Tiny Raven

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.

---

---

The camp quieted as night fell—fires flickering low, soldiers shuffling off to rest. The four of them gathered in Dionys’ tent—Stella tucked into a nest of blankets, already half asleep.

Odrian sprawled across a cushion, twirling Walus’ stolen dagger between his fingers like a bard’s prop.

“So. Ten days.”

His voice was light, but his eyes weren’t.

Dionys leaned against the central pole, arms crossed.

“Less now.”

Alessia stayed quiet, watching Odrian fiddle with the dagger. She knew what was coming—the plan, the risk, that they had tied their fates to hers without hesitation. The thought sat heavily in her chest.

She knew she should say something. Should thank them.

Should warn them—

But the words stuck in her throat.

(What do you say to men who had already decided to burn the world for you?)

So instead she exhaled and reached for the dagger.

“Let me see that.”

Odrian quirked a brow but handed it over.

Alessia turned it in her hands, tracing the wolf’s head with her thumb.

“Nomaros thinks I’m either a burden or a tool,” she murmured. “So we prove I’m a tool.”

She looked up, meeting their gazes.

“I speak and read Tharon. I know their tactics. I know Walus.” Her lips quirked in something almost like a smile. “I know Mother Tongue—they use a version with their spies and scouts. I know the city’s layout. I know who is suffering under Tharos’ rule.”

If the price was right, they could win those over to their side.

“Once I’m healed, I can fight. I’m a more than decent archer. I know how to use a dagger. I can be a tool.”

She took a deep breath before finishing with two words.

“Use me.”

Odrian stilled—his usual mischief vanishing in a heartbeat. His eyes flickered to Dionys before locking onto Alessia with unsettling intensity.

“No.”

Simple.

Final.

“Never.”

Dionys pushed off the pole—suddenly, violently present—his voice a low snarl. “You’re not expendable.” The words land like hammer blows.

Odrian leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze unwavering.

“We don’t trade lives here, Alessia. Not yours. Not ever.” A beat, and then, softer—“You’re not a tool, you’re family.”

Dionys exhaled through his nose—sharp and frustrated—before kneeling beside her. “You want to help? Fine.” His fingers brushed the hilt of his dagger, his voice dropping. “But we do it smart.”

Not safe. Not easy. Smart.

Alessia looked between them, and something in her chest ached as she remembered all over again that they meant it. Not just the refusal—the family.

She swallowed.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Smart. But we still need to convince Nomaros I’m useful.”

Dionys’ fingers twitched like he wanted to grab her shoulders—before he settled for a very pointed glare.

“You almost died less than a week ago.” He said the words as if she had forgotten. “You’re not convincing anyone of anything until you can stand without swaying.”

A heartbeat, two, and then his expression shifted—something sly creeping in at the edges. “…Unless you’d like to lie to Nomaros’ face.”

Odrian sat bolt upright—grinning like a fox who had found the henhouse. “Oh, please let her lie to Nomaros.” He clapped his hands together. “Tell him you’re a Tharon princess in hiding. Tell him you’re secretly three thieves in a cloak! Tell him-!”

Dionys flicked a pebble at Odrian’s forehead, cutting the other man off.

“Tell him nothing.”

His eyes locked onto Alessia’s. “You’re a tactician and a translator. That’s your ‘use’. No theatrics required.”

Odrian sighed—long-suffering—before flopping back onto the cushions.

“Fine. But if we’re playing it boring, can I at least embellish her credentials a little?” His grin returned. “I’ll tell him you single-handedly decoded Tharon’s battle plans during a fever delirium.”

Dionys pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I hate both of you.”

(He didn’t. They both knew he didn’t.)

Alessia can’t help it—she laughs, bright and startled, before wincing and pressing a hand to her side.

“Ow. Ow. Don’t make me laugh, you assholes.”

Odrian immediately sobered—guilt flashing across his face—before he scooted closer. “Sorry, sorry—” His hand hovered over her bandages. “Stupid. I should’ve remembered.”

Dionys glared at the other man—hard—before gently nudging Alessia back against the cushions.

“Rest. We’ll handle Nomaros. Your job is to get better.” He paused before adding, grudgingly, “And to teach him Mother Tongue.”

Alessia exhaled, slow and fond, and let her head thunk back against the bedding. “Deal.”

It wasn’t just a plan; it was a promise.

And for the first time in her life, she trusted someone else to keep it.

Dionys brushed a calloused thumb over her knuckles—just once—before standing.

No grand words, no oaths.

Just this.

Odrian leaned in to press a kiss to her temple.

“Sleep well, Lethé,” he said, teasing and tender. “We’ve got watch.”

As they stepped out into the night, as Stella mumbled in her sleep and curled closer, Alessia let her eyes drift shut.

Safe.

Home.

Dionys lingered in the doorway, just for a moment, watching them both.

Then, quietly—so quiet the wind almost stole it—

“Ours.”

And he walked away.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Nomaros summoned them at dawn on the tenth day—just as promised—but not to the war tent. Instead, he called them to the cliffs overlooking the sea, where the wind carried their voices away from prying ears.

His gaze flicked over Alessia—standing on her own now, color back in her cheeks—before settling on Odrian.

“Time’s up. Prove her worth.”

Dionys didn’t wait for Odrian to speak. He just stepped forward—his shoulder brushing Alessia’s—to drop a scroll into Nomaros’ hands.

Tharon battle plans. Translated. Annotated. Mapped to every weakness in their formations.

And a few creative suggestions for maximum chaos.

Alessia’s handwriting was all over it.

Nomaros unrolled the scroll—slowly—scanning the contents with narrowed eyes. Then, abruptly, he looked at Alessia.

Really looked.

“…You did this? All of it?”

She met his gaze—her shoulders back, her chin high, just like Dionys had told her.

“Yes.”

No flinching. No hesitation. Just truth.

Dionys moved to stand beside her, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back—a silent, immovable wall of support. He didn’t look at Nomaros. He looked at the scroll, then at Alessia, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate stroke against her spine.

“She’s earned her keep,” he said, his voice low and flat. “Try to take her from us, and you’ll find out exactly how much chaos a ‘broken toy’ can cause.” His gaze finally lifted to Nomaros, sharp as steel. “Your move.”

Nomaros stood silently for a long moment, his gaze flickering between the scroll, Alessia’s steady face, and the two men flanking her like ramparts. The wind off the cliffs tugged at his cloak, but his expression remained carved from stone.

Finally, he rolled the parchment tight in his fist and tucked it into his belt.

“You’ve bought your reprieve,” he said—his voice flat and devoid of warmth. “But know this: tools that cut their masters open bleed just as red.”

He turned to leave, but paused mid-step, casting one last look over his shoulder. His lips curved into what might have been a smile, if smiles were carved from bronze and meant to remind a man who holds the blade.

“…Keep her in one piece, would you? I’d hate to see what this camp looks like when you two are unhappy.”

He turned away.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

It wasn’t trust, but it was something.

Dionys’ hand stayed at Alessia’s back, fingers pressing in—silent and possessive. He watched Nomaros go, his expression flat as a blade.

When the High King vanished over the hill, the warlord exhaled sharply.

“Tch.”

Odrian waited until Nomaros was out of earshot before scooping Alessia up with a crow of triumph.

“Told you! Now! Feast! Then strategy. Then—”

Dionys snatched her back, settling her on her feet with a look.

“Bed.”

The word was stubborn, unyielding, and undeniably right.

Alessia laughed, bright and startled, before leaning into them both.

She would rest.

She would fight.

She would win.

Dionys didn’t let go. Not even when Odrian looped an arm around her shoulders, steering her toward the mess tent with a dramatic monologue about culinary sabotage. He just matched their steps—silent and steadfast—a wall at their back.

(Family. Home. Victory.)

(Some words were worth learning in every language.)

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

The moon hung high over the camp, casting silver light on the quiet tents and the endless stretch of the sea beyond. Alessia found herself outside Dionys’ tent, bare toes curling in the cool sand. They had ordered her to rest again, but she couldn’t sleep. Not when everything felt so new. So fragile.

She peeked inside, half-expecting to find him sharpening blades or scowling at maps.

Instead …

Dionys wasn’t alone.

Odrian sprawled across his bedroll, wine cup dangling from his fingers, laughing at something Patrian had just said. The healer sat cross-legged beside him, shaking his head—but the smirk betrayed him.

They looked …

Happy.

At ease.

Like maybe—just maybe—she could belong there too.

She watched from just outside the reach of the firelight, something in her chest softening at the sight of them. The knowledge that they were safe, happy, and hers was reassuring in a way she never thought possible.

She stood there for a long moment—breathing in the sound of Odrian’s laughter, the rumble of Dionys’ voice, the way Patrian rolled his eyes but didn’t leave.

The firelight caught on Odrian’s cup as he raised it in a lazy toast, his grin slanting toward the night beyond the tent—like he sensed Alessia there.

And Dionys, who never missed a thing, didn’t glance over or call her out. He just shifted slightly, leaving space beside him in the circle.

Waiting.

Alessia exhaled before stepping forward—letting the firelight wash over her, the warmth chasing the lingering shadows from her skin.

She didn’t ask whether there was room. She didn’t need to.

They already made space for her.

She settled next to Dionys, their shoulders brushing, and stole Odrian’s cup with a smirk.

“Cheers.”

Odrian beamed as Dionys’ hand found hers in the dark. Then he gasped, clutching his chest like she’d slain him, before draping himself dramatically over her lap.

“Cruel. First the olives, now my wine? What’s next? My title?”

His grin said he’d give it to her.

Dionys—ignoring Odrian entirely—pressed a second cup into Alessia’s free hand.

“Drink,” he ordered as his thumb lingered on her wrist, warm.

Patrian watched Alessia settle between them—the way Dionys’ hand found hers without looking, the way Odrian’s dramatics held no actual heat—and took a long, slow sip from his cup.

“Welcome to the family,” he said flatly, raising his drink in a toast that barely qualified as one. “Try not to die. I’m already tired of sewing you back together.”

“Our interests align, then,” Alessia said as she raised her own cup. “I’m tired of being together with thread and hope.”

Patrian took another long sip of wine, watching the firelight play over Alessia’s hands—steadier than they’d been just a week before. He stared for a moment before his gaze flicked toward the tent flap, where the distant clang of sparring drifted on the night wind.

“Aurelis will like you,” he said abruptly, his voice flat as ever. “He’s been gone three weeks on a Formicari reconnaissance mission, deep in Tharon territory.” He sighed, “They sent him because he’s the only one reckless enough to scout their northern supply routes and come back.”

The healer tilted his cup toward Dionys and Odrian in a mock salute. “These two idiots like to pretend they’re the most dangerous men in this camp. They’re wrong.” His lips quirked. “My lunatic is.”

His voice was flat, and his fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh—a nervous habit Alessia had never seen from him before.

“He’s due back tomorrow. He’ll want to meet you—the woman who stole his best friend’s heart and his king’s sanity in less than a month.” Patrian paused before continuing, voice soft. “Try not to stab him. He gets … touchy about that sort of thing.”

Alessia chuckled, “Don’t stab the demigod. I think I can manage that. I’m known for being the stabbee, not the stabber, anyway.”

She hesitated before half-asking, half-joking, “So, unless I should be worried he’s going to add to my collection … ?”

She knew of Aurelis by reputation. Fierce, brutal, beautiful—a force of nature with no love or mercy to spare on the Tharons between him and glory. 

“No,” Patrian said flatly, his tone absolutely certain. “Aurelis doesn’t waste time on torture. If he wanted you dead, you’d be a corpse before you felt the blade.”

He took another long sip of wine. “He’ll test you, though. Not with steel—with words. He’s cleverer than he pretends to be, and he’ll want to know if you are clever enough to keep up.

The healer paused, his thumb tracing the rim of his cup. “He’ll like that you’re a thief. He’ll like that you survived Walus. He’ll especially like that you made those two idiots go soft.” A rare, faint smile ghosted across his lips. “But he won’t let you see any of that. Not at first.”

Patrian set his cup down with finality, meeting Alessia’s gaze directly. “Just … don’t take his bait. If he calls you a pet name, it means he’s decided you’re his to protect. Don’t argue, it’s easier that way.”

Alessia nodded, silently grateful for the reassurance and the hint of confidence in Patrian’s voice.

“I can work with that.”

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Alessia wasn’t the first to meet Aurelis when he returned to camp the next day—bloodied, exhausted, and victoriously alive.

Neither was Odrian. Nor Dionys.

Not even Patrian was the first to meet the warrior.

Stella was.

Stella spotted the biggest man she had ever seen stomping into camp—covered in blood and dirt and looking very grumpy.

She didn’t even hesitate.

With arms full of rocks (General Crunchbutt, Lieutenant Pebblepants, and a rock stand-in for Admiral Sideways, whom she had stuffed into her belt pouch), she marched right up to him and blocked his path.

“STOP!” she commanded, sticking out her chin, sticky from honey cakes and dusted with crumbs. “You’ve gotta pay a toll!”

She jabbed a finger toward the sword at his hip—the very shiny, very interesting sword.

“That for each step you take in my kingdom!” she thrust Lieutenant Pebblepants toward him. “Trade!”

The crab in her pocket tried to escape.

She shoved it back into place without looking.

“Stay,” she ordered before beaming up at the giant, blood-splattered warrior like he was just another honey cake vendor to negotiate with.

Aurelis had stalked into camp still half-blind with battle-fury, blood drying stiff on his knuckles and the scent of smoke clinging to him like a shroud. Three weeks of skirmishing had left him raw, every nerve exposed, his patience thinner than his blade’s edge.

And then, the child.

Barely tall enough to reach his knees, standing in his path like she owned the very ground he walked on.

For a moment, Aurelis just stared. His amber eyes flicked from her wild curls to the rocks clutched in her arms—rocks—to the crab attempting mutiny in her pocket. His jaw worked, hands flexing once at his sides.

“No.”

The word cracked like a whip.

He stepped around her—dismissive as a king swatting aside a gnat—and kept walking.

He made it three steps before he realized he was being followed.

Aurelis stopped, turned, glared down at her with the full weight of his presence—the same glare that had made Tharon captains piss themselves in terror.

“What.”

Not a question.

Stella planted her feet, clutching her rocks tighter, and stuck out her chin—stubborn as a barnacle.

“You didn’t pay!” she accused, thrusting Lieutenant Pebblepants toward him again. “That’s theft! And in my kingdom—” she gestured at the camp broadly, “—thieves give double!”

She jabbed a sticky finger at his bloodied armor.

“That’s … at least six more rocks!”

The crab in her pocket made another bid for freedom, only to get smacked back down without Stella breaking eye contact with Aurelis.

“…But I guess I could take a sword instead. As a diplomatic gesture.”

She had clearly been spending too much time around Odrian.

Alessia had been grinding herbs in the medical tent when she heard Stella’s voice demanding a sword as payment for something.

And somehow she knew.

Aurelis had returned, and he was face-to-face with her gremlin of a daughter.

“Oh, no,” she groaned as she got up to go make sure Stella didn’t get herself mauled by a demigod.

Patrian materialized in the doorway before she could even take a step, his arms crossed and a rare smirk curling the edge of his mouth.

“Let them negotiate,” he said. Then, wryly, he added, “She’s already doing better than the last ambassador.”

Outside, Aurelis had picked Stella up by the back of her peplos and was dangling her at eye-level like an irritated cat examining a particularly baffling insect.

Stella, however, was thriving.

“SIX ROCKS!” she declared, kicking her feet mid-air. “OR your SHINIEST KNIFE!”

“No.”

Stella gasped, betrayed, before mustering her most devastating tactic. She went limp. Her arms flopped, her legs dangled, and—most importantly—her grip on General Crunchbutt loosened.

The rock tumbled to the ground with a thud, landing squarely on Aurelis’ boot.

“OOPS!” she chirped, peeking up through her lashes. “Guess you have to pay me back now!”

Aurelis, for the first time in living memory, was speechless.

Then, slowly, he lowered her to the ground, crouched to her level, and plucked up the rock between two fingers like it was evidence of a war crime.

“…You,” he informed her solemnly, “are dangerous.”

Then, shocking the entire camp, he reached for the dagger at his belt.

It was a magnificent thing—gleaming bronze with a hilt wrapped in crimson leather, the blade honed to a razor’s edge.

The weapon of a king-maker and a king-killer.

He held it out, hilt-first, to a five-year-old.

“One rock,” he bargained, deadly serious. “Final offer.”

Stella’s eyes went huge. For once, she was silent.

Then, with all the gravitas of a queen accepting a surrender, she nodded.

She took the dagger in both hands, wobbling slightly under the weight but refusing to drop it.

Then she solemnly handed him Lieutenant Pebblepants.

“Deal.”

And before anyone could breathe—before Patrian could lunge forward, before Aurelis could reconsider, before the entire camp could collectively panic—she turned and ran straight to Alessia.”

“MAMA!” she shrieked, waving the dagger like a victory flag. “LOOK! I GOT A SWORD FROM THE SCARY MAN!”

“STELLA!” Alessia screamed, panicking the moment her daughter turned to run. “DON’TRUNWITHBLADES-!”

Patrian snatched the dagger mid-sprint—quick as a striking viper—before tossing it back to Aurelis without breaking stride.

“She’ll get it back when she learns not to gallop with it,” he muttered, already reaching for Stella.

Aurelis watched, arms crossed, as Patrian chased down the tiny terror—his lips twitching in something dangerously close to amusement.

Then his gaze slid past them, locking onto Alessia with sudden, unsettling focus.

Ah. So this was the woman who’d tamed Odrian and Dionys both.

He stalked toward her, his voice a low rumble.

“…She’s yours, then,” he said. He paused before nodding, “Good.”

High praise, from him.

Before Alessia could react, he jerked his chin toward the medical tent.

“Walk with me.”

Not a request. Not a threat.

Just a test.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

“You fought Tharon soldiers with a dagger wound in your lung, stole from a king, adopted a warlord, and trained a five-year-old in psychological warfare.” A pause, his golden eyes bored into hers. “Why?”

Not how. Not what. Why.

“Most people would’ve died five times over by now, but you didn’t.” His head tilted slightly as he repeated the question. “Why?”

“I see tales of my exploits precede me,” Alessia said dryly. Before answering his question, she set the record straight. “I didn’t fight any Tharon soldiers with a wound in my lung. That happened here, in camp. I don’t know who the assailant was. Dionys was … looking into it, and I’ve been too busy healing to ask how the search has been going. The rest is accurate, though.” She sighed. “I couldn’t leave her alone. Not when she still needed me.”

‘Not like my mother left me,’ she thought—the unspoken weight behind her conviction.

Aurelis studied her—silent, assessing—before his lip curled in approval. “Good.”

That was all he needed to hear—a mother’s resolve, a survivor’s stubbornness, a thief’s cleverness.

“You’re smaller than I expected,” he mused, flicking a piece of bloodied linen from his vambrace. “But you’ve got teeth.”

He turned toward the medical supplies—already rifling through them with the familiarity of a man who frequently needed stitches—before tossing her a roll of fresh bandages.

“Wrap my arm.”

Not a request. Another test.

And now Alessia understood what Patrian had meant about Aurelis not asking, just demanding.

She took the bandages without complaint—mostly because she knew patching him up would take less time than arguing—and gestured for him to sit.

When he didn’t, she rolled her eyes and reached up to start wrapping his arm—ignoring the way his amused gaze tracked the movement.

“Do you always bribe children with weaponry, or was Stella just special?”

Aurelis arched a brow—impressed despite himself.

“Only the ones who earn it.” His voice was gruff, but there was a flicker of something almost like approval in his tone. “She argued like a seasoned diplomat. And she dropped that rock on my foot on purpose.”

A pause, and then—deadpan—

“She’ll make a decent Formicari one day.”

High, terrifying praise.

“Don’t tell her that, she’ll take it as a challenge to take your job by the time she’s seven,” Alessia said dryly. She snorted, “She’ll crown herself Queen of the Formicari.”

She hid the flicker of concern that lit up at the mention of Stella’s more … violent nature.

The secret, deeply held fear that for all that Stella was hers, the little girl was equally his.

“And she’d do it, too.”

Aurelis’ lips twitched, almsot a smile, if smiles were carved from flint. “Then I’ll retire.”

As if retiring from the Formicari was something one just did, like tossing aside a worn cloak.

He let Alessia finish wrapping his arm before rolling his shoulder—testing, approving—and abruptly shifting topics.

“Dionys will kill for you.” His tone was flat. Unquestionable. “Odrian will die for you.” He tilted his head, considering her, “And you?” He paused. “What will you do when the war ends?”

Not if.

When.

His golden eyes bored into her blue ones, unrelenting.

“My idiot partner seems to think you’re staying.” A heartbeat of silence. “Are you?”

“As long as they’ll have me,” Alessia said with a nod. “Yes.”

For a long moment, the tent was silent. Then Aurelis exhaled sharply—almost a laugh, if laughter could be made of gravel and old battle cries—and clapped a hand on her shoulder.

Hard.

“Good.”

He flexed his newly-bandaged arm, testing the give of hte cloth before adding.

“Tell me about Walus.”

Alessia hesitated, just for a breath, before she turned toward him. “What do you want to know about him? Do you want to know what kind of man he is? You’ve seen what he does to prisoners or ‘traitors’. He’s no kinder in person.” She glanced toward where the tent flap, where she could hear Stella playing. “She called him ‘papa’. Once,” she said softly. “When she was two.”

Aurelis went very still. His golden eyes darkened—a storm rolling in over sunlight—and his fingers tightened around his dagger’s hilt.

“…And what did he say?”

His voice was deceptively calm, but the way his free hand flexed—like he was already imagining it around a throat—betrayed him.

“He broke her arm,” Alessia said, voice flat. “And when he caught me trying to escape after, he welded a shackle to my ankle.”

Aurelis went still. Not the stillness of restraint—the stillness of a blade mid-swing, right before it bit deep. His fingers twitched toward the dagger at his belt—the same one Stella had nearly claimed—before he exhaled sharply through his nose.

“And you kept living under that.” His voice was low, like a grinding stone. “For her.”

He took a step closer—deliberate—until the sheer force of his presence filled the tent, oppressive and furious.

Not at her. Never at her.

At him.

At the man who had dared.

“Dionys wants to burn Ellun to the ground for you. Odrian wants to make art out of Walus’ screams.” His lip curled. “I just want his head.”

A beat.

“Give me a reason to not ride out tonight.”

“Because those three—“ she motioned toward the tent flap, beyond which Odrian could be heard trying to barter with Stella. “—would tie me to a tent post to prevent me from going with you.” And when he dies, I want to be there to see it.”

Aurelis’ teeth flashed—sudden and predatory—before he leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Then heal fast, thief.” The words held a challenge. A promise. “I’ll save you a front-row seat.”

Then—as abruptly as he’d pinned her with his intensity—he stepped back, rolling his shoulder with a satisfied crack.

“Dionys says you’re learning knife work.”

Not a question, but an expectation.

Alessia nodded.

“I already knew some, but he’s been teaching me more. Helping me develop a skill for it so I’m not just desperately stabbing.”

Aurelis grunted—approving. Then, with the air of a man issuing a holy decree, he dropped a real challenge.

“Good. I expect you to drill with me next week.”

A pause. His voice darkened.

“…And when it’s time for Walus? You strike first.”

Not a suggestion. Not a request.

Alessia exhaled—slow and measured—before meeting his gaze without flinching.

“Gladly.”

No hesitation or fear. Just the same stubborn fire that had kept her alive.

She stepped back, tilting her head toward the tent flap where Stella’s laughter still echoed.

“Just don’t teach her how to do it yet. She’s already proud of her negotiating skills—I don’t need her trying to bargain with assassins.”

Aurelis snorted—then, to her shock, ruffled her hair like she was the child in question.

“Don’t insult her. She’d outbid them.”

Before Alessia could retaliate, he strode for the exit—only to pause at the flap and half-turn back.

“…Patrian likes you.” An observation, flat and clinical. “Odrian adores you. Dionys would murder a god if you asked.”

His voice roughened.

“Welcome to the family, Lessa.”

Then he was gone—leaving her standing with a new name, a fresh bandage roll, and the distinct sense she’d just passed some unspoken trial.

---

---

Odrian had Dionys pinned against a stack of grain sacks, his lips tracing the shell of his ear with wicked intent.

“Say it again,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Dionys arched into the touch—just slightly—before scoffing.

“No.”

Odrian clamped his teeth down on Dionys’ earlobe in retaliation—just lightly, just enough for the other man to stifle a grunt of surprise. “Say. It. Again.”

He didn’t specify what. They both knew.

Dionys tilted his head back with a growl—all bared throat and barely leashed frustration—but when he spoke, it was nearly a whisper.

“…Yours.”

A beat, then—worse—

“Always.”

His voice cracked on the word, his hands fisting in Odrian’s tunic like he was half-terrified the other man would vanish.

Odrian’s breath hitched—stuttered—against Dionys’ throat, his fingers twisting tighter in the fabric of his tunic like a man clinging to a lifeline. For a moment, he just breathed him in—salt and steel and finally—before his lips found the hollow beneath Dionys’ jaw, pressing a searing, claiming kiss there.

“Say it once more,” he demanded—but his voice shook, betraying the raw, desperate need beneath the command. “Once more, Dio.”

He still couldn’t quite believe it. The words felt like a spell that would unravel if he stopped hearing them.

His teeth scraped against skin—just enough to mark—before he pulled back to meet Dionys’ eyes, his own dark with something suspiciously like worship.

“…Mine.” He tasted the word, savoring it. Devouring it. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”

Then, because he couldn’t not—because the moment was too big, too raw—he kissed Dionys again, deep and consuming, his hands sliding down to grip Dionys’ hips to haul him flush against his own, as if they were made for each other.

Dionys arched into him with a low, involuntary groan—his hands fisting in Odrian’s hair, yanking him closer, punishing him for the demand even as he gave in.

“Always,” he repeated—his voice scraped raw, stripped of the stoicism he wore like a second armor. “Yours. Always.”

His own teeth found Odrian’s shoulder in retaliation—biting down hard enough to bruise, to mark, to claim in turn.

“Don’t make me say it again,” he growled, but his grip was desperate. “You’ll get spoiled.”

The lie was thin as parchment. They both knew he’d repeat it as many times as Odrian demanded—as many times as he needed to hear it himself.

Dionys dragged his mouth up the column of Odrian’s throat, kissing him again—hard—before pulling back just enough to breathe, their foreheads pressed together, his voice dropping to a whisper that was nearly a plea.

“…Stay.”

Not just tonight.

Not just this war.

Always.

Odrian’s lips brushed against Dionys’ jaw, his voice a low, teasing murmur that couldn’t quite hide the raw truth beneath.

“Only if you keep saying it, Stratiótis.“

Then he kissed him again—deep and desperate, his hands sliding up to cradle Dionys’ face like it was the most precious thing in Odrian’s world. Because he was, had always been.

“Mine,” Odrian whispered against his mouth, the word a vow and a prayer. “Always.”

He didn’t let go.

Neither of them did.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

The next morning, Dionys found a very official-looking “contract” tucked beside his bedroll. It began legibly, but the handwriting changed to Stella’s scrawl partway through.

Official Honee Cake Agreement

By Order of Stella, First of Her Name, Princess of Rocks and Crabs, Slayer of Olives, and Bestest Climber in All the Land

Terms and Conditions

1. Unkl Dio give me 5 honeecakes. NO TAK BAKS

2. I DO NOT tel Mama about the SEEKRIT KISSES I saw. (Ever.)

3. If Unkl Dio tries to CHEET, the price goes up to 10 honycakes AND a SHINY ROCK.

Signed,

(A wobbly “S” with a star doodled next to it.)

Witnessed By:

General Crunchbutt

Additional Notes:

– ples no burnig this or i find Unkl Pel and TELL HIM TOO

– Unkl Ody lousee at hiddin.

A suspiciously honey-like rock-print was beside the name General Crunchbutt, and the entire thing was smeared with jam. The letters grew increasingly desperate near the bottom as Stella ran out of room and patience.

Dionys stared at the parchment—crumpled, childishly scrawled, nearly impossible to read (but impressive, given Stella was still learning her letters), and suspiciously sticky—before he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Fuck.”

Then with grudging admiration, “…She’d make a decent Formicari.”

Alessia paused halfway through the tent flap with a quirk of her brow, somehow knowing the ‘she’ Dionys was talking about was Stella.

“And why would my daughter make a decent warrior? I thought I was raising a sneak thief.”

She entered the tent before offering a bowl of porridge and dried fruit to Dionys and sitting down beside him, as if she belonged there.

He took the bowl—still scowling at the honey-stained ransom note—before thrusting the very official missive toward Alessia.

“She clearly learned blackmail before she could spell.”

Alessia squinted at the parchment.

“So that’s why she wanted me to write her ‘official title’,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t know who taught her the concept of contracts, but I can guarantee it wasn’t me.”

She rolled her head to stare toward Odrian’s laughter with a pointed glance, clarifying exactly who she suspected.

She propped a hand on her hip, scanning Stella’s scrawl with reluctant admiration.

“It’s legible, and I can make out most of the words. She’s been practicing. Honestly, if she were going to blackmail anyone in this camp, I’d have expected Patrian. The fact that she extorted you is impressive. Not good, but impressive.”

Then, setting the bowl firmly in front of Dionys before he could protest, she said, “Also, you’re eating. No arguments. Warlords require food, just like everybody else.”

She hesitated a moment before sitting next to him and adding softly, “And don’t worry. She won’t tell. That kid has been keeping my secrets her whole life.” She glanced again at the tent flap, beyond which Stella’s distant laughter rang out like bells—joyful and free.

“…She knows the stakes.”

Then, before the moment could get too serious, she winked at Dionys. “Besides, I already knew about the ‘secret kisses.’”

Dionys’ fingers flexed around the bowl, just once, before he exhaled sharply through his nose. “…Hn.”

It’s an acknowledgment. Gratitude, even. For the food, for the understanding. For the way Alessia sat there, watching him expectantly until he took his first, very pointed bite.

Then—grudgingly, carefully—he met her gaze.

“She does—know the stakes.”

A pause. His grip tightens on the honey-smudged contract, his expression flickering between exasperation and something dangerously close to pride.

“But she also capitalized ‘KISSES.’ Twice.”

Alessia grinned as she slid the note into the pouch at her waist.

“She has opinions about capital letters. And kisses, apparently,” Alessia said with a wave of her hand. She looked at Dionys before reassuring him, “I’ll explain to her that grown-ups are weird about kisses. She won’t tell anyone.”

Dionys snorted—equal parts exasperated and charmed—before shoveling another bite of porridge into his mouth.

“Tch. She’s already plotting her next move.”

His gaze flicked to the pouch where the evidence now resided, then back to Alessia.

“…But you don’t care.” It wasn’t a question, more a quiet realization. “That we’re like this.”

He gestured jerkily toward Odrian’s general direction, where the man was no doubt still preening about crab-based political maneuvering.

“Of course I don’t,” Alessia said. She considered Dionys for a long moment, her expression softening. “You make him happy. He makes you happy. You both make me happy—crab diplomacy and all.” Her fingers brushed over his where they gripped the bowl—brief, fleeting, there.

“Why would I ever care about that?”

Dionys stilled beneath her touch—just for a heartbeat—before he exhaled in a slow, controlled breath. Then, with aching deliberateness, he turned his hand up, catching her fingers in his and squeezing—once, tight.

“…Hn.”

It wasn’t a yes. It wasn’t a thank you.

But the way his thumb stroked the ridge of her knuckles—the way his eyes dipped to her mouth before flicking back up to her eyes—that said everything.

“You know,” she mused after a moment. “If you really think she’d make a good Formicari … I’m not opposed to her learning how to use a knife or a sword.”

Dionys’ fingers squeezed hers again—tighter this time—before releasing her to flick the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

“Already started.”

Then softer, “…If you want to learn, too. Archery, knives. Whatever.”

He met her gaze—steadier now, no longer bracing for refusal or judgment—before jerking his chin toward the tent flap where Stella’s laughter still echoed.

“She’ll be safer if you’re dangerous.”

And he would sleep more easily knowing they could both fight back.

“I can already do archery,” Alessia said with a smile. “The only reason I haven’t done it is because my shoulder is still messed up … “ She placed her hand over her collarbone, over the still-healing injury. “At least, I hope I can still do archery once this heals.”

Dionys’ gaze flicked to the wound, assessing—not as a warrior, but as a man who had seen too many fighters lost to poorly healed injuries. He reached out, fingers hovering just above the bandages before hesitating.

“You will.”

A pause. His hand dropped back to his bowl, but his voice was firm.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

No platitudes or empty reassurances. Just fact. If Alessia’s shoulder needed meticulous retraining, strengthening, and protection, he would do it himself.

Then, because he couldn’t help himself—

“But first—” His thumb brushed the hilt of his dagger meaningfully. “—we teach you how to stab someone without getting stabbed back.”

Alessia barked a laugh—bright and startled, as if the sound surprised her, too.

“Please. I’ve been stabbing men since before I had all my teeth.” Her smirk faltered just briefly—long enough to betray the truth beneath her bravado. “But I wouldn’t say no to learning how to do it better.”

She’d spent too long surviving on scraps, with stolen skills and desperation as her only teachers. The offer—real training, real strength—it was almost too much to hope for.

Then, because she couldn’t let him have the last word, she leaned in, her voice dropping conspiratorially.

“Besides, if we’re lucky, Stella will be too busy learning how to throw knives to notice she never got payment for her honey cake extortion.”

She winked, stealing a piece of dried fruit from his bowl as she straightened.

Dionys snatched her wrist before she could retreat—lightning quick—and hauled her back into his space, their faces inches apart.

“Tch.”

His breath was warm against her lips, his grip unyielding.

“Practice starts now.”

He popped the stolen fruit into his mouth—infuriatingly deliberate—and released her with a look that promised this was just the beginning.

His other hand lingered at the small of her back—steadying and possessive—for just a moment longer than necessary.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Stella crept into the command tent shortly afterward—dressed in her tiny, self-proclaimed “negotiation outfit” (a length of fabric tied around her shoulders like a cloak, because it made her look official).

She cleared her throat with all the gravitas a five-year-old could muster.

“…Well?”

Alessia, pretending not to be aware of Stella’s presence—mostly to see how long the little girl could keep up the Serious Negotiator act—continued to “read” the papers on the table.

“Well, what, Stell?”

Stella marched over and tugged on Dionys’ sleeve.

“…You,” she announced, “owe me five honey cakes.”

Then—gleefully—she turned to Alessia and patted the pouch that held the incriminating contract. “And Mama broke the deal by lookin’ at the rules!”

Her grin was pure, unfiltered triumph.

“So now it’s ten—AND a rock—OR I tell everyone about the—” her voice dropped to a  stage whisper, which might as well have been a shout coming from the five-year-old—“seeeeeeecret kisses.”

Stella folded her arms, nodding solemnly like a judge delivering a verdict.

“Your move, Uncle Dio.”

Alessia raised an eyebrow before slowly pulling the contract from her pocket and unfolding it.

“The rules don’t say anything about your uncles keeping secrets from me—just that you won’t tell me about the ‘secret kisses’. It also specifies that you’ll only tell Pelys, not everyone.”

Alessia met her daughter’s eyes with grave sincerity.

“You aren’t going back on your word, are you? We’re thieves, Stell, not liars.”

She said the word as if it were the worst thing a person could be, while still sounding absolutely playful.

She pointedly ignored the way Dionys hid his laughter behind an unconvincing cough.

Stella blinked—her mouth opening before snapping shut, and her features contorting into pure outrage. Alessia had outmaneuvered her, and she knew it.

With a dramatic gasp, she stomped a foot. “That—that’s—!”

Then her shoulders slumped in agonized defeat. “…FINE.”

She sniffled before perking back up like a conspiratorial sunflower. “But! Next time, my contract will also say ‘NO LOOKIN’ unless you wanna pay extra!”

Then, she immediately whirled on Dionys and stuck out her palm.

“FIVE.”

She could have tried to argue. Could have doubled down, renegotiated, won. But she didn’t. Because Mama was right—they didn’t lie.

And because Dionys had already pulled a honey cake from his belt pouch.

He wordlessly handed over the honey cake—his almost blank expression ruined by the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth when Stella immediately attempted to cram the entire thing into her mouth all at once.

“Chew,” he grunted.

Stella paused, then took a single, comically small nibble before beaming up at him.

“Thank you!” she chirped—sticky-fingered and victorious—before darting back out of the tent, her cloak flapping behind her like the banner of a conquering warlord.

Alessia watched her go with a mix of pride and exhausted fondness before she turned back to Dionys.

“That could’ve gone so much worse.”

Dionys exhaled through his nose—long-suffering—but with a glint of something perilously close to pride in his eyes.

“She’s your daughter.”

The corner of his mouth twitched upward as he turned back to his porridge.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Later that night, after a day spent extorting kings and ordering around soldiers, Alessia tucked Stella into her blankets, smoothing the wild curls from her forehead as the little girl finally succumbed to the weight of the day.

“Did y’have fun today?” she whispered, unable to contain her smile even as she pretended to scold. “Robbing kings and corrupting my allies?”

“Mmhmm!” The agreement was sleep-slurred but emphatic, her tiny fingers clutching the edge of the blanket as she fought to stay awake just a little longer.

“…Uncle Ody says the ocean is our friend now.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, then snapped open again with sudden, albeit drowsy, clarity.

“…Mama?” a pause. “You’re happy here, right?”

The question was small. Fragile. The kind Stella had never asked before—because until now, happiness hadn’t been something they could count on.

Alessia froze—just for a heartbeat—before forcing herself to exhale.

“Yeah, Starlight,” she murmured, her thumb brushing Stella’s cheek. “I really am.”

Stella blinked up at her—once, twice—before nodding, satisfied. Then, with the solemnity only a half-asleep child could muster, she whispered, “Good. ‘Cause I already told the crab we’re stayin’ forever.”

Her fingers loosened around the blanket as sleep finally claimed her, leaving Alessia to stare down at her—breathless—in the firelight.

The words hovered in the quiet air of the tent—staying forever—soft as a secret, heavy as a vow.

Alessia brushed stray strands of hair from Stella’s face, her own chest tight with an emotion she couldn’t name. Then she pressed a kiss to the girl’s forehead—lingering and reverent—before whispering back.

“Yeah, forever sounds perfect.”

The word settled into the quiet like roots digging into rich soil.

Permanent.

Outside, the waves crashed against the shore—endlessly, relentlessly—but there, in the small circle of warmth, everything was still.

She exhaled, smiling to herself, and turned to blow out the lamp—content.

For once, the future didn’t feel like a storm on the horizon.

Dionys lingered just beyond the tent flap—unseen and unheard—his silhouette stark against the moonlight as he turned away.

Forever.

The word echoed in his chest long after he’d left, settling like a stone thrown into the depths of him—rippling outward, inevitable.

Permanent.

He’d hold them to it.

─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─

Odrian found him at the training grounds just before dawn—already moving through forms with slightly more force than necessary—and didn’t hesitate before stepping into his space, matching him strike-for-strike.

No words, just the familiar rhythm of them—the push and pull, the give and take, the silent language they’d built over years of war and want and waiting.

Finally, as the sun crested the horizon, Odrian caught his wrist—holding, just for a moment—before murmuring,

“…You heard her, then.”

It wasn’t a question.

Dionys didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he reached out—slow and deliberate—to curl his fingers around the back of Odrian’s neck, dragging him in until their foreheads pressed together. His breath was warm against Odrian’s lips as he murmured.

“Mine.”

A pause, and then—softer,

“Hers.”

It wasn’t just possession. It was a promise—a vow, bloody-knuckled and binding in its honesty.

Then Dionys kissed him—deep and unforgiving—like he was carving the truth into Odrian’s skin where no one could steal it away.

When he finally pulled back, his fingers lingered at Odrian’s pulse point—wild beneath his touch.

“Stay,” he growled.

A command.

A plea.

Odrian exhaled—sharp and shattered—before pressing his smile against Dionys’ lips with a whisper of:

“Try and stop me.”

They stayed like that until dawn—tangled together in the shadowed quiet, wordless and each other’s.

In the morning, Alessia found them against the training dummies—Odrian’s head pillowed on Dionys’ shoulder, their fingers still laced together.

She stopped when she saw them—Dionys slumped against a post, Odrian sprawled half over his lap, both of them still asleep in the warmth of the morning sun.

For a long moment, she just looked.

They were a mess. Dionys still had his fingers curled possessively around Odrian’s wrist. Odrian had somehow managed to tangle one hand in Dionys’ tunic, clinging even in sleep.

And Alessia—

(She had spent her life running from chains. From belonging to anyone. But this—this wasn’t chains.)

(This was something else entirely.)

She exhaled—soft and shaking—before crouching down beside them, her hand hovering over their tangled fingers.

She didn’t wake them. She just smiled before murmuring, “Stay.”

Like she’d given them permission.

Like she’d finally given it to herself.

Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Odrian’s forehead and Dionys’ knuckles.

Dionys didn’t open his eyes, but when Alessia turned to leave, his hand shot out—lightning fast—and caught her wrist.

“Stay,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough with sleep as he tugged her down between them.

No more running

No more secrets.

Odrian, still half asleep, blindly tucked her against his chest with a contented sigh.

“Mmph. No escaping now.”

Dionys’ fingers tangled in her hair.

Odrian’s arm curled possessively around her waist.

And Alessia realized—Some thieves were meant to be kept.

---

---

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.

---

---

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.”

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