Dionys sat on the nearby shoreline, watching the sunset over the Myrian and thinking.
Alessia had fallen asleep again, much to Stella’s annoyance and mild distress. Odrian had calmed the child down, and she was busy building rock towers as she hummed to herself near the tent.
And Odrian himself headed toward the beach, carrying a wineskin in his hand.
Dionys didn’t turn when Odrian’s sandals scuffed against the sand behind him. He kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sun was drowning in the sea. His shoulders lost the slightest edge of tension, just enough to betray that he knew precisely who was approaching.
Odrian flopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh, offering the wineskin. Dionys took it without a word, drinking deeply before passing it back.
For a long moment, there was only the crash of waves and Stella’s distant, off-key humming.
Then—
“So,” Odrian said as he swirled the wine, “our paramour is terrifying.”
He said it lightly. Too lightly. Testing.
Dionys exhaled sharply through his nose—something between a scoff and reluctant agreement.
“Our,” he repeated, tone flat with an undercurrent Odrian knew how to read all too well.
Not denial or protest, just … acknowledgement.
“…She’ll outlive us all out of sheer spite,” he said after a beat of silence. A compliment.
Odrian hummed in agreement, taking a slow sip of wine before speaking carefully.
“For someone with no military training, she handles pain … remarkably well.” He hesitated before adding, quieter, “Too well.”
‘What made her like this?’ hangs between them, unspoken.
Dionys scowled at the waves, his fingers tightening around the wineskin.
“Walus,” he muttered, the name tasting like poison on his tongue. He’d heard Alessia’s delirious pleas; he’d seen the scars. He didn’t need more details to know, to understand. “We need to find out the truth behind those scars. If it was really him.”
A long, heavy pause.
“And when we do…” His knuckles whitened around the wineskin. “They die slowly.”
No hesitation, no mercy. Only the promise of blood, deep as the sea before them.
Odrian didn’t flinch, just took the wineskin back and rolled it between his palms, his gaze distant.
“We will,” he murmured. Simple. Certain.
He exhaled, forcing calm into his bones.
“She called him an asshole while bleeding out,” Dionys said after a moment. “I like her.”
Which was practically a declaration of undying allegiance, coming from him.
Odrian chuckled, low and warm. “A woman after your own heart, clearly.” He took another swig before passing the wineskin back. Then, softer, he said, “We need to be careful. Nomo suspects.”
Dionys grunted, fingers twitching toward the spear at his side. “He suspects nothing. Just thinks she’s a warm body in your bed.”
“Our bed,” Odrian corrected, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
Silence stretched between them again, charged but comfortable. The sort of silence that could only exist between men who had fought side by side for years. A silence of gaps and implications.
And then, because someone had to address the other looming truth, Odrian added, “…She doesn’t know. About us.”
Their history. The quiet thing that still lingered between them, even now.
Dionys was quiet for a long moment. Then, he whispered, “She will,” his voice nearly lost to the wind.
A fact, as inevitable as the tide.
“…When she’s ready,” he added gruffly. “When we’re ready.”
And if his fingers brushed Odrian’s as he reclaimed the wineskin—some promises didn’t need words.
Odrian’s fingers tightened around the wineskin, just for a heartbeat, before he released it with a slow, deliberate exhale.
“Good,” he said. “And Walus—”
Dionys finally turned his head—just enough to pin Odrian with a look that would have flayed a lesser man alive.
“She lives,” he said, slow and deliberate. “That’s all that matters.”
Don’t push. Not yet.
Odrian exhaled through his nose and nodded for now.
Then, Dionys lowers his voice again. “Nomaros won’t let this go.”
Odrian’s fingers tightened around the wineskin. “He’ll try to use her.”
A knife already twisting in both their guts.
Dionys didn’t answer immediately. He just watched the waves roll in.
“Let him,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “See what happens when he touches what’s ours.”
A vow.
A warning.
Odrian recognized the tone. The same one Dionys used before they razed the shores of Thalor near the beginning of the war. The same one he used when they stood back-to-back against a horde and won.
This wasn’t just protectiveness.
This was war.
“I’ve already drafted three contingency plans.”
Dionys finally turned his head fully to look at Odrian, one eyebrow quirking.
“Only three?” The dryness in his voice is almost teasing. “You’re slacking.”
Odrian huffed—part amusement, part exasperation—and shoved the wineskin back into Dionys’ hands. “Oh, forgive me, General. I was distracted arranging olive-based bribes for our tiny warlord over there. “…She’s going to brain herself when that collapses.” He nudged Dionys with his shoulder. “Admit it, you like them.”
Dionys didn’t answer immediately; he just took a slow, deliberate sip of wine. The corner of his mouth twitched—just once—before he muttered.
“…They’re tolerable.”
Which, from Dionys, was practically a declaration of undying devotion.
Finally, Odrian exhaled. “Ten days.”
Dionys nodded. “We’ll make it twenty.”
Not a reassurance: a promise.
The corner of Dionys’ mouth twitched as he watched Stella’s perilous rock tower.
“…She’s fearless.”
Odrian grinned—properly, now—and leaned back on his elbows, watching the sky bleed from gold to bruised purple. “She takes after her mother.”
Stella’s voice drifted over—cackling as her rock tower collapsed spectacularly.
Odrian sobered. “If—when—we pull this off…” He tilted his head toward Dionys, the question implicit.
What do we do then?
Dionys looked at him before shrugging. “She stays. With us.”
It wasn’t a question. Not for him.
He tore his gaze away, staring back at the darkening horizon. “Suppose that makes Stella our problem now, too.”
His voice was gruff, but the warmth beneath the words was unmistakable.
Odrian’s grin is sudden and bright. “Gods help us.”
Then he leaned in, nudging Dionys’ shoulder. “Our problem,” he agreed. “Our paramour. Our chaos.”
He didn’t say our heart.
He didn’t need to.
Dionys didn’t pull away. Didn’t scoff. He let the contact linger—brief, solid, and real.
Then, grudgingly, he said, “…Should tell her that.”
He didn’t specify which part. He didn’t have to.
Odrian’s lips quirk. “Right after we teach her our language,” he mused. “Wouldn’t want her to miss the nuance.”
Dionys snorted. “She’ll pick it up in five minutes flat and have it weaponized in six.” A pause before he added wryly: “…I’d pay to see that.”
Odrian threw his head back and laughed—unrestrained, alive. The sound carried over the water, scattering gulls from the shoreline.
When he looked back at Dionys, his eyes were warm. “Then let’s make sure we’re around to see it.”
Tonight they’d keep watch. Tomorrow they would scheme.
But this, right now? This was theirs. Whatever this was.
“…We’re really keeping them, aren’t we.”
It wasn’t a question. Dionys didn’t answer—didn’t need to. They both already knew the answer.
Instead, he took another swig before passing the wineskin back—his fingers brushing Odrian’s just so.
A silent promise,
A beginning.
The waves crashed; the sun dipped lower. Somewhere behind them, a tiny voice giggles.
Alive, alive, alive.
And for now—just now—that was enough.
A comfortable silence settled between them—no need for words when their shared understanding was already so deep. The waves continued their rhythmic crashing against the shore. Stella’s distant giggling was a balm to the weight of their thoughts.
Odrian finally tipped the wineskin back, savoring the last of it before setting it aside. He glanced at Dionys—really looking at him—studying the hard lines of his profile, the way the fading sunlight caught on his scars.
“She called you a pillow, you know,” he said, his voice laced with mischief and something softer, “Said you were unreasonably comfortable.”
Dionys didn’t react at first. Then slowly—so slowly—he turned to glare.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely,” Odrian admitted, his grin unrepentant. Then he added, softer, “She fits with us.”
Like the last piece of a puzzle clicking into place.
“You didn’t move for hours, Dio. Not even when she drooled on you.”
Dionys let the rare nickname hang in the air between them—just for a breath—before he exhaled sharply.
“She was warm,” he muttered, like that explained everything. Like it was a perfectly reasonable justification for allowing himself to become a human pillow for half a day. His fingers flexed against the hilt of his dagger; his gaze dropped to the sand between them.
It’s the closest he will get to admitting that letting Alessia and Stella burrow into his space had felt … right. That he’d been unnervingly reluctant to move, even when his muscles had screamed in protest.
Odrian didn’t tease him for it—not this time. Instead, he nudged their shoulders together again, a quiet understanding passing between them.
She fits with us.
They both knew it was true.
Then, with a smirk creeping back onto his face, Odrian ruined the moment with a single question.
“Should we tell her you purred when she cuddled into you?”
Dionys stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“To throw you into the sea,” Dionys said with the same tone he used to discuss the weather.
Odrian cackled, scrambling to his feet as Dionys grabbed for him—both of them stumbling like boys, uncaring of dignity, uncaring of anything beyond this.
This reckless, stupid joy.
It was something they’d both forgotten.
And when they end up wrestling like teenagers, half-tripping into the shallows—
A king and a warlord can afford to be foolish. Just this once.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Later, when the sun had fully set, and the camp was quiet, Stella had curled up near the fire inside the tent, finally asleep after insisting she wasn’t tired and then immediately passing out the moment she stopped moving.
Alessia—still recovering, still weary—was awake again, watching Odrian and Dionys approach with damp tunics and sand in their hair.
She raised an eyebrow.
“…Did you two try to fight Poseidon?”
Odrian, still dripping seawater onto the tent floor and grinning like a man possessed, flopped gracelessly onto the nearest bedroll.
“Worse,” he declared solemnly. “We played.”
Dionys scowled—but there was sand in his hair, a flush on his cheeks, and no real venom in his glare.
“He cheated.”
“Uncle Dio pushed Uncle Ody into the ocean,” Stella mumbled sleepily from her nest of blankets, one eye cracking open. “For bein’ annoying.”
Odrian gasped, all mock outrage. “I was pushed? I was—” he whirled on Dionys. “She witnessed your crimes, and you still claim I cheated?”
“Yes,” Dionys said, with no hesitation, no shame. Then, to Alessia, he deadpanned, “He started it. He pushed me first.”
“Purely tactical,” Odrian assured, pressing a dramatic hand to his chest. “That crab was seconds away from declaring war.”
Stella, once again dead to the world, let out a sleepy snore that sounded suspiciously like “Liar.”
“I have a lot of questions,” Alessia said. “But I’m also too tired to ask them.”
Dionys stalked closer, dripping onto the tent floor with purpose, before dropping a handful of seawater-soaked olives into her lap. “From our victory feast.”
His stone-faced delivery was flawless.
Odrian’s cackling was unrestrained. “You are—without question—the worst.”
Alessia stared at the olives. Then at Dionys. Then back to the olives again.
Slowly, she picked one up—examining it like she had never seen such a concept before—before popping it into her mouth with a solemn nod.
“…Still good.”
Dionys folded his arms. “Obviously. The sea enhances the flavor.”
“This is why you’re my favorite,” Odrian said as he wrung out his own tunic with theatrical flair. Then he paused mid-squeeze to shoot Alessia a look. “…Why are you awake?” he demanded—the concern beneath his exasperation palpable.
Alessia shrugged, then winced as the movement pulled at her stitches.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
She didn’t mention the nightmares—the phantom sensation of hands holding her underwater, the echoes of a man’s taunting laughter. She didn’t mention how she’d woken up gasping, fingers clawing at the blankets like they were chains—only to find Stella’s small hand already fisted in her tunic, keeping her anchored.
She gestured vaguely at the two men, her smirk returning full force.
“I do regret missing whatever epic battle led to all this,” she said as the wine warmed her chest more than usual, chasing away the lingering shadows from her mind.
Dionys rolled his eyes as Odrian scoffed, but neither corrected her.
Alessia laughed, sharp and sudden, then immediately winced as her injuries protested.
“Ah—ow. Worth it,” she said with a grin and a shake of her head. “I’d say I’m surprised, but…” her gaze flicked between them—damp, disheveled, alive—and something softened in her expression. “I’m not surprised at all.”
Odrian’s expression melted into something unbearably fond as he watched Alessia laugh. He opened his mouth, no doubt ready with some theatrical retort, but Dionys beat him to it.
“Good,” he muttered, reaching out to adjust Alessia’s pillow with a precision that belied his usual gruffness. “Because if you were surprised, I’d have to question your observational skills.” His fingers lingered for half a second before retreating. “Considering you somehow survived this long.”
Stella hummed sleepily, cracking one eye open again.
“Mama’s real smart,” she slurred, half-muffled by her blanket. “S’why she found Uncle Ody. He’s sneaky. Like a spy.” A beat. “…’Cept when he’s loud.”
“He found me, Stell,” Alessia corrected her gently. “Big difference.” She glanced at Odrian with a smirk. “Lucky for him.”
Odrian clutched his chest—wounded. “You stole from me first,” he reminded her with his own grin, “So really, I was just reclaiming my property.” A pause before he added, softer—“Best tactical decision I ever made.”
Dionys rolled his eyes, but there was no bite to it. Just the same, gruff fondness as he reached over to adjust her blanket without thinking.
“Rest,” he muttered. “Before you give Askarion another ulcer.”
Not ‘go away’. Not ‘stop talking’. Just… rest. Here. With us.
Odrian flung sand everywhere in his attempt to dry off before peering at her. “Do we need to fetch an antidote?” he asked with sudden, exaggerated suspicion. “Because if you like the taste of sea olives, we clearly miscalculated the dosage of something.”
Alessia snorted, tossing an olive pit at Odrian’s face—bouncing it off of his nose. “I do have taste, just less than you two kings, apparently.”
She hesitated before glancing down at the last olive in her palm.
“I can’t actually tell if these are that bad, though,” she admitted—because lying would be worse, somehow. “I haven’t had olives in…years. They’re briny, but … isn’t that normal for olives?”
She popped the olive into her mouth before they could respond—before their faces could do that thing, the one that made her chest ache.
“When I was little,” she added, chewing absently. “I used to steal olives from the market. One at a time so that the vendor wouldn’t notice.”
Not that the vendor would have cared. Alessia was pretty sure Dolos had encouraged her to steal from that specific merchant because he ignored their antics.
She didn’t say that part. She didn’t say a lot of things.
Dionys stilled—just for a breath—his gaze sharpening with something dangerous. Then, carefully, he reached into his belt pouch and produced another handful—this time dry—and deposited them silently into her palm.
These were smaller, firmer. The kind cured with spices from the southern isles.
His own stash.
“Eat,” is all he says.
But the way his fingertips barely graze her wrist says the rest: No stealing necessary. Not anymore.
Odrian, for once, didn’t mock the gesture. Instead, he studied Alessia—really studied her—before exhaling sharply and plopping down beside them, close enough that their shoulders brushed.
“Good thing we liberated an entire crate, then,” he mused—casual, like he was discussing the weather and not the fact that he absolutely pillaged some poor merchant’s stock.
He may or may not have also left enough coin to buy the man’s silence. And his loyalty. And possibly his firstborn child.
Alessia looked at the olives, at them, and the warmth in her chest burned.
For once, she didn’t have to reach for something. Didn’t have to fight or steal or earn it.
She’s not sure what to do with that.
She swallowed hard, but her voice was light when she spoke again. “You know, if you two keep this up, people might think you like me.”
Dionys didn’t dignify that with a response.
Odrian gasped—clutching his chest like she had stabbed him. “How dare you! I’m furious right now. Incensed. I’d challenge you to a duel if you weren’t already—” he gestured vaguely at all of her. “—like this.”
Alessia laughed—actually laughed—the sound is bright, startled out of her.
“Thanks.”
For the olives. For everything. For being the kind of men who would drown themselves before admitting they cared.
It’s enough.
Odrian watched things unfold with the glee of a man already composing ballads about it. He opened his mouth—
“Tell her I purred and you’re sleeping in the latrine.”
Odrian snapped his jaw shut, grinning.
“Oh, my gods…” Alessia said, realizing exactly what must have happened before she burst out laughing—only to cut herself off with a wince, pressing a hand to her side.
Immediately, both men snapped to attention—Odrian hovering with a waterskin, Dionys’ arm halfway out like he was ready to brace her if she toppled.
“I’m fine,” Alessia said as she waved them off, still grinning. “It just hurts to laugh at you two idiots.”
She giggled a little more, desperately wanting to ask if Dionys actually purred, but she sensed that someone had pushed him to the limits of his comfort zone for the night. She let it drop.
If he had purred…maybe she could get him to do it again sometime. While she was conscious to enjoy it.
Dionys apparently could hear her thoughts loud and clear because he twitched like she had just admitted to planning his murder.
“Bed,” he growled—shoving the blanket more firmly around her shoulders in retaliation. “Before I dose your wine with sleeping draughts.”
Odrian wisely pretended to suddenly find the tent ceiling absolutely fascinating.
Stella made a tiny noise in her sleep, something between a sigh and a murmur—and Dionys reached over to tug the blanket higher over her shoulders.
Alessia glanced between them—Odrian’s knowing smirk, Dionys’ carefully maintained scowl—and exhaled, letting herself lean just slightly into Dionys’ side.
“…You two are ridiculous.”
Her voice was soft. Affectionate. Fond.
And all at once, she realized something undeniable.
This was what she had spent the last six months running from Ellun to find.
Not just safety.
Not just survival.
This.
Belonging.
Dionys’ breath caught—just slightly—at the contact. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t even stiffen. He just allowed it. Allowed her.
He should move. Should retreat behind his walls of stone and stoicism. But the weight of her against him felt…right, like the last piece of a battle formation clicking into place.
So he stayed. His arm was a solid line of heat against her side, his fingers brushing a loose thread on his tunic—almost reaching for her hand before stopping himself.
“You’re worse,” he muttered. But there was no venom in it, just exhaustion and truth.
Just the faintest upward tilt at the corner of his mouth.
She fit. They all fit.
There was something terrifying in that—in the quiet surrender to care.
Odrian watched them both—the way Alessia fit against Dionys’ side, the way Dionys let her—and his smirk softened into something dangerously close to joy.
“…Yeah,” he murmured as he reached over to nudge Stella’s discarded rock pile back into something resembling order. “We are.” He didn’t sound the least bit sorry about it. “So,” he murmured, feigning nonchalance. “Are we calling this an alliance or—?”
“A family,” Dionys said. Gruff. Final. Utterly unshakable.
He reached out and took Alessia’s hand, his grip tightening in a squeeze, just once. A soldier’s promise carved into the silence.
No take-backs.
No retreat.
He wouldn’t let go. Neither would they.
Odrian’s head whipped toward Dionys—mouth open in theatrical betrayal—but the way his lips kept twitching upward ruined the effect.
He knew Dionys would be the first to say it. Knew.
And he’d goaded him into it, anyway. Bastard.
But then his gaze flicked back to Alessia—seeing the quiet wonder in her eyes—and he exhaled, all pretense falling away as he squeezed her hand back.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Family.”
The word settled between them, fragile and indestructible all at once.
Alessia exhaled sharply—something between a laugh and a sob—as her fingers tightened around Dionys’ in a silent answer. Then she reached for Odrian with her free hand, wanting him closer, needing to make sure he knew it wasn’t just her and Dionys, but him, too.
Then she leaned back against Dionys, letting her head rest on his shoulder as she kept Odrian’s hand clasped in her own.
Family.
For the first time in years, it didn’t feel like a lie.
Not when Stella snored softly nearby, blissfully unaware of the weight of the moment.
Not when Dionys—stoic, ruthless Dionys—pressed a kiss to the top of her head without a hint of hesitation.
Not when Odrian, who lied like breathing, just grinned at her—bright and honest—like she was the best damn thing he’d ever stolen.
To anyone else, the word family might not mean much, but to her?
To the girl who grew up clinging to the ghost of one, who clung to Dolos like a brother and lost him, who fought to build one for Stella against all odds—
Family was everything.
And these two reckless, ridiculous, wonderful men had just handed it to her. Without conditions. Without hesitation.
She didn’t even have to steal it.
(She was going to keep them.)
Dionys let himself exhale—finally, finally—and rested his cheek against her hair. His free hand lifted, brushing a stray lock from her forehead with a tenderness that surprised even him.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The steady beat of his heart against her back said it all.
You’re ours now.
Odrian watched them for a beat—something unbearably soft in his expression—before he scooted closer, pressing his shoulder into Alessia’s free side. His fingers interlaced with hers, warm and unshakable.
“Welcome home, Princess.”
He could tell a story here—something grandiose and absurd, to make them scoff or laugh or groan. But instead, he just leaned his head against Alessia’s, closing his eyes with a contented sigh.
“Took you long enough,” he murmured—fond, exhausted, home. “And you are stuck with us.”
No take-backs.
No mercy.
They were hers. And she was theirs.
The moment is perfect—warm and alive and theirs—until a small, sleep-groggy voice beside them piped up.
“…Are we having a group hug?”
Stella blinked at them from her nest of blankets, rubbing one eye with tiny fingers. “…Where’s mine?”
Odrian made a choked sound that was definitely not a sob—burying it quickly with an exaggerated sigh.
“Ugh. The tyranny of tiny despots.” He let go of Alessia’s hand to reach over and scoop Stella into his arms, pressing a loud, obnoxious kiss to her forehead. “There! Happy?”
Stella beamed, sleep-tousled and far too smug for someone who had been dead asleep mere moments before.
She giggled and shook her head.
“Nooooo. Uncle Dio has to do it, too!”
Dionys stiffened, caught between fight and flight, before he let out a slow breath. Then, because this was his life now, he reached out. Carefully.
Deliberately.
He pulled Stella into the circle of their arms, pressing his own gruff kiss to her messy curls before promptly dropping her back into Odrian’s lap.
“…There,” he muttered, flushing just slightly. “Happy?”
He was terrible at this.
He never wanted it to end.
Stella beamed—nodding so hard her curls bounced—before immediately curling onto Odrian’s chest like a satisfied cat.
“Yes.”
Odrian exhaled—long-suffering—but his fingers lingered in Stella’s hair, smoothing down her wild braids. His other hand found Alessia’s again, lacing their fingers together with a quiet chuckle.
“Demanding little tyrant.”
Alessia watched them all with a growing sense of bewildered awe and had to wonder, How did she get here?
How did she go from a cold shack by the river to this—warm and safe and surrounded by people who stayed?
She squeezed Odrian’s fingers, then reached out to ruffle Stella’s hair, her voice thick with something she couldn’t quite name yet.
“Yeah,” the words crack a little. “Happy.”
It’s okay. Odrian and Dionys would hold the pieces for her.
Dionys exhaled and pressed a second, surreptitious kiss to Alessia’s temple, barely there at all. But it’s enough.
Odrian watched them—his family—with a quiet awe he’d never admit to. Then, because he has to ruin the moment, he grinned and whispered to Stella, “Now will you stop hoarding rocks in our boots?”
Stella gave him a look of such profound betrayal that even Dionys snorted.
“No,” she informed him with the solemn gravity of a queen. Then, softer, “But I’ll share some with you.”
Alessia’s throat tightened.
She remembered the boy in the harbor, his dark eyes wide with trust as he swore to get them both out one day.
She remembered her mother’s comb—broken teeth, waves etched in olive wood—and the way her hands had trembled as she braided Alessia’s hair for the last time.
She remembered stealing olives from a merchant who pretended not to see.
She remembered running—always running—toward something she wasn’t sure even existed.
You’re home.
The words settled in her chest, warm as wine, bright as firelight.
She turned her face into Dionys’ shoulder—just for a moment, just to regain her composure—before pulling back with a wet laugh.
“So,” she rasped. “Now, can we eat those olives properly?”
She’d teach them all the best ways to steal them tomorrow.
Odrian squeezed her hand back—tight enough to bruise, to keep her there—but his thumb stroked over her scarred knuckles, soothing instead of demanding.
Dionys shifted behind her, his arm tightening almost imperceptibly around her waist—not possessive, just present. He let out a slow breath—something perilously close to a laugh—before reaching for the pouch again.
“Demanding,” he murmured, but his fingers were gentle as they pressed another olive into her palm.
There would be time for plans tomorrow. Time for thievery and warfare and the thousand loose threads still waiting to be pulled. For now …
“Eat.”
For now, this was enough.
Stella, sensing a shift in the air, yawned and snuggled deeper into Odrian’s chest before peeking up at Alessia.
“…Mama?” she murmured, small and drowsy but certain. “Can we stay here forever?”
Alessia knew she should ask first, should verify. That she shouldn’t make promises she wasn’t sure she could keep.
But she doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t glance at Odrian or Dionys for confirmation.
She just knows.
“Yeah, Starlight,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to Stella’s forehead. “Forever.”
Odrian’s breath caught—just slightly—before he glanced at Dionys. Their eyes met over the top of Stella’s head.
A silent conversation.
A shared decision.
He gives a single, barely there nod.
Dionys pressed his lips together—but it didn’t hide the way his jaw softened, the way his fingers tightened just slightly against Alessia’s side.
This was theirs to carry now. Whatever it cost, whoever they had to tear apart to keep it—this was theirs.
“Good,” Stella mumbled, already half-asleep again, her small fists clutching Odrian’s tunic like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go. “…’Cause I already love them.”
Odrian froze.
Kings didn’t cry. Kings especially didn’t cry over sticky-fingered, rock-hoarding miniature warlords who had somehow carved a place in their ribcage.
But his arms tightened around her anyway—his thumb brushing her tiny knuckles with surprising gentleness.
“…Yeah,” he rasped. “Me too.”
Dionys closed his eyes, just for a heartbeat, before pressing his face into Alessia’s hair, his exhale shuddering against her skin. He didn’t say it back; he didn’t have to.
They knew.
Alessia leaned into them both—letting their warmth, their solidness, chase away the last shadows of her fear, and she let her eyes drift shut.
‘This is how people survived wars,’ she thought. Not with blood or fire, but with this. With hands held tight and a child’s whispered love. With the quiet certainty that no matter what comes next, they won’t face it alone.
Dionys watched her sleep, watched the way her breathing evened out. The way Odrian’s fingers stayed laced with hers as he drifted off as well, Stella a warm, trusting weight against his chest, and exhaled.
He let his head tip back against the tent pole, but he didn’t close his eyes. Not yet.
Someone had to stand guard.
And if his hand settled over Stella’s tiny back—if he traced the ridges of her spine, proof that she was alive, that she was theirs…that was between him and the night.
This was how forever began.
Tiny Raven 
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