. The unspoken words hung in the smoke-laced air between them.
I’ll hold you to it.
“She’s already tamed one seagull…” Alessia mused. “Which I didn’t think was possible.”
Patrian took a long sip from his cup, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames. “She didn’t tame it,” he said flatly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. “She just convinced it that its life would be easier if it stopped fighting her.”
He paused, swirling the dregs of his wine before adding, quieter. “That’s not taming, that’s leadership.” A beat and then he added: “The bird probably realized resistance was futile after she negotiated its surrender with half a honey cake and a stern look.”
His gaze flicked to the sleeping girl in Odrian’s arms, something perilously close to pride in his expression before he shuttered it away. “Let’s just hope it doesn’t bring back its entire extended family. I’ve seen what happens when Stella adopts something.”
Alessia snorted. “She tried to adopt a cat when we were still in the city,” she said with a smile. “Never succeeded, but she’d play with it while I practiced archery.”
Odrian’s head snapped up so fast Stella nearly tumbled from his lap.
“Archery?” The word came out strangled, half-laugh, half-horror. “You—you—the woman who stole our rations with the grace of a shadow and the moral compass of a particularly smug cat—you practiced archery?”
He clutched his chest with his free hand, rocking backward as if Alessia had physically struck him.
“But of course you did! Why shoot a deer when you could filch its honey cakes? Why hunt when you can haggle with seagulls? Why—” He paused, eyes narrowing with sudden, wicked delight. wait.”
A grin spread across his face, the kind that preceded spectacularly bad ideas.
“You were shooting things while your five-year-old was cat wrangling? Gods, Alessia, I’ve seen mercenaries with less impressive multitasking skills.” He leaned forward, conspiratorial. “Tell me, did you ever miss on purpose just to see what she’d negotiate for next?”
‘Don’t answer that,’ his expression said. The truth would only further inflate his ego.
“Though I suppose,” he added, faux-thoughtful, “that explains why the goat was so obliging yesterday. She’s clearly picked up your talent for persuasion.”
Dionys’ hand landed on Alessia’s shoulder—a heavy, grounding weight—his thumb pressing a slow circle against the strap of fabric there.
“Archery,” he murmured, his voice low with approval. “Good.”
Then he looked at Odrian, flat and unimpressed. “Stop talking.”
Patrian set his cup down with deliberate precision, his gaze sharp on Alessia.
“Archery,” he repeated, the word flat and clinical. His eyes flicked to her left hand—callused where fingers met palm, a detail he’d catalogued days ago but had never questioned. “That explains why you favor your right side when you sleep.”
He tilted his head, considering. “You taught her to be still while you drew, to watch and wait.” He paused. “She learned well.”
Then, with the faintest upward quirk of his lips, “Though I suspect the cat taught her more about negotiation than you did about patience.”
He picked up his wine again before adding, quieter, “It’s a good skill. We’ll need it.”
“I could kill a deer, but I wouldn’t be able to clean it,” Alessia explained to Odrian. “Otherwise, I would have hunted instead of stealing.” She grinned. “And yes, I would shoot while Stella was cat wrangling. She did more multitasking than I did, though. She’d tell me which targets to aim for.”
Patrian’s fingers paused over his cup, his gaze sharpening on Alessia with renewed interest.
“The child’s been giving tactical advice since she could talk,” he said flatly, the barest hint of approval threading through the words. “Explains why she commandeered my medical supplies like a seasoned quartermaster.”
He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. “Couldn’t clean a deer,” he repeated, his tone as dry as Ellun’s plains in summer. “We’ll fix that. A hunter who can’t butcher is just a very quiet archer.”
A beat, and then softer—almost as an afterthought.
“But the fact that you trusted a toddler to call your shots?” his lips twitched upward, just barely. “That’s not instinct. That’s bond.”
He set his cup down with finality. “Keep it. You’ll need it.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Odrian murmured, his voice pitched with theatrical solemnity as he carefully adjusted Stella in his arms. “Our little strategist comes from a long line of very dangerous women. I’d say I’m terrified, but that would require me to admit she has me wrapped around her grubby little fingers—” he paused, catching Alessia’s gaze over the firelight, his smirk softening into something genuine. “—just like her mother.”
Alessia felt the warmth of his words settle somewhere deep, but she couldn’t resist the urge to deflect with a smirk.
“Well, someone has to be the dangerous one. You two are too busy being respectable kings.” She paused before her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Though, between you and me, I think Stella’s already surpassed me in the ‘wrapping men around her finger’ department. She’s got a better technique.”
She traced her fingers over the journal Patrian had given her, the leather already feeling like it belonged in her hands. “Besides,” she added, softer, her eyes lingering on her sleeping daughter. “If I’m dangerous, it’s only because she taught me it’s okay to be.”
Patrian took a long sip from his cup, the firelight catching on the journal in Alessia’s lap. “Good,” he said simply, his voice in its usual dry, flat cadence. “Dangerous mothers raise dangerous children. And dangerous children survive.”
He glanced at Stella—sprawled across Odrian’s chest, honey cake crumbs still dusting her chin—then back to Alessia. “Keep the journal,” he added, gruff but unmistakably sincere. “Teach her what you learn. Then, neither of you has to be alone.”
Dionys grunted—low and rough—his fingers tightening briefly where they rested on Alessia’s shoulder. “Good.”
He tilted his head toward the sleeping girl, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her. “She’s already planning three moves ahead. You taught her that.”
A pause. Then softer, almost unwillingly—“We’ll keep teaching her.”
Not just Stella. Them.
All of them.
Together.
His thumb brushed the spine of the journal in her lap—just once—before he settled back, the firelight catching the grim line of his jaw.
“But first—” his gaze flicked to the goat now placidly chewing on a blanket corner, “—someone deals with that.”
Odrian shot Dionys a wounded look, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “Diplomatic relations, my friend. That goat is a vital cultural liaison between the royal kitchen and Stella’s ever-expanding menagerie.”
Then, unable to resist, he winked at Alessia. “You get to explain why stealing livestock is frowned upon in polite society.”
He already knew the answer. Polite society had no place for thieves, for runaways, for women who shot targets with toddlers in tow. But this—this camp, this family of theirs—wasn’t polite society.
It was better.
“I’ll do my best to teach her to stop rustling goats, but I make no guarantees.”
“Oh, please don’t,” Odrian murmured with a grin. “I want a full cavalry.”
He snuggled Stella closer—careful not to wake her—as he twisted toward Patrian with sudden, mischievous innocence. “Technically, we are at war. Livestock is a strategic resource. The child is just securing supply lines.”
His attempt to look solemn was ruined by the way he wiggled his eyebrows.
Dionys flicked a pebble at him.
“You’re the reason she tried to name that one—” he jabbed a thumb towards the goat, “—General Chomp.”
Odrian muffled his laughter against Stella’s hair. “And she promoted the crab to Admiral Sideways. The girl has vision.”
Alessia couldn’t help her smile—soft and open in a way she hadn’t allowed herself in years.
“Did she actually bargain with the goat, or did she just declare it was hers and dare anyone to disagree?”
She knew the answer, but hearing Odrian say it—watching Dionys pretend to be annoyed—
It made the moment real.
Odrian sighed—theatrical and exaggerated—and shook his head. “Oh, she tried to negotiate. Offered the poor thing an exclusive grazing contract in exchange for loyalty.”
He paused, his smirk widening as his gaze flicked to Dionys. “But then someone—” emphasis on someone along with a pointed look “—told her goats don’t understand contracts.”
Betrayal of the highest order.
Dionys didn’t even glance up from sharpening his dagger.
“They don’t.”
His tone was flat. Final. The law.
Stella, still miraculously asleep somehow, mumbled something about “truce terms” into Odrian’s tunic.
Patrian exhaled sharply—something between a laugh and a groan—before tossing back the rest of his wine.
“Gods help us,” he muttered, “She’s five and already drafting treaties.”
His eyes met Alessia’s over the fire, something almost like approval in his gaze.
Something almost like pride.
Alessia let herself lean into Dionys’ side, Odrian’s laughter warming her more than the flames.
‘This is enough,’ she thought.
(It was everything.)
The war would come. The battles would rage. But here in this fragile, golden moment, she was home.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Odrian found Dionys by the shoreline—where he always was at dawn, sharpening his blades with the same methodical focus he applied to everything.
For once, the king of Othara didn’t announce himself with a joke. He just settled onto the sand beside Dionys, staring out at the waves.
“She doesn’t know,” he said finally. “About us.”
No need to clarify.
Them.
The years of glances and silence and battles fought side-by-side. The lingering something that never quite found words.
Dionys’ whetstone stilled. “…No.”
Odrian exhaled sharply through his nose before scrubbing a hand over his face. “We should tell her.”
Not a suggestion. Not a plea. A king’s resolve.
“Before she finds out from someone else. Before Nomaros—”
His jaw clenched. They both knew the stakes.
“…She trusted us with her ghosts,” he said, softer. “We owe her the same.”
Dionys’ grip tightened on the whetstone—just once—before he set it aside with deliberate care. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.
“…You tell her.”
Not a refusal, but a concession.
You’re better with words.
Odrian snorted—half fond, half exasperated. “Me? You think I should be the one to explain—” he gestured vaguely between them. “—this?” A beat. “Dio, sweetheart. Have you met me?”
Dionys finally turned his head—just enough to pin Odrian with a glare that should have flayed skin. “…Fine.”
They both knew he’d do it. He’d hate every second. He’d stand there like a man awaiting execution and grind the words out anyway.
“But you’re there.”
He’d do it. As long as Odrian was with him.
Odrian’s grin was sudden and bright. “Obviously.” Then—softer, “We’ll do it soon.”
No more delays, no more secrets.
They owed her that much.
He nudged Dionys’ shoulder with his own before pushing himself to his feet. “…Try not to stab anyone before then.”
Dionys grunted, which Odrian had long since learned meant I make no promises—and went back to sharpening his blade. But when the king turned to leave, he heard the barest murmur over the waves.
“…Soon.”
A vow.
A threat.
Their kind of love.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia was getting really sick of bed rest. At least Stella was enjoying herself.
The little girl was getting frighteningly good at climbing the various boxes and crates around camp under Odrian’s indulgent eye.
“Training,” he’d told Askarion when the physician had glared at them.
Now they were watching as Stella attempted to clamber onto a particularly large crate, her tongue poking out in concentration.
Dionys was behind Alessia—within arm’s reach but not hovering. Just … there. Like he had been since she had been wounded.
She noticed Odrian approaching from the other direction, his usual swagger in place but his expression uncharacteristically serious.
He stopped in front of them, hands on his hips, and nodded toward Stella.
“She’s going to be scaling the fortress walls by next week.”
There was pride in his voice, but his gaze flickered between Alessia and Dionys—assessing, hesitant. Then he took a breath and plowed forward before he could second-guess himself.
“We need to talk. All of us.” He jerked his chin toward the command tent. “Privately.”
Dionys stiffened—just slightly—before nodding.
“I’ll get her,” he muttered, already moving to scoop Stella off the crate before she could topple headfirst into a barrel of salted fish.
Stella let out an indignant squawk as Dionys lifted her, limbs flailing.
“Nooooo! I was climbing!”
“Climbing later,” Dionys grunted, tossing her over his shoulder like a wriggling sack of grain. “Right now, Uncle Ody needs you to go bully Patrian into giving us more honey cakes.”
Stella went limp with sudden interest. “…How many honey cakes?”
Odrian pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “As many as your tiny, mercenary heart desires.”
A blatant lie. Patrian hated parting with sweets.
“Okay!” Stella said. She wriggled until Dionys set her down, then bolted toward the medical tents, shouting, “UNCLE PAAAAAAATCH—!”
Alessia watched her go with a mixture of amusement and concern—before turning back to Odrian, eyebrow raised.
“Talk?” Her tone was light, but her fingers tapped restlessly against her leg. “Should I be worried?”
Odrian met her gaze, steady and unflinching, before holding out a hand. “No.”
It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t a lie, either.
“Not about us,” he said. A promise. A reassurance. “But it is … overdue.”
His fingers twitched toward hers—inviting, never demanding—before he turned and led the way to the command tent.
Dionys followed, silent as a shadow.
They had faced worse than this.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Odrian leaned against the table, arms crossed, suddenly finding the grain reports fascinating as Dionys took up his usual post by the entrance—guard and escape route both.
Finally, he forced himself to look up.
“Right. So.” He cleared his throat. Uncomfortable and uncertain. “You’ve been … understandably curious. About us. Dionys and me.” He paused. “And you’ve told us your secrets, so … Fair’s fair.”
Dionys made a low noise in his throat—but Odrian barreled on before either he or Alessia could stop him.
“We weren’t just comrades. Or—fuck. We were, but it was more than that.” His hands waved vaguely. “For years.”
It was such an understatement that it nearly choked him. The years of quiet touches in shadowed corners, of bitter arguments before battles neither wanted to fight, of nights so tangled together he couldn’t say where he ended and Dionys began—
“It’s…complicated,” he finished lamely.
Dionys rolled his eyes—hard—before stepping forward, cutting through Odrian’s words with typical efficiency.
“I loved him,” he said bluntly. “That kind of more.”
A beat. His jaw clenched before he forced out the rest.
“And it ended when he married Elenai.”
Alessia blinked—processing—before her gaze darted between them.
“Oh,” she said. A beat, then softer, “I’m sorry.”
And she was, but she was also—
Her brow furrowed as she turned fully to Odrian. “But you left for the war. You’ve been away for—”
It clicked. Years.
Her lips parted in quiet understanding.
‘Oh.’
Dionys exhaled sharply through his nose—somewhere between amusement and pain—before Odrian could fumble the explanation.
“It was politics.” Dionys grounded out. The word was practically a curse. “Othara needed alliances. Heirs. All the pretty lies kings tell themselves when they sell their futures.”
His gaze flicked to Odrian—brief and unreadable—before settling back on Alessia.
“But this—” His gesture took in the three of them, the camp, the promise simmering in the air between them. “—is not politics.”
Odrian’s laugh was bitter. “He’s being generous. The truth was—I chose duty. Chose to believe I could live with it.” He paused, his voice dropping. “I was wrong.”
Then, softer, “Elenai deserved better. Teiran deserves better. And I—” his throat worked. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
His eyes found Alessia’s, raw and honest. “Not with you. Never with you.”
Alessia’s breath caught—not at the confession itself, but at the sheer weight of it. The years of longing and regret laid bare in a single, quiet moment.
And she realized the confession wasn’t just for her.
She exhaled shakily, her mind racing.
This—them—wasn’t just a fleeting comfort. A wartime dalliance — it was this—a second chance: a choice deliberately made in the opposite direction.
For a moment, she was silent.
“You idiot,” she murmured at last, no real heat in it as she stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “You absolute idiot. Did you really think I’d care?”
She reached out—hesitant but sure—and cupped Odrian’s cheek, her thumb brushing the tension from his jaw.
“You think I’d begrudge you for trying to do right by your people? She shook her head. “I know what duty costs. And I know what it means to choose—really choose—to walk away from it.”
Her gaze flicked to Dionys—solid, steady Dionys—and her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I’m just glad you found each other again.”
She leaned into them both, her hands clinging a little tighter.
“Thank you for telling me.”
They didn’t mention it.
They just held her back.
Odrian let out a shuddering breath—half-laugh, half-sob—and he leaned into her touch, his own hands coming up to frame her face.
“Gods,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to hers. “I forgot how much better the world looks when you’re in it.”
Dionys watched them—his jaw working—before stepping close enough that his shoulder brushed Alessia’s. His fingers skimmed her spine—light but deliberate—in silent agreement.
They didn’t need any words.
Odrian grinned against Alessia’s skin, already recovering his usual braggadocious swagger.
“Though technically,” he mused, “Dio threatened to throw me into the sea the first time we spoke after…”
A pause.
A smirk.
“Twice.”
Dionys snorted—unrepentant—before muttering, “Should’ve been three.”
“You tried, darling,” Odrian teased. “You just underestimated my dramatic flailing.”
Alessia laughed—a bright, startled sound—before turning her head to press a kiss to Dionys’ shoulder. “Well, good thing I don’t flail. So if you ever need help throwing him…“
Dionys huffed, but his arm slid around her waist, anchoring her against his side as he pinned Odrian with a look. “…Noted.”
A promise and a threat.
Odrian beamed—utterly unchastened—before leaning in to steal another kiss.
“Worth it.”
(And, Gods, it is.)
Alessia exhaled, leaning into them both—her head resting against Dionys’ shoulder and her hands framing Odrian’s face.
Her throat was tight, her chest aching with something too big for words.
“Just don’t leave,” she whispered. Not a demand, but a plea wrapped in vulnerability. “However this unfolds, whatever we become. Just … stay.”
And that—that simple, desperate admission—is perhaps the most honest thing she had ever said.
Dionys’ fingers tightened at her waist—just once—before he exhaled, rough and raw.
“Tch. As if we could.”
(Never again.
Try to get rid of us.
We’re yours.)
Odrian’s grin softened—just a fraction—as he pressed his lips to her forehead.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured fondly, “we’ve been yours since the moment you stole our rations and our sanity.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“And for the record? This—?” His gesture took in all three of them. “—is already unfolding beautifully.”
Tiny Raven 
Leave a comment