Alessia had finished wrapping her stitches—mostly without swearing—when she heard the unmistakable sound of a small child barreling toward their tent.
A second later, Stella crashed through the flaps, her arms full of what appeared to be every single flower within a five-mile radius, her grin brighter than the sun.
Behind her, Odrian looked deeply smug.
“Mama!” she announced, half-breathless. “We negotiated!”
Alessia blinked, then raised an eyebrow at Odrian.
“… Did we now?”
Odrian, grinning like a smug cat, leaned against the tent pole.
“Oh, absolutely. Our little ambassador brokered a historic agreement between the Foragers’ Guild and the Royal Kitchen.” A pause. “Terms include, but are not limited to, unlimited floral tribute—” he gestured grandly to Stella’s hoard. “—three extra honey cakes for ‘diplomatic services rendered’ and—most importantly—first pick of the next berry harvest.”
He beamed at Stella. “All in a day’s work for the Scourge of the Meadows.”
Alessia snorted, reaching out to pluck a petal from Stella’s wild curls.
“Did you also negotiate not tracking dirt into the bedrolls?”
Stella looked down. Mud caked her sandals, and her tiny toes wiggled freely where the straps had loosened. Then she looked back up with a devastating pout. “…No.”
A beat.
“But!” She waved the flowers emphatically. “These are for you! So the mess doesn’t count!”
Dionys, who had been looming silently in the corner, exhaled sharply—almost a laugh—before stepping forward to snag Stella’s wrist, turning her grubby hands palms-up.
“Flowers,” he muttered, plucking one from her grip and tucking it behind Alessia’s ear with startling gentleness. “Dirt,” he added, flicking the other toward Odrian.
Then—just because he could—he hoisted Stella onto his shoulder, steadying her as she shrieked with delight.
“Bath. Now.”
Odrian grinned as the happy chaos disappeared through the tent flaps—then sagged dramatically onto the bedroll beside Alessia, his head dropping to her shoulder.
“Exhausting,” he sighed, utterly content. “She definitely gets the negotiating skills from you.”
Alessia elbowed him—lightly—but let her head tilt against his, her fingers absentmindedly brushing the petals strewn across his lap.
“And the messiness from you,” she fired back.
But she was smiling softly. Because the flowers, the mud, the sheer life of it all …
It was home.
Odrian huffed—a poor attempt at offense—but his arm curled around her waist all the same, his nose buried in her hair. “I’ll have you know,” he murmured, mockingly solemn, “My messes are strategic. That child is just feral.”
Then, quieter, warm, and just for her—
“…Love you too, thief.”
The words settled between them—as easy as breathing.
As they always should have been.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Stella, freshly bathed and still scandalized by the injustice of it all, was finally asleep—curled between Alessia and Dionys like a tiny, indignant burr.
Odrian lingered at the tent’s edge, watching them with a softness he’d let no one else see.
Then, because he was Odrian, he grinned, pulled a spare blanket over the trio, and whispered, “Guard duty is mine tonight. Try not to start a war before dawn.”
He pressed his lips to Alessia’s temple and to Dionys’ knuckles. His breath hitched, just once.
A secret between them and the stars.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
The predawn light barely seeped through the cracks in his tent when Dionys abruptly shoved the flap aside and strode in, shoulders tense with purpose.
Odrian was already half-awake—years of war had trained him to never fully sleep—but he still blinked in confusion as Dionys loomed over his cot, silhouette dark against the faint grey of early morning.
Before he could even ask, Dionys grabbed his tunic and hauled him into a searing kiss—all teeth and desperation, fingers twisting tight in the fabric like he needed the anchor.
Odrian made a muffled sound against his mouth—surprised but not unwilling—before catching up and kissing back with equal fervor, one hand gripping the back of Dionys’ neck to keep him close.
When Dionys finally tore away, breath ragged, he didn’t go far—he just rested their foreheads together, eyes burning in the tent’s dimness.
“…Fuck,” Odrian rasped, still reeling. “What was that for?”
Dionys exhaled sharply—his grip tightening—before forcing the words out like they hurt to say.
“Dreamed you left.”
A whisper. Raw. As if the admission cost him.
Then—because fuck vulnerability—he bit Odrian’s lip hard enough to bruise and growled.
“Don’t.”
Because Alessia had looked at them differently after last night.
Because she’d whispered thank you with quiet understanding instead of judgment.
Because for the first time in years, Dionys had let himself want again—really want—without the weight of regret holding him back.
Odrian smirked, fingers tracing the line of Dionys’ jaw. “So you’ve decided we’re done pretending, then?”
Dionys didn’t grace that with an answer. He just kissed Odrian again—softer, this time—before pulling away with a rough exhale.
“Don’t make me regret it.”
His voice lacked its usual bite. And when Odrian looped an arm around his waist to drag him back down to the cot, Dionys didn’t resist.
Outside the camp woke slowly—bleary-eyed soldiers building up fires, the distant clatter of cook pots, Stella’s tiny voice already demanding breakfast from someone unfortunate enough to have crossed her path.
But inside the tent, for just a little longer, Odrian and Dionys stole back the time they’d lost.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia was stitching up the last of Dottie’s new dress when Odrian finally emerged from his tent—hair disheveled, tunic wrinkled, fresh bite marks barely hidden by the collar of his tunic.
She took one look at him, smirked, and turned back to her sewing.
“Rough morning, Your Majesty?”
Odrian gasped—clutching his chest like Alessia had mortally wounded him—before collapsing dramatically onto the log beside her.
“Brutal,” he sighed, tilting his neck to show off the evidence. “I was viciously mauled by a wild animal.”
A pause, a smirk.
“Dionys sends his regards.”
Dionys chose that exact moment to stride past them, freshly bathed and unfairly composed, tossing an apple at Odrian’s head with lethal precision.
“Regards.”
Alessia snorted, still smirking as she tied off the final stitch.
“You two are ridiculous.
Then, softer and more genuine, “I’m happy for you.”
Even though the words felt strange on her tongue. Even though happiness was something she was still learning.
It was true.
Odrian’s grin flickered—just for a heartbeat—into something softer, more real. Then he was moving, swift as thought, plucking the doll from her lap and tossing it aside before catching her face in his hands.
“Happy,” he repeated, voice pitched low and rough with something that wasn’t quite teasing. “You, Thief, are a menace to my reputation.”
His thumbs brushed her cheeks—gentle and reverent—before he pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in.
“…But I’m happy for us, too.”
He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his smile wicked and warm all at once.
“Don’t make me regret it.”
Alessia leaned into his touch without thinking, her own hands coming up to cover his where they framed her face. For a moment, she let herself be still, let the warmth of his words sink past the old armor she’d spent years polishing.
This is real. This is happening.
You’re not dreaming it.
She could feel Dionys behind her—silent, solid, and there—and that grounded her more than any oath ever could.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she murmured, her voice hoarse with feelings she couldn’t quite hide. Her thumb brushed the corner of Odrian’s mouth, tracing the curve of his smile with a thief’s gentle precision. “Though I should warn you—thieves are notoriously bad at following rules. Even ones about not causing regrets.”
Her expression softened, the teasing edge bleeding away into something raw. Something honest.
“But for this?” She glanced between the two men—her kings, her chaos, her impossible family. “For you? I’ll try.”
And that was the truth—terrifying and vast and theirs—as much a promise as any she had ever made.
“Just don’t expect me to be any good at it.”
“Didn’t ask you to be,” Dionys murmured into her hair.
Odrian stepped closer—close enough that their breaths tangled—and cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the lingering shadow of old fears.
“Good,” he murmured, voice pitched to a low growl with something that wasn’t quite teasing. “Because I intend to keep you both.”
His gaze flicked to Dionys—who grunted his near-silent, unwavering assent—before returning to Alessia’s.
“And I,” he added, pressing his forehead to hers, “am notoriously terrible at letting go of things I’ve stolen.”
A beat. A smirk. A whisper against her lips.
“Which means you’re stuck with us, thief. Permanently.”
“Permanently,” Alessia echoed, the word settling strangely in her chest—like wearing something that fit too well after years of nothing but rags. She let her hands slide from Odrian’s face to fist in the front of his tunic, anchoring herself there.
Yours.
The thought came unbidden, terrifying and vast.
Alessia’s throat worked around the confession she wasn’t quite ready to voice, so she went with the next best thing.
“You realize you’ve just committed to years of stolen honey cakes and rock negotiations. There’s no escape clause for that.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, betraying her. She leaned against him fully, letting his warmth and Dionys’ solid presence at her back hold her up as she finally—finally—stopped bracing for the other shoe to drop.
“Fine,” she muttered into Odrian’s shoulder, the words muffled. “But if Stella convinces that seagull to file a formal complaint, you are handling the paperwork.”
“Oh sweetheart,” Odrian purred, delight unfurling like a banner in his chest at her acceptance—at the way she leaned in as if she belonged there. “You think paperwork scares me? I’ve been signing treaties since I was six.”
He tilted her chin up with a single finger, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where it trembled with the ghost of every fear she was still learning to let go.
“But,” he added, voice dropping low conspiratorially. “If Stella’s seagull files a formal grievance, I’m forwarding it to Dionys. He’s fantastic at intimidation.”
He glanced over her shoulder at the other man, who snorted in agreement.
“Besides,” Odrian continued with a wry grin. “I’ve already drafted the royal decree.”
He cleared his throat dramatically before continuing.
“Article One: All honey cakes are the property of the Crown. Article Two: ‘The Crown’ is whichever of you three is holding the honey cake. Article Three: I’m the Crown.” He stole another kiss—quick, teasing—but he lingered long enough for Alessia to feel the truth in it.
“But ‘permanent,’” he whispered against her lips. “That’s the only clause I care about.”
Dionys’ arm locked around Alessia’s waist, hauling her back against his chest with a low, possessive growl.
“Tch. Mine, too.”
He pressed his lips to her nape—just for a breath—before resting his chin on her shoulder, eyes fixed on Odrian with a look that said mine as clearly as if he’d spoken it aloud.
“Don’t get greedy.”
His fingers traced idle patterns on her hip, and his hold didn’t loosen, not even a little.
“Greedy?” Alessia echoed the word, soft and not quite a laugh. Her hands tightened on them both—one fisted in the front of Odrian’s tunic, the other reaching to grip Dionys’ wrist where it banded around her waist. “You’re kings. Pretty sure ‘greedy’ is in the job description.”
She paused, breathing them in—salt and steel and warmth—before her voice dropped, cracked, went vulnerable in a way she so rarely allowed. “…But permanent? Yeah. That … that works for me.”
Then, just for Odrian, just to watch him sputter: “Even if it means being stuck between you two idiots for the rest of my life.”
Her smirk was back, but it was trembling at the edges, betraying her. Because for the first time in years, she wasn’t running. She wasn’t bracing for a blow.
She was just there.
And it was terrifying and vast and theirs.
Odrian’s breath caught—just slightly—at the raw honesty in her voice, at the way she held onto them both like they were her anchors in a storm. For once, his usual quips died on his tongue, replaced by something quieter. Something real.
“Good,” he murmured as his hands slid from her face to tangle in her hair, grounding her. “Because I’ve already drafted the decree. It’s official. You’re stuck with us. No take-backs, no escape clauses, not even for seagull negotiations.”
His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathing her in.
“Besides,” he whispered, soft enough that only she could hear, “I wasn’t planning on letting you leave, anyway.”
Dionys buried his face against her neck, his low, rumbling growl vibrating against her skin as he pulled her flush against his chest. His grip tightened—possessive and unyielding.
“Stay,” he murmured against her hair—a command, a vow, and a prayer all at once.
“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice,” Alessia teased fondly as she leaned into his hold.
“Oh, you have a choice,” Odrian murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek with a tenderness that belied his teasing tone. “You could run. Try to vanish into the night like the ghost you were.”
He paused and pressed their foreheads together, his voice dropping to something raw and honest.
“But we’re better thieves than you, my darling. We stole your heart. We stole Stella’s. And we have absolutely no intention of returning either.”
His fingers tangled deeper into her hair, his other hand sliding to grip Dionys’ shoulder.
Theirs. All of them.
He pressed a feather-light kiss to her lips.
“We’ll chase you. Every time.”
His smirk was pure, unvarnished truth.
“Permanently.”
“MAMA!”
Before Alessia could respond, Stella exploded into the tent like a tiny storm, her arms full of rocks and one extremely disgruntled crab clinging to her tunic.
“Uncle Ody said I can keep Admiral Sideways in the tent, but only if you say it’s okay and also if I give him a crown made of the prettiest rocks!” She dumped her latest geological conquest at Alessia’s feet, where they immediately scattered everywhere. “Can I? Can I can I can I—?” she bounced on her toes, the crab waving its claws in protest. “Please? He’s very loyal!”
Alessia blinked at Stella before turning to stare at Odrian.
“Is that a crown for Uncle Ody or for the crab?”
“…Yes,” Odrian answered after a moment’s pause.
Stella gasped.
“BOTH!” she turned her most devastatingly hopeful look on Alessia—eyes wide with innocence, eyelashes batting, teeth glinting—and clutched the crab to her chest. “They have to match! That’s royal law!”
Dionys snorted before crossing his arms and leveling Odrian with a glare that screamed, ‘I am going to throw you in the sea.’
“Explain.”
Odrian, very pointedly, did not look at Dionys.
“It’s a diplomatic gesture,” he explained, hand spread like a merchant peddling counterfeit silk. “You wouldn’t deprive our newest ally of his honor guard, would you?”
His expression was the perfect picture of wounded innocence—until Stella helpfully added: “And Uncle Ody needs a crown, too, ‘cause — ‘cause — the Admiral said no negotiations without it!”
Dionys pivoted toward Odrian, his eyes narrowing.
“You,” he growled, “are a menace.”
Then he snatched the crab—carefully, despite everything—and held it up to eye level, unblinking.
“You. Terms.”
The crab waved its claws menacingly, then pointed directly at Odrian.
He gasped—deeply affronted—before grinning at the crab like a madman. “Betrayal! After everything we’ve been through!”
Alessia watched them—the warlord negotiating with a crustacean, the king arguing like a street performer, the tiny girl radiant with mischief—and choked on something between a laugh and a sob.
“Fine,” she managed. “But the crab sleeps outside.”
Stella _gasped_—as though this were the ultimate betrayal—before immediately dissenting. “BUT WHERE is his palace then—?”
Dionys pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Tent. But smaller.”
Thoroughly scandalized, Stella turned to Odrian—betrayal written all over her tiny face. “UNCLE ODY! You promised he could have a throne!”
Odrian—the traitor—flashed a shameless grin and leaned down to stage-whisper, “Your mother did say outside…” His eyes gleamed as he straightened, gesturing grandly toward the shore. “And what is the entire beach if not a palace of sand?!”
Stella considered this, her lower lip wobbling, before she brightened like the sun.
“OH!”
She bolted for the shoreline, shrieking over her shoulder, “I NEED SHOVELS!”
Moments later, muffled by distance but no less imperious, came a follow-up command.
“Admiral Sideways demands an OCEAN view!”
Dionys exhaled, slow and long suffering, before turning to Alessia with a look that clearly said, ‘This is your fault.’
“Don’t look at me,” Alessia said as she pointed at Odrian. “He’s the one enabling this.”
Dionys’ gaze shifted—slowly and deliberately—to Odrian, who had already begun inching toward the tent flap with the air of a man fully aware he had pushed his luck.
“…You.”
One word laden with promise.
Odrian—ever the coward when it suited him—spun on his heel with a flourish and bolted. “Don’t worry! I will build the royal palace far enough from our tent so we won’t hear the inevitable uprising when the tide comes in!”
Then he was gone—leaving behind only the sound of Stella’s gleeful shrieks and the distant, rhythmic thud of shovels hitting sand.
…And one crab, forgotten in the chaos, cupped defiantly in Dionys’ hands.
It waved its claws at them, judgmental.
Dionys stared down at it.
It stared back at him.
A silent battle of wills ensued until—
“Tch.”
Diony gently carried the crustacean outside.
Tiny Raven 
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