Odrian woke with the dawn, clutching empty air and thoroughly resenting it.
The dagger he’d reached for wasn’t there. Nor was the warmth of a body pressed into his side, nor the soft, dangerous weight of certainty that had settled over him sometime after midnight.
Canvas roof. Smoke in the air.
War camp.
He lay still for a moment, staring up at the sagging seam of the tent before sighing like a man personally betrayed by morning.
“Traitor,” he muttered toward the sun.
He swung his legs off the bedroll and reached for his armor.
The leather was cold. He welcomed it. Cold was bracing, a reminder that he was, regrettably, awake and responsible.
Outside, the camp was already stirring. Fires were coaxed back to life, boots scraped earth. The indistinct murmur of men who would complain later and obey anyway.
Inside, Odrian paused—just for a heartbeat—to brush his fingers against the beads now woven into Alessia’s braids without waking her or Stella.
Then he stepped into the gray half-light and felt eyes on him immediately.
Euryan, Odrian’s second in command, was attempting to pretend he wasn’t staring at Odrian’s tent with hte intensity of a man imagining scandal.
Odrian smiled pleasantly at him.
“Lieutenant,” he said. “If you’re about to ask me something inappropriate, I’d recommend phrasing it as a report.”
Euryan flushed.
“Scouts from the eastern ridge, my lord. No movement overnight. Tharon banners remain two days out—assuming they haven’t changed pace.”
“They’ve changed pace,” Odrian said cheerfully. “They always do. The supplies?”
“Stable.” Euryan paused before adding, “The thefts have stopped.”
Odrian blinked once. Slowly.
“What a mystery,” he said. “Do alert the bards. They’ll be devastated.”
Euryan swallowed. “There is… talk.”
“Of course there is,” Odrian said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’d be disappointed if there weren’t. About what?”
Euryan chose his words carefully, his gaze flicking to Odrian’s tent. “About why, sir.”
Odrian clasped his hands behind his back. “Wonderful! I trust the theories are imaginative?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Odrian dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “I’ll address it. Eventually.”
Euryan fled with palpable relief.
Odrian stood alone for a moment, letting the camp breathe around him. Then he turned toward the healer’s tent, expression sharpening, focusing like a blade angled toward work.
Askarion was already awake, sleeves rolled up, grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle. He didn’t bother looking up.
“She’s not walking today,” he said flatly. “Or tomorrow. Or the day after, unless you’d like to hear what stitches sound like when they tear.”
Odrian winced, “I’d rather not.”
“Good,” Askarion glanced at him. “The ankle needs rest. Actual rest. Not ‘I’ll just stand for a moment’ rest.”
“That does sound like her,” Odrian admitted. “And the child?”
“Still weak, but getting stronger every day. She’s been ‘helping’ Patrian gather herbs. The work’s been good for her.”
Odrian’s mouth curved, just slightly. “Glad to hear it.” Then, softer, he added, “Thank you.”
Askarion arched a brow at that, but Odrian was already turning away.
Outside, Dionys sat sharpening a blade, his own rounds already completed. He didn’t look up.
“You’re awake early,” he said.
“I’m always awake early,” Odrian replied. “I simply resent it more some mornings than others.”
Dionys snorted. “You barely slept.”
“Details,” Odrian said with a wave of his hand. He leaned against a tent post, watching the camp bustle around them. “This changes nothing.”
Dionys’s whetstone paused. Just for a heartbeat. “It changes some things.”
“Not the war. Not command.” Odrian tilted his head. “Not consequences.”
“And her?”
Odrian sighed theatrically. “Ah, there it is.” He straightened. “She stays as a translator and scribe, under my authority. Not my protection.”
Dionys glanced up at him, unimpressed. “That’s a lie.”
“A useful one,” Odrian said lightly. “I’ll wear the consequences when it fails.
A runner, one of Pelys’s men, appeared at the edge of camp, breathless.
“My lord!”
Odrian felt the familiar tightening behind his ribs, the sense that the board had shifted while he wasn’t looking.
“Do go on,” he said pleasantly.
“Message from the south road,” the runner said, dropping to one knee. “Delivered verbally.”
Odrian’s smile vanished.
“By whom?”
“A Tharon office. He wouldn’t give his name. He only said—” the runner hesitated.
“He said what?” Odrian stepped closer.
“Walus is asking questions,” the runner finished. “About a woman and child.”
The camp seemed to pause around them, like it was holding its breath.
Odrian closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he was smiling again, although there was no humor in it now.
“Well,” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to deal with that.”
Dionys rose to his feet, sheathing his dagger. “So the past finally caught up.”
Odrian’s gaze flicked toward his tent, then back to the waking camp.
“No,” he said softly. “The past just made a mistake.”
He straightened, turning to the runner. “Find Patrian. Quietly.”
Once the man was gone, he turned to Dionys. “We don’t tell her. Not yet.”
Dionys frowned but nodded.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Odrian didn’t return to his tent immediately.
He walked through camp instead—issuing orders that didn’t strictly need issuing, correcting knots that didn’t truly matter.
Anything to keep his hands busy while his mind worked through the implications of Walus’s name.
By the time he reached his tent, he had made a decision.
Hearing Stella demanding breakfast only solidified it.
Whatever Walus wanted, it would wait. Not because it wasn’t dangerous—but because there was a child who had woken without fear for the first time in weeks.
And Odrian had learned long ago that some battles were won by delay.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Askarion’s glare could have curdled milk.
He stood like a vengeful statue—arms crossed, brows lowered, watching as the last crumbs of evidence vanished into Stella’s defiant little mouth.
Alessia, still sprawled on her cot, had the decency to at least look sheepish—though she made zero effort to hide her own half-eaten honey cake.
“Really.” Askarion’s voice was flint against steel. “You thought this was a good idea?”
Behind him, Odrian leaned against the tent pole, hands raised in a theatrical who, me? gesture—though the remnants of sticky fingerprints on his tunic collar and the honey smeared over one cheekbone made his guilt obvious.
Stella swallowed the last bite with an exaggerated gulp and clasped her hands behind her back, blinking up at Askarion with wide, innocent eyes.
“Uncle Patrian said special sick people need extra honey for healing!”
Patrian paused mid-step a few feet away, medical scrolls in hand, and slowly turned his head toward the five-year-old fabricating medical doctrine on his behalf.
“Did I,” he deadpanned.
Stella nodded rapidly. “YES! It’s science! Ask Mama!”
Alessia promptly choked on the last bite of her own stolen pastry.
“Stell, sweetheart, lying is bad.”
She shot Askarion and Patrian an apologetic glance before stage-whispering to her daughter, “Especially when the lie affects his reputation.”
Stella’s face screwed up in concentration.
“…But bribing is okay?”
Odrian failed spectacularly at smothering his laugh.
“Sugar impedes tissue repair. And you—” Askarion pointed at Alessia. “—know better.”
Alessia dramatically clutched her chest as if struck. “You’d deny a wounded woman and a starving child the smallest joy?”
“You’re dramatic,” Askarion countered—but the corner of his mouth twitched. “And your ‘starvation’ would hold more weight if Odrian hadn’t just been seen bribing half the camp to smuggle you figs.” He paused. Sighed. “One small piece. After supper.”
“A compromise!” Odrian declared. “And as a neutral party—” he ignored Dionys’s immediate snort. “—I propose we also add grapes to this agreement. For nutrients.”
He wiggled a cluster in his hand as though this were legitimate diplomacy.
“Grapes?” Alessia gasped in mock outrage. “You think we can be bought off with fruit?” She leveled a betrayed look at Odrian while subtly inching a hand toward the grapes.
“We have standards, Odrian. This is an insult to the art of bribery.”
Odrian gasped—clutching the grapes to his chest like she had mortally wounded him. “I beg your pardon—”
He flung himself onto the end of her cot, draping one arm over his eyes.
“After everything I’ve done!” he wailed dramatically. “Smuggling, subterfuge, sacrificing my dignity. You want more honeycakes!” Odrian sniffed.
His hand flopped toward Stella—dropping the cluster just close enough for her to snatch.
“We accept your offering,” Alessia declared. “But the court demands additional tribute for this grievous disrespect.”
Stella, grape juice dripping down her chin like war paint, nodded solemnly. “A big one.”
Dionys finally let out a snort muffled by his palm.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia was combing through Stella’s hair to braid it after finally convincing the girl to have a bath.
“You know,” she said. “Askarion is probably right. We have been eating too many sweets lately.”
“Noooo,” Stella whined dramatically, flopping backward onto Alessia’s lap. “He’s evil and we should bury him with the crabs.” A pause before she added thoughtfully, “Only the spy crabs, though. They’re traitors.”
Alessia burst out laughing, tugging Stella upright again. “You’re terrible,” she said—though there was no real scolding in it. “If we bury Askarion, who’s going to patch up your next battle wound?”
The question was light, teasing. But her fingers lingered a moment on Stella’s shoulder. Checking Stella’s ruthlessness.
Was it a child’s play, or was Walus’s influence appearing in her daughter at last?
Stella twisted around with a gasp, eyes suddenly wide with inspiration. “Uncle Patch!” she declared, like that solved everything. With the air of a general delivering battle plans, she added, “And he can’t say no to treaty grapes!”
She said treaty grapes with the same gravitas one might use to say diplomatic immunity.
Odrian—who had absolutely been eavesdropping outside the tent—choked on his wine.
“Also I maybe already asked him and he said ‘only if you bring me cookies afterwards’—” Stella’s eyes went wide as she covered her mouth. “WAIT NO I DIDN’T SAY THAT.”
Alessia sighed. “Your secret is safe with me,” she said. She placed a kiss on Stella’s forehead. “But I am serious. We both need to eat less sugar. You skipped supper two days in a row because you were full of honey cakes.”
Stella’s nose scrunched, betrayed by Alessia’s logic, before she flopped face-first onto her lap with a groan.
“Fiiiiine,” she grumbled, muffled by the fabric of Alessia’s chiton. “But only ‘cause you get sappy when I don’t eat.”
A pause.
“Can I still have treaty grapes?”
“Of course,” Alessia murmured, stroking Stella’s damp curls. Because some battles were worth more than victory—and watching Stella grow strong, healthy, and alive was worth every honey cake she’d ever deny them. “And on special occasions, honey cakes.” She leaned down, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “But we can’t let Odrian know or he’ll bribe the cooks to give us extra.”
Stella gasped—then nodded frantically, pressing a tiny finger to her lips. “Shhhh.” Her eyes darted to the tent flap—where Odrian was absolutely still eavesdropping—before whispering: “But also… what if we bribe them first?”
“Now that,” Alessia murmured, “is a brilliant negotiation tactic.”
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Later, when Patrian heard the full story through the camp gossip chain, he pressed a kiss to Alessia’s temple and murmured, “I’m proud of you.”
Alessia leaned into the kiss with a soft smile.
Restraint had never been her strength—but for Stella she’d learn.
For Stella, she’d do anything.
Even surrender the honey cakes.
Next
Tiny Raven 
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