Chel Maxfield writes stories about the quiet moments that break people open and the fragile magic that holds them together. A lifelong storyteller and artist, she explores themes of loss, transformation, and connection across both fantasy and contemporary worlds. When she’s not writing, she’s usually sketching, crocheting, or rewatching her favorite animated films. She lives in San Francisco with too many notebooks and not enough shelf space.
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.
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.
Alessia was going to set the tent on fire if Askarion didn’t let her up soon. She had been in bed for days, with her ankle a throbbing mess of stitches and poultices.
She was losing what was left of her godsdamned mind.
Stella had taken to her role as “warden” with terrifying enthusiasm, threatening to tattle to Patrian whenever Alessia so much as thought about standing.
So when the tent flap rustled open, she nearly threw a wooden cup at whoever dared disturb her imprisonment—
—only to freeze as Dionys ducked inside, his expression as unreadable as ever.
He took one look at her murderous expression and snorted—unfazed—before tossing a wrapped bundle into her lap.
“Still alive?”
“Unfortunately.” Alessia’s groan was only a little exaggerated. “I’m going insane.”
Dionys rolled his eyes fondly and nudged the bundle toward her. “You’ll live.”
It wasn’t a statement, but a command.
“Open it.” His fingers lingered on the fabric bundle a moment too long.
Alessia rolled her eyes but obliged—only to freeze when the linen wrapping fell away to reveal a dagger. Her breath caught.
It was perfect. Balanced for her grip, the fuller etched with curling waves that shimmered in the lamplight. Waves that matched those carved into the old comb in her satchel.
It was a weapon meant for her.
Her fingers hovered over the blade before she dared touch it. The waves glinted in the firelight, almost alive as she traced them with a reverent fingertip.
“…You made this,” she said. It wasn’t a question—the work was unmistakably his, brutal in its efficiency, elegant in its purpose. “For me.”
Her voice cracked on the word.
She had never owned anything so fine.
Dionys huffed and crossed his arms, not meeting her gaze.
“Wave pattern’s Otharan. Handle’s Karethi.”
He turned back toward her, his gaze steady and assessing as she traced the blade.
“Took three tries,” he grunted, as if admitting he’d botched it twice was a confession.
With a flick of his wrist, he turned the hilt toward her, revealing a hidden detail beneath the leather.
Two tiny engravings—a boar and an owl—nestled side by side near the pommel.
“They fit.”
Then a skein of yarn tumbled out—dark as Stella’s wild curls, threaded through with gold like Alessia’s own sun-bleached strands—and something in her chest tightened.
“Found it in a merchant’s cache near the Ashurak ford,” he muttered. “Too fine for patching gambesons. Waste to use it on anything else.”
A lie. The colors were too deliberate, too matched to a little girl’s unruly curls and her mother’s stubborn streaks.
Alessia choked on something between a laugh and a sob, clutching the dagger to her chest as her other hand fisted the yarn.
She should tease him, call him sentimental, say anything. But the words stuck in her throat, heavy with something too big to name.
So instead she reached out and hooked her fingers into his belt, tugging him toward her until he had to brace a hand on the bedroll beside her. She leaned up—just enough—to press her forehead to his.
“Thank you.”
Her voice shook. Her fingers trembled where they clung to him.
Dionys went still—a man handed something fragile with no idea what to do with it. For three heartbeats, he didn’t move, his hands frozen where they braced against the bedroll.
Then—slowly, carefully—his fingers came up to cup the back of her head. Not gentle. Grounding. His thumb brushed the nape of her neck, calloused and warm, and he pressed his forehead more firmly against hers until their breaths mingled.
“Hn,” he muttered before his other hand found hers where it clutched his belt. He squeezed once, sharp and fierce, his knuckles brushing the dagger pressed between them.
Don’t thank me, the gesture said. Just take it.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Odrian chose that exact moment to burst through the tent flap with all the subtlety of a shipwreck.
“Did someone order more sentiment?” he bellowed, his arms laden with a wooden box and a scroll pack that looked suspiciously like actual diplomatic treaties.
He stopped dead at the sight of them—Alessia clutching the dagger like a lifeline, Dionys’s hand fisted in her hair, their foreheads pressed together in a moment so intimate it felt obscene to witness.
For three heartbeats, Odrian just stared.
Then he dropped to his knees beside the bedroll with a dramatic flourish, shoving the wooden box into Alessia’s lap hard enough to make her yelp.
“You stole everything else,” he muttered, his voice cracking.
Alessia opened the box to find two olive wood beads, small enough to fit in Stella’s palm. One carved into a boar—the sigil of Kareth. The other an owl for Othara. He pressed them into her hands, his fingers closing over hers with a grip that trembled.
“Our homes are yours,” he rasped, low enough that only she and Dionys could hear. “Stella gets a room with an actual bed and walls that don’t leak. You—” his thumb brushed her knuckles, once, “—get to stop running.”
He jerked his chin at the scroll packet.
“And this is for story time. So she can always have Little Star.” He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. “So you’ll stay.”
He leaned in and stole a kiss—quick and bruising—before yanking back and fleeing the tent like a man running from his own heart.
Alessia sat frozen, with Odrian’s kiss still burning on her lips and the two beads digging into her palm like tiny, carved promises.
Her chest felt too tight, her throat too small.
She looked at Dionys, still kneeling beside the bedroll, his hand still fisted in the blankets where he’d braced himself. His expression was carefully blank, but his eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.
“Did he—” her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Did he just run away from his own feelings?”
Dionys snorted as his fingers uncurled from the bedroll to reach for the beads still clutched in her palm.
“Always,” he muttered as his thumb traced the carved owl with a gentleness that belied his gruffness. “He’s never been able to face his heart without a running start.”
He tucked the beads back into her hand more securely, his knuckles brushing hers before his gaze lifted to meet her eyes, sharp and unwavering.
“…But he means it.”
A pause as his other hand found the dagger, sheathing it for her with a quiet click.
“We mean it.”
Then, because he couldn’t leave it there, he leaned in until their foreheads rested together, his voice dropping to a rough murmur meant only for her.
“…Do you?”
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Odrian didn’t make it ten paces from the tent before his legs gave out. He dropped to his knees in the sand, chest heaving as if he’d just run the length of the Theran peninsula, his heart a wild, reckless thing battering against his ribs.
Idiot, he thought as he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Absolute theatrical hopeless idiot.
He could still feel the press of her knuckles beneath his fingers, the way she’d gone utterly still when he’d pressed the beads into her palm. Could still taste the salt on his lips from where he’d kissed her—stolen, really, because he’d been too much of a coward to stay and earn it.
But then his hands fell away, and he was grinning like a madman.
He’d given her everything. Home. Safety. A place for Stella to be a child instead of a survivor. He’d handed her the keys to his kingdom and run before she could hand them back.
And he didn’t regret a damn thing.
From inside the tent, he could hear Dionys’s low rumble, the gruff question hanging in the air—“…Do you?”—and Odrian held his breath, waiting for her answer like a man waiting for his verdict.
He dragged himself to his feet, dusting sand from his knees, and pressed his back against the tent’s outer wall.
Close enough to hear.
Close enough to feel the warmth of the fire leaking through the canvas.
Close enough that if—when—she answered, he’d know.
He stayed there, listening, grinning like a fool, and waited for his world to either end or begin.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
“I mean it,” Alessia said, her voice as soft as Dionys’s had been. “Always.”
Dionys didn’t say a word. He just growled—low and feral—and hauled her into his lap, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that tasted like vows and victory.
Outside the tent, Odrian pressed his back against the canvas, breath hitching as the world tilted.
Always.
The word—her word—hung in the air like a spell, and he felt it hit his chest with the force of a stone from a sling.
Then came the soft, unmistakable sound of a kiss, and something in him unraveled.
He’d spent years building walls high enough to keep out grief, regret, the ghost of what he’d nearly had with Dionys—to keep out the ache of a son he’d left behind and a kingdom that needed more than he had to give. He’d learned to live in the spaces between want and duty, to make a fortress out of a smile.
But this—this—was a siege he’d never seen coming. A thief with the laugh of a child and the stubbornness of a king who had just handed him everything he’d given up on. And she’d meant it.
Odrian exhaled a shaky laugh into the darkness. He was certain his heart had been stitched back together with olive wood and stolen kisses.
He pushed off the tent wall and walked back in—through the flap, into the firelight.
Into them.
His gaze found Alessia first, still in Dionys’s lap, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright with unshed tears. Then Dionys, holding onto her like she was the last solid thing in a world made of smoke.
Odrian’s grin was lopsided, obscene in its relief.
“Well,” he announced, “I knew I was the better thief.”
He sauntered closer, his steps deliberately casual, and dropped to his knees beside the bedroll.
“See, I—” he gestured vaguely at himself, “—stole you—” he pointed at Dionys, “—and you—” he grinned at Alessia, “—and now you’re all mine.”
A pause. His voice dropped, all his bravado bleeding into raw, honest truth.
“Permanently.”
He leaned in and kissed her—quick and fierce—stealing the taste of always from her lips before pulling back just far enough to press his forehead to hers.
“Don’t run,” he whispered, the words both a plea and a promise. “I’m terrifying when I chase.”
And he would, he knew it. He’d chase her to the ends of the earth and back. He would burn kingdoms and crown thieves if that was what it took to keep her.
He just hoped—prayed—he wouldn’t have to.
She was already his. Had been since the moment she’d stolen his rations and called him king without flinching.
Now, he just had to make sure she never regretted it.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia could taste the word on his lips—permanently—and it hit her like a blade to the ribs, except it wasn’t pain but something else. Something that made her hands shake as she clutched the dagger and the beads and the memory of his forehead pressed to hers.
Words wouldn’t come.
They caught in her throat like a dam she’d spent years building, finally cracking under pressure.
Don’t run, he’d whispered, and the plea in his voice unraveled her completely.
She didn’t know who moved first.
Maybe it was her, surging forward despite the pain in her ankle, despite the tears still drying on her cheeks.
Maybe it was Odrian, catching her before she could fall.
Maybe it was Dionys, his arm banding around her waist from behind.
She knew only that they had caught her between them.
Pinned but not trapped. Held but not imprisoned.
And when she tilted her head up to meet his eyes, she didn’t see a king or a thief or a man who made terrible decisions about goats.
She saw home.
“You’re an idiot,” she managed, her voice cracking on the last syllable. She fisted her hands in his tunic, in Dionys’s sleeve, anchoring herself to them both. “You can’t just—steal people and then run away—”
Odrian’s grin was sharp and devastating and hers.
“Watch me,” he murmured, and then his lips were on hers again, stealing the rest of her protest along with her breath.
Dionys growled against her neck, something low and approving, and she could feel the vibration of it down to her bones. Ours. The word echoed between them, unspoken but undeniable.
When Odrian finally pulled back, his forehead still pressed to hers, she let herself sag against them both. Let herself believe it, if only for a moment.
“Forever,” she whispered back, the word tasting like an oath and a prayer and a threat all at once. “You’re both stuck with me.”
She pressed a kiss to Dionys’s knuckles, then tugged Odrian down by his hair to steal another from him—quick and fierce—before she let her head drop to Dionys’s shoulder.
He absorbed the weight of her leaning into him, one arm curling around her without thinking, like the motion had been forged into muscle memory long before.
Odrian lingered just a heartbeat longer, a wolfish glint in his grin as he swiped a fingertip over where she’d kissed—like he could brand the warmth there to keep.
Dionys snapped the moment in half with a low warning rumble, already turning toward the tent flap.
Affection was one thing.
Hovering was another.
He growled and shoved Odrian toward the entrance.
“Guard duty,” he ordered, flat and final as he pulled Alessia closer, his arm an iron bar across her waist, anchoring her to his side. “You sleep outside.”
A pause before he grudgingly added, “…You can stay if you stop talking.”
His lips brushed Alessia’s temple in a silent echo of forever before he buried his face in her hair and let the night settle in around them.
Odrian lingered at the tent’s threshold—half in shadow, half kissed by firelight—his back pressed against the canvas like a man trying to hold up the sky. His fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh, a staccato of thoughts he couldn’t quite silence.
Forever.
The word echoed in his chest, a war drum he’d never expected to hear again. Not after Elenai. Not after he’d learned the cost of wanting things that didn’t belong to him.
But then—
He heard Alessia’s laugh, muffled by the tent walls. Dionys’s low gruff rumble in response. The soft thump of bodies settling.
Odrian’s teeth sank into his lower lip hard enough to bruise.
He could leave. He should leave. Let them have this moment without his drama, without the weight of his own desperate need crowding the space.
But his feet wouldn’t move.
He’d spent nearly a decade learning to live without Dionys’s warmth beside him, without the steadying presence of someone who understood his silences and his eccentricities. Without the belonging that had once been his entire world. And now—
Now she was giving it back. Not just to him. To them. A thief who had stolen his rations and his sanity and somehow, impossibly, his heart, and she was offering it back like it was hers to give.
(It was.)
He exhaled shakily, the sound lost to the night wind. His gaze drifted to where Stella had curled up by the fire, her tiny fist clutching Lieutenant Pebblepants as she snored gently, oblivious to the seismic shift her mother had just caused.
Odrian’s lips twitched upward.
That was another thing he hadn’t expected—to find himself uncle to a five-year-old who negotiated better than most diplomats and hoarded rocks like they were drachmae.
He pushed off the canvas and crossed to the fire in a few silent strides, scooping Stella up in one arm. Pebblepants dangled dramatically between them, but Stella didn’t stir—she just head-butted his collarbone in her sleep and drooled on him for emphasis.
He deposited her beside Dionys with unnecessary gentleness, tucking her small body against his side.
Dionys stiffened—startled, affronted, and unbearably soft—then he exhaled once through his nose, relenting as Odrian spread a spare blanket over them.
“Guard duty,” Dionys repeated, and Odrian raised his hands in surrender, settling onto the nearby bedroll without a word.
He stretched out on his back, one arm pillowed behind his head, and stared up at the tent ceiling. The scent of herbs and sweat and them filled the small space, rich and familiar in a way that made his chest ache.
Alessia’s breathing had already evened out—exhaustion claiming her despite the pain. Dionys shifted beside her, his arm still a possessive band across her waist.
His free hand found Odrian’s in the dark.
Their fingers tangled together over Alessia’s sleeping form, knuckles brushing in silent understanding.
He fell asleep to the rhythm of their breathing, and for the first time in years, he didn’t dream of war.
Alessia sat beside the fire with Stella, building rock towers on the ground near her. She looked at the shackle around her ankle.
For the first time in years, she thought about removing it.
When Walus had placed it, he’d had the lock filled with molten metal and stamped with his sigil—permanently welding it closed and marking her as his. After wearing it for three years, she hardly noticed it anymore.
(A lie. She noticed when the skin under the metal band rubbed raw, or when the old burn scars became irritated. She noticed when the metal shrank in the cold and when the shackle bit into her ankle. She walked with a slight limp, unable to put her full weight on it.)
Walus had told her it would be impossible to remove without taking her foot with it.
She didn’t know if it was possible to remove without pain. She assumed not, figuring the best she could hope for would be removing Walus’ sigil.
It would be an improvement, erasing his mark from her skin.
Alessia glanced at Stella, realizing the little girl likely had no memory of her not wearing the metal, not walking with a limp, and suddenly her chest felt tight.
Odrian noticed—of course he did—and he nudged Dionys with his elbow before nodding toward Alessia. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by something soft and determined.
Dionys followed his gaze, taking in the way Alessia’s fingers hovered over the manacle, and his jaw locked.
“Askarion,” he said like a vow.
Odrian nodded—already halfway to his feet. “And Patrian. Between them they’ll figure it out.”
Neither of them would take ‘no’ for an answer. Not for this.
Alessia startled, still not used to being seen. She shook her head. “It’s welded shut. The skin healed over it.”
Dionys crouched in front of her and took her ankle in his hands. His thumb brushed the scarred skin, his voice a low rumble.
“We cut it off.”
Odrian grinned—sharp as the dagger he was already pulling from his belt. “And we melt that bastard’s sigil into a puddle while we’re at it.”
Stella gasped—dropping her rocks—before scrambling over to clutch at Alessia’s arm. “Will it hurt?”
Odrian softened—just a fraction—and ruffled her hair.
“Not for long, tiny terror.”
A lie, but a kind one.
Dionys didn’t lie. He just met Alessia’s gaze—steadfast.
“Worth it?”
She thought about it for a moment, weighing the risk of hope against the crush of despair—the brief, excruciating pain against a lifetime spent limping—before she nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “It would be worth it.”
Dionys nodded—just once—before turning to yell across the camp.
“Askarion! Patrian!” His voice carried like a war horn. “Get over here!”
Odrian winked at Stella. “Uncle Dio is scarier than me, see?”
Stella blinked. “…But you’re the one with a knife?”
“I am,” he said with a pleased grin. “But he could kill people by frowning at them, little terror. I at least have to try.”
Stella giggled, and the sound was everything.
Alessia laughed as Odrian and Stella bickered, but her fingers curled into the sand—nervous.
She trusted them, she did.
But Walus’ voice still whispered in her head, in her dreams.
You’ll never be free.
His claim over her was suffocating, so different from what she shared with Odrian and Dionys.
Dionys hissed between his teeth—catching the way her fingers dug into the sand—and he dropped to his knees in front of her. His hands—rough and scarred and steady—pressed over hers, stilling them.
“Look at me.”
An order.
A lifeline.
When she obeyed, his gaze was unwavering.
“He doesn’t get to keep you.”
Alessia exhaled—shaky but determined—and tightened her grip on his hands.
“I know.”
And she did. Maybe not in her bones, maybe not in her nightmares—but here, awake, with his fingers laced through hers and Odrian’s dramatics beside them, she knew.
She squeezed once more, sharp and sure, before smirking up at him.
“Just try not to yell at Askarion while he’s holding a scalpel to my ankle.”
Dionys snorted before leaning in, pressing his forehead to hers with a muttered, “No promises.”
Patrian—who had just arrived with Askarion in tow—rolled his eyes.
“Who’s losing a limb today?”
Dionys jerked his chin at Alessia’s ankle.
“That comes off.”
Patrian knelt with a soft exhale, carefully examining the metal fused to her skin—his fingertips gentle, his frown deepening with every new welt and scar he found.
“…This will hurt,” he murmured, honestly. “But not for long, and never again.”
Askarion glanced once at the manacle before snarling, “Well. Fuck Walus.”
“Preferably with an oversized cactus,” Alessia muttered in agreement.
“…I’d recommend something sharper than a cactus,” Askarion said, low and considering as he bent closer to examine the manacle, his weathered fingers probing the scarred skin with surprising gentleness. “But I won’t argue with the sentiment.”
He straightened, pulling a small leather-wrapped toolkit from his belt with the precision of a man who had done this before. His eyes—sharp and clinical—met hers.
“This is going to be gods-awful,” he told Alessia. “You’ll scream. You might pass out. And if you move while I’m working, you’ll lose the foot.” He paused. “So don’t move.”
Then, as an afterthought, he added, “But when it’s done, you’ll walk without a limp. Eventually.”
He pulled a flask from his kit and offered it to her. “Drink this. All of it. Won’t make it hurt any less, but it’ll make you care less.”
Alessia nodded, then turned toward Stella before she drank.
“Do you want to stay here, starlight? Or do you want to go play?”
Because she would not decide for her. If Stella wanted to stay, Alessia wouldn’t make her leave. But she would not force Stella to watch her in pain, either.
Stella hesitated, tiny fingers twisting in Alessia’s tunic—before she suddenly bolted upright with a gasp.
“Can-I-have-the-metal-after?!”
Her eyes were enormous, vibrating with sudden inspiration. “I wanna make a sword!”
Odrian choked on air. “What.”
Stella nodded, deadly serious. “To stab the Bad Man.”
Odrian opened his mouth—closed it—then turned to Alessia with helpless awe. “…You did this.”
Patrian wheezed, nearly dropping his mortar. “Gods above—”
“That’s my girl,” Alessia said with a grin—proud and feral—as she ruffled Stella’s hair. “Absolutely, starlight.”
Odrian pressed a hand to his chest, staggering backward like he’d taken a physical blow, and fixed Alessia with a look of utter betrayal.
“This,” he declared, voice ringing across the training yard—because of course he made it into a performance—“is what happens when you let a thief raise a child! They turn into tiny, bloodthirsty geniuses.”
He pointed an accusing finger at Stella, who was beaming with pride. “She just negotiated for materials to build a weapon to assassinate a high-ranking Tharon commander!She’s five!”
He whirled on Alessia, dropping to his knees in mock despair. “You’ve ruined her! She’ll be unstoppable! The Formicari will be recruiting her in days!”
Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he lunged forward and scooped a giggling Stella into his arms, pressing a loud, smacking kiss to her honey-smeared cheek.
“Proud of you, tiny terror,” he whispered—loud enough for everyone to hear. “Absolutely proud.”
He met Alessia’s gaze over Stella’s head, his grin sharp and fierce.
“If she actually makes a sword, I’m claiming co-credit. I taught her how to haggle.”
Alessia laughed before turning back to Stella with a shaking breath.
“So, are you staying? Or do you have an army of crabs to recruit?”
She knew it was probably not the best idea to send her five-year-old toward the sea unsupervised—and the idea alone sent a thrill of terror through her—but she trusted Stella not to get too close to the water. The nearest shoreline was calm, with no sneaking waves that could whisk her out to sea without anyone noticing.
Stella’s fingers tightened on Alessia’s tunic, her lower lip wobbling for one heartbeat before she set her jaw, stubborn as her mother.
“I can guard the metal,” she insisted, her voice small but fierce. “So no one steals it for their own swords.”
She hesitated, some of her confidence bleeding away, before she whispered—just for Alessia—“Will it hurt lots?”
“Yeah,” Alessia said softly. “It’s gonna hurt a lot.”
Stella nodded. “I’ll make the crab army extra strong,” she decided. “So when you’re better, we can both stab the Bad Man.”
She squeezed Alessia’s hand once, sticky and solemn, then released her. She squared her tiny shoulders.
“But I’m leaving Lieutenant Pebblepants to watch the metal. He’s the most trustworthy.”
She put the rock in Alessia’s hand and turned to go. She paused at the tent flap, looking back with eyes too old for her face.
“Don’t scream too loud. It scares the crabs.”
Then she was gone—bolting toward the shore, already calling for Admiral Pinchy.
Alessia watched her run off, fond, before she turned to meet Askarion’s eyes with a deep breath.
“I’m ready.”
Askarion uncorked the flask with his teeth before pressing it firmly into Alessia’s hand, reminding her of it.
“All of it,” he repeated, his voice a low growl of command. “Then bite down on this.”
He shoved a rolled strip of leather into her hand before she could protest. “You’ll thank me.”
Grim lines creased his weathered face. “This is going to be ugly. I’ll try to preserve as much skin as I can, but the metal’s fused to the bone in some places. Patrian’ll hold your leg. Dionys—” he jerked his chin. “You’re on torso duty. Don’t let her arch. One wrong move and she’ll lose the foot.”
Then he crouched down, his calloused fingers already probing the scarred flesh where metal met skin, muttering under his breath.
“…Gods damn that bastard to the lowest pits of Tartarus.”
Odrian dropped to his knees beside her, his hand finding hers without hesitation.
His fingers laced with hers—tight, grounding—and he pressed his other hand to her forehead, brushing sweat-damp hair back as though he could hold her together with will alone.
“Look at me,” he ordered, somehow sharp and soft all at once. “Not at the knives, not at the blood. Me.” His thumb stroked her knuckles in the same rhythm Patrian was using to steady her leg.
“You still owe me a story, Princess Dumbass. Tell me about the time you outwitted a seagull. Or about Stella’s first rock negotiation.”
His voice lowered, pained, “Anything but this.”
Patrian crouched at Alessia’s feet, his hands braced around her ankle with the steady pressure of a man who had held far worse together, on far bloodier fields. The manacle was worse than he’d thought—Askarion had been right. The metal had fused to bone where the flesh was thin. And the skin had grown over it in a way that made his jaw clench in silent fury.
“Hold her steady,” he grunted to Dionys, not looking up. “If she jerks, Askarion slips, and she loses the foot. Simple as that.”
His fingers tightened—just slightly—on her calf as Askarion’s blade finally came down. The first cut was wet and terrible, and the leather gag muffled Alessia’s scream, but it was still agonizing to hear. Dionys’ grip turned bruising. Not to hurt, but to ground. To keep her from fighting, from moving, from dying because her body wouldn’t stop trying to escape the pain.
Patrian didn’t flinch. He’d heard worse. He’d seen worse.
But this—
This was personal in a way he hadn’t expected.
The pain was worse than Alessia had been braced for. She’d been expecting pain—the same pain she was used to. The pain of a lash against her back, or a heated iron pressed to her skin. She’d expected something similar to when Surras had carved designs into her flesh with his knives.
She’d been wrong.
She had known the injury wasn’t minor. Knew the burns had never truly healed, unable to with the shackle constantly rubbing them raw. The injury had festered—sepsis only kept at bay by luck and prayers. Still, she’d known the sensation of infected heat long before it had become near constant in her life after leaving the city.
She knew the shackle had fused to her skin—and that where skin and muscle were thin enough, the shackle had fused to her very bone.
That was the pain that hurt the worst.
She crushed Odrian’s hand in her own as she bit back screams behind the gag. She tried to hold still, to breathe.
“Stay,” Odrian whispered, his thumb rubbing frantic circles over her knuckles, like he could press the word into her skin through sheer repetition. “Stay right here. With me. With us. Don’t you dare—”
Alessia jerked hard as the blade nicked bone, and Odrian nearly bit through his own tongue to keep from cursing. The sound she made behind the gag was inhuman—a wet, keening thing that clawed at his ribs and refused to let go.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—
His other hand stayed pressed to her forehead, holding her gaze with his. He wouldn’t watch. Couldn’t. If he saw them cut—if he saw them pull the metal from her bone—he would do something stupid.
Like burn an entire city in revenge.
Dionys’ hands were iron on Alessia’s shoulders—pressing, holding, keeping her still as Askarion’s blade bit deep. He could feel every shudder that rocked through her, every involuntary arch of her spine as she tried to flee the pain. His thumbs dug into the hollows beneath her collarbones, grounding her against the bedroll, pinning her beneath him—not cruelly, but completely.
He couldn’t look at the wound. If he saw the metal—Walus’ metal—fused to her bone, he’d lose what was left of his mind and find a Tharon corpse to desecrate.
He looked at her. At the sweat beading on her temples, the tears tracking down her cheeks, the way her teeth bit into the leather strap so hard he was surprised it hadn’t snapped. He pressed his forehead to her temple.
“Breathe.”
His voice was a hammer-blow, sharp enough to cut through the haze of pain. Alessia jerked—hard—and he tightened his grip, his fingers digging into her ribs until he was afraid he would bruise her.
Better bruises than a lost foot.
Better this than letting her move a fraction of an inch and losing everything.
“In,” he ordered, pulling his own breath through his nose. “Out.”
He made her match him—slow and deliberate, inhumanly steady—until the rhythm of it became the only thing keeping her from shattering.
Then Askarion cut into bone, and Alessia’s scream muffled itself behind the leather gag and—
Dionys nearly broke, his own jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He had to close his eyes against the wet sound of metal and flesh parting. Against the way her entire body went rigid beneath his hands, straining like a bowstring drawn too tight.
“Stay,” he snarled against her skin, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Stay right here. With me.”
Alessia tried.
She tried to match his slow, even breaths. Tried to stay conscious through the agony, even as every second felt like an hour, every minute an eternity.
Breathe in.
The leather strained between her teeth—she could feel it fraying, although it hadn’t snapped yet.
Don’t move.
She hoped she’d be able to walk after this. That if she was good, if she didn’t move, they’d be right and she’d be able to keep her foot.
She knows it’s a long shot.
Breathe out.
She can hear Stella in the distance, her laughter mingling with a seagull’s cries. She wondered if it was the same seagull Stella had somehow befriended, or if her daughter was amassing an entire army of seabirds.
“Breathe.”
The command was raw, ripped from Dionys’ throat like shrapnel, as another scream tore through the leather gag.
The sound of metal grinding against bone made his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached. He still didn’t look—couldn’t—but he felt the moment Askarion’s blade bit true. The moment Alessia’s entire body went rigid beneath his hands, his grip bruising.
“No.” He squeezed tighter, fingers digging into her ribs until he was sure he’d leave marks.
Good.
Marks meant she was here.
“You promised.”
The muffled scream that followed shook him. For a heartbeat, her weight went slack—her fingers loosening in Odrian’s grip—and Dionys’ heart stopped.
“Alessia—”
She jerked back, gasping behind the gag, and he exhaled in a rush, pressing his lips to her hairline.
“Good,” he growled, the word half-praise, half-threat. “Keep fighting.”
He would, too. For her. For all of them.
And he would kill Walus with his bare hands. Slowly.
But the bastard wasn’t there, so he poured every ounce of his fury into holding Alessia together.
He’d hold her until it was over.
Until she was free.
Until she was his.
Askarion didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. His hands—the steadiest in the entire camp, rivaled only by Patrian’s—work with brutal precision. The blade sliced through scar tissue, down to the bone.
He didn’t stop. Not even when Alessia screamed, her body straining against Dionys’ weight, her fingers clawing at Odrian’s hand. Not even when blood seeped onto the sand beneath them, dark and thick.
He just worked—methodical, clinical, ruthless—until, with one final click, the shackle came loose.
Alessia’s vision whited out—blinding, searing—as the metal finally tore free. There was no sound as she screamed, her throat raw, her breath choked. The weight—Walus’ weight, the weight she had carried for three godsforsaken years—was gone.
And yet—
And yet—
She could still feel it. The ghost of the shackle around her ankle. The phantom pain of a barbed whip across her back. The way her body still tensed for blows that weren’t coming.
(It’s gone. It’s gone.)
Her hands, slick with sweat, clutched at Odrian’s wrist, at Dionys’ tunic, at anything she could reach to anchor her.
Stay.
Stay here.
Stay alive.
The bloodied shackle clattered to the sand, and for the first time, Dionys looked.
He exhaled—sharp—his grip loosening just enough to let her breathe. He saw the ruin left behind—torn flesh where the metal had fused, swollen red and angry, raw where it met bone. The burn scars stretched and puckered where the wound was deepest. The way her foot—hers, finally—lay limply, achingly bare.
His jaw clenched.
“Patrian.”
The physician was already there, pressing clean linen to the wound, binding it tight with quick, sure hands. The pain must have been unbearable, but Alessia didn’t scream. She didn’t thrash. She just breathed, shuddering through it as Patrian murmured something low and soothing to the newly exposed skin.
A prayer to Apollo.
Dionys’ hands eased, thumbs brushing her collarbone—gentler now, like he was afraid she would shatter. His voice, when he finally spoke, was rough—scraped raw from the force of holding her together.
“It’s done.” A pause. Then, quieter, “No more chains.”
Alessia sobbed once—sharp and ugly and free—before collapsing into him, her entire body shaking with the force of it.
It was gone.
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t, with the tears choking her, the pain a dull roar in her blood. She clutched at Dionys like he was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.
Dionys held her—one arm banding around her shoulders, the other pressing her face into the crook of his neck like he could shield her from the world. His fingers tangled in her hair, holding tight, keeping her together as she shuddered against him.
He didn’t speak. There were no words for this—for the weightlessness of being unshackled, for the hollow in the bones where the bronze used to sit.
Instead, he pressed his lips to her temple—once, hard—and let his grip say the rest.
Safe.
Free.
Mine.
Odrian pressed in from the other side—his hand finding her back, blunt nails scoring gentle lines over her spine as he murmured nonsense into her hair.
Jokes about seagulls, about Stella’s negotiation tactics—“She’ll rule us all one day, love, and we’ll deserve it.”—about how shit the wine in camp was.
His other hand—the one she had crushed in her own—gently tapped her wrist.
Here.
Alive.
Yours.
Askarion stepped back, wiping his blade clean with a rag, his face unreadable as ever. He picked up the shackle, then watched the three of them for a long moment—Alessia’s shaking form bracketed by Dionys and Odrian, their hands possessive and protective—before grunting.
“…It’s done.”
He dropped the bloody shackle—Walus’ sigil gleaming in the torchlight—onto the sand with a metallic thud.
“Burn it. Bury it. Throw it in the fucking sea.” He flexed a hand, the one that had just carved her free. “Doesn’t matter. Just never put it back on.”
Then he turned to Patrian, muttering something low and sharp about wound care and infection before stalking off into the evening.
But not before tossing a full wineskin at Odrian’s head.
Patrian caught the projectile before it could hit him—unimpressed—and handed it over once he was certain the stitches were secure.
He watched Alessia for a long moment, his expression softening. Then he stood.
“Don’t walk on it for at least a week,” he ordered, his voice flat—but his eyes kinder than she had ever seen them. “If you do, I’m telling Stella.”
Then, to Dionys and Odrian, a pointed look at their possessive grips on her.
“Let her breathe. And get her drunk. She’s earned it.”
With that, he followed Askarion, leaving the three of them alone in the firelight.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Somewhere beyond the tent, tucked between a barrel and a pile of crates, Stella held her breath.
Her fingers clutched General Crunch so tightly the stone dug into her palm.
She didn’t cry—not like Mama. Not ugly and loud and gasping. That wasn’t how Stella cried.
But her chin wobbled, and her lashes were damp as she looked down at the crab scuttling in her lap, its tiny claws tapping against her knee.
“Shhh,” she hushed, scrubbing at her nose with her sleeve.
When Patrian left the tent, she sneaked closer, just enough to peek inside—
—just in time to see Dionys press his forehead to Alesia’s and hold her there, like she was the only thing in the world worth keeping.
(Walus had never held Mama like that.)
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia didn’t know how long she sat there—tangled together with Odrian and Dionys like roots, shaking apart between their hands—but when she finally pulled back, it was to laugh—weak and watery and wild.
“Somebody is spying on us,” she rasped, nudging her chin toward the tent flap where Stella’s wide eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Dionys didn’t even look. He just kept his grip on Alessia steady and unyielding as he growled toward the tent flap.
“Stella.”
No anger, no reprimand. Just her name.
The tiny shadow flinched—then scurried away, her footsteps pattering against the sand.
Silence. Then—muffled by distance—came an indignant:
“THE CRAB TOLD ME TO!”
Odrian muffled his laugh against Alessia’s hair, his thumb stroking the back of her neck.
“She definitely bribed the crab.”
Alessia laughed before leaning into them both—exhausted but alive, free—and let her eyes drift shut.
“R’member t’keep the shackle for Stell,” she mumbled as she drifted off to sleep. “For her sword.”
Stella could melt it down into whatever she wanted. Forge it into something sharp and vengeful.
Let her be free, in all the ways Alessia hadn’t been.
Dionys exhaled—long and slow—before snagging the shackle from the ground and tucking it into his belt.
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 oneelse 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.
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.”
The sun had barely crested the horizon when Stella woke, her tiny fists already tugging at Alessia’s tunic with the urgency of a general marshaling her troops.
“Mama,” she whispered conspiratorially, “the birds are stealing breakfast.”
Alessia groaned and buried her face against Dionys’ shoulder.
“Tell the birds to come back later,” she mumbled.
Dionys—who had rarely slept so deeply—cracked one eye open to assess the supposed avian threat.
“That’s a seagull,” he informed Stella flatly. “In our tent.”
Stella nodded solemnly. “Thief bird.”
Alessia lifted her head just enough to peer at the offending creature—a particularly bold seagull perched on top of one of the supply crates, systematically pillaging a loaf of bread.
“…That is the most Aurean thing I’ve ever seen,” she muttered before flopping back down.
Dionys’ lip curled. Then—without looking away from the bird—he reached over Alessia’s head, grabbed a nearby sandal, and hurled it with lethal precision.
The seagull squawked indignantly as it retreated—bread still clutched in its beak—leaving a very smug warlord in its wake.
“Fixed.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to come back to bite us,” Alessia muttered, picturing a vengeful seagull army descending upon the Aurean lines later. Still, she didn’t move—content to stay half-sprawled across Dionys, his warmth more comforting than she’d ever admit.
“Odrian’s rubbing off on you,” she teased. “Next, you’ll be dramatically declaring war on seabirds.”
Dionys huffed—barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes—before tugging her closer.
“I negotiated,” he corrected dryly. “Politely.”
“Mm. Sure. Politely,” Alessia echoed with a snort, burrowing further into Dionys’ side.
Meanwhile, outside, Odrian could be heard loudly chastising the retreating gull for its “unconscionable theft”—while simultaneously offering it a second loaf of bread.
“…He’s the one declaring war,” Dionys said. He tugged the blanket over her head with a grunt, mostly shielding her from the morning light, and mostly muffling Odrian’s increasingly elaborate negotiations,
(Let the birds have their war; his duty was here.)
“Sleep,” he ordered, though it came out closer to ‘please.’
As if Alessia could, with Odrian’s impassioned “YOU CALL THAT A FAIR TRADE?!” echoing through the camp.
She drifted—not quite sleeping, not quite awake—suspended in a rare, golden moment of peace.
This was enough.
The seagull crowed. Odrian vowed vengeance. Stella declared herself monarch of the shoreline.
This was everything.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Dionys was not scowling.
(He absolutely was scowling.)
In ten minutes, chaos incarnate that she was, Stella had turned the washing basin into a tide pool, declared herself High Admiral of All Coastal Creatures, and got sand in Dionys’ wine.
His patience—legendary, unwavering—was drying up faster than the seawater on his boots.
“Enough.” His voice was a thunderclap. “You—both of you—” he included Alessia, who was supposed to be supervising but was instead lounging on a nearby crate, laughing at the chaos, “—are going intothe sea.”
He stomped toward them—half-heartedly, but with enough intensity to make Stella shriek and bolt, zigzagging her way toward the shore like a tiny, chaotic crab.
Alessia, still grinning, didn’t even attempt to escape, letting him haul her up over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
“Oh no,” she deadpanned, kicking weakly. “Whatever shall I do~?”
“Drown,” Dionys growled, adjusting his grip as he marched after Stella.
“Love you, too,” Alessia shot back with a snort.
And then she froze.
So did Dionys.
Alessia could feel her cheeks warming with a blush.
‘…Sweet Hera, did I just say that?!’
‘… Yes, I absolutely did just say that …’
‘Oh. Oh no.’
Her eyes snapped to Dionys, who was standing preternaturally still.
‘Shit.’
Stella—blissfully oblivious and now hiding behind Odrian’s legs—giggled.
Then, slowly, Dionys leaned down and bit Alessia’s shoulder.
Not hard. Just enough to make her yelp.
“… Tch.”
Alessia—half laughing, half startled—shoved at his face.
“What was that for?!”
She’s giggling too hard to say anything else—and she couldn’t bring herself to regret the words, no matter how impulsive they were.
“For being annoying,” Dionys muttered. His arms tightened around her waist, hauling her further up his shoulder as if daring her to take it back.
Stella, suddenly inspired, tugged urgently on Odrian’s tunic.
“Bite him back, Mama!”
Alessia, still dangling over Dionys’ shoulder like an unruly lamb, narrowed her eyes at Stella’s suggestion, then at Dionys’ smug expression.
She shifted so she could lean over and nip his ear.
Not hard. Just enough to make him growl.
Her lips lingered a second too long, her teeth softening into something suspiciously like a kiss, although she’d never admit it. It was his fault for being so damn biteable.
Dionys stiffened, then growled in earnest, his grip shifting to drag her into his arms.
His ears were red.
“Unacceptable.”
Then he kissed her properly—right in front of Odrian and Stella and every gossiping soldier within a five-mile radius.
Alessia pulled back just enough to breathe—grinning wildly, flushed from head to toe—only for Dionys to growl and tug her in again.
Somewhere beyond them, Odrian was absolutely cackling.
Alessia didn’t care.
Not with Dionys’ hands tangled in her hair and Stella’s laughter ringing like bells.
Odrian gagged—loudly—before covering Stella’s eyes with a dramatic flourish.
“Scandalous! Think of the child!”
Stella squirmed, trying to peek between Odrian’s fingers.
“I like scandalous!”
Then, because she was Stella, she blew a raspberry at them, clearly not the least bit scandalized.
Dionys glared over Alessia’s shoulder—daring Odrian to keep mocking them. Just to make his point very clear, he kissed Alessia again.
Odrian squawked, feigning horror, but his eyes were alight with mischief and something softer. Something warm.
“Stella, sweetheart, sappy adults have infiltrated us,” he said mournfully. “Terrible fate.”
Alessia laughed against Dionys’ lips—breathless and happy—before pulling back just enough to smirk at Odrian.
“Jealous?”
He gasped, clutching his chest like she’d run him through, before breaking into a grin that was as sharp as glass.
“Oh, Princess,” he purred, suddenly right there, crowding into their space with all the grace of a prowling cat. “I don’t get jealous.”
His fingers brushed her chin—lightning-quick—before adding, low and wicked, “I intervene.”
And then, because he was Odrian, he stole the next kiss for himself.
Alessia squeaked—completely caught off guard—before melting into it.
Dionys growls—though it’s half-hearted at best—before yanking Odrian away by the back of his tunic.
“Mine,” he muttered, as if that settled it.
(It does. Mostly because Odrian was laughing too hard to argue.)
Stella, utterly delighted by this turn of events, clapped her hands. “More!” she demanded—like she was watching particularly entertaining street theater.
Dionys snorted—then, because he had apparently lost all sense of self-preservation, he hauled Odrian in by the collar and kissed him, too.
Brief. Chaste. Devastating.
“There,” he growled—threatening—although the effect was ruined by the way his thumb stroked the nape of Odrian’s neck. “Happy?”
Odrian—king of Othara, scourge of the seas, general of a thousand men—blinked.
Then he beamed.
“Ecstatic.”
Stella dramatically flopped backward onto the sand with a groan.
“Ew,” she declared, despite grinning ear to ear. “So mushy.”
Alessia reached out, ruffling Stella’s hair.
“Better get used to it, Starlight.”
Her voice shook just a little with the sheer wonder of it all.
No one mentioned it. They just held her tighter.
In the fragile moment, Dionys tugged Alessia and Odrian both into his arms—a tangle of limbs and warmth.
And there, under the sunlight, amidst Stella’s giggling and sand that would never come out of their clothes—
They stayed.
For as long as she’d let them.
For as long as they all lived.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
After the chaos of the day—the seagull wars and impromptu family kisses—Alessia lingered near Askarion’s tent.
She hesitated at the entrance, fingers brushing the fresh bandages beneath her tunic.
They were clean. No old blood, no festering pain. Just careful stitches and poultices that smelled of herbs, not rot.
She cleared her throat.
“Do you have a minute?”
Askarion didn’t look up from his worktable; instead, he grunted and jerked his chin toward an empty stool.
“If you’re here to whine about the stitches itching,” he muttered, “save it. Everyone whines. Even kings.”
Alessia snorted as she took the seat.
“Not here to whine.” A beat. “Mostly.”
Askarion arched a brow, unimpressed, but set down his mortar and pestle.
“Then what?”
The question was gruff, but his hands—already reaching for a jar of salve—betrayed him.
Alessia exhaled slowly.
“Walus never let me learn,” she admitted, the words quiet, but steady. “Medicine, I mean. He always had his own physicians. Kept me ignorant on purpose.”
Her fingers curled against her thighs.
“I hated it. Hated not knowing how to help Stella when she was sick. Hated needing someone else.”
Askarion’s hands stilled.
Then, with a soft tch, he reached across the table and slapped a worn, leather-bound journal in front of her.
“First lesson,” he grunted. “Willow bark. Good for fever. Tastes like piss. Don’t let the brat complain.”
Alessia blinked—then laughed, sharp and startled, before she flipped the journal open.
Inside were pressed flowers and meticulous notes. Dosages. Symptoms. Remedies both common and obscure.
She traced a fingertip over the pages—carefully, like they might vanish—before glancing up.
“…Why?”
Askarion rolled his eyes.
“Because stupid patients are the worst patients.” He paused, and then continued, gruffer. “And you’re not stupid.”
Alessia swallowed hard.
It shouldn’t have meant so much, but it did.
She was about to answer when—
“MAMA!”
Stella exploded into the tent like a tiny hurricane—followed by at least three crabs, a suspiciously compliant seagull, and a goat that was absolutely stolen from somewhere.
Alessia barely had time to yelp before Stella skidded to a stop—beaming—and thrust a very disgruntled crab toward Askarion.
“Fix him!” she demanded. “He walks sideways!”
Alessia snorted.
“Stell, he’s a crab. They’re supposed to walk sideways.”
Askarion didn’t even blink. He just leaned down, glaring at the crab like it was a particularly incompetent recruit—before snatching it up and examining it with alarming seriousness.
“…Diagnosis: crab.” He said before he plopped it into Stella’s waiting hands. “Treatment: Stop stealing livestock.”
Stella gasped, offended, before spinning to Odrian (who had, of course, followed the chaos inside).
“Uncle Ody! Tell him crabs are noble steeds!”
Odrian stroked his chin, nodding sagely. “A fierce cavalry, truly. But even the finest warhorse needs rest.” He plucked the crab from her grip and set it gently on the ground. “Go on, Admiral. Dismissed.”
Alessia picked the crab back up before it could scuttle away.
“Let’s release him back into the ocean. Pretty sure he’d like it there more than here.”
“Fine,” Stella huffed, but her lower lip wobbled, just a little. “Can I throw him?”
She clearly expects a ‘no’.
Askarion exhales—long suffering—and shoved the crab toward her. “Throw. Then wash your hands.”
Stella beamed—already spinning toward the shore when Askarion added, flatly. “And no more stolen goats.”
Her gasp was pure betrayal. “BUT THEY’RE GOOD AT EATING SCRAPS!”
Askarion rubbed his temples and glared at Alessia—as if this was her fault.
It was.
“What?” Alessia demanded. “She inherited the sticky fingers honestly.” She turned to Odrian and Dionys, hovering near the tent flap. “…Right?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Odrian agreed—while very slowly pocketing a handful of Askarion’s best herbs.
Dionys sighed, resigning himself to a life of theft and anarchy, before he grabbed Odrian’s wrist and forcefully returned the stolen goods. “…No.”
Askarion snatched the herbs back with a growl, but there was no real heat in it—just exhausted, exasperated fondness.
Then he tossed a second journal at Alessia. Smaller, newer.
“For her,” he muttered, jutting his chin toward Stella—who was currently attempting to ride the goat. “If she can sit still long enough to learn.”
A test.
A challenge.
A gift.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia had just washed the considerable amount of sand from her hair—courtesy of Stella’s oceanic delegation—when Odrian materialized beside her, a rolled-up parchment in hand and mischief in his eyes.
She knew that look. Knew it far too well.
She flicked water at him. “What.”
Odrian just grinned—delighted by her suspicion—before unfurling the scroll with a flourish.
“Be it known,” he announced, loud enough for half the camp to hear, “that on this day, the illustrious Alessia of Tharos—mother of crabs, tamer of goats, supreme nuisance—has been officially instated as—”
He paused dramatically.
“—Court Physician’s Apprentice!”
Alessia blinked.
Askarion, lurking nearby, grunted in approval before tossing her a fresh bandage roll.
“Pay’s terrible,” he deadpanned. “Hours are worse.”
Dawn found them tangled together, Stella between Alessia and Dionys.
The little girl woke first—poking Dionys’ bicep with the academic curiosity of a child who had discovered a wall where there wasn’t one before.
Alessia woke slowly to the sound of Stella’s enthusiastic poking and Odrian’s poorly stifled laughter.
She cracked open an eye—wincing at the morning light—to find Stella fascinated by the fact that Dionys was still asleep.
“Shhh,” she murmured to Stella, pressing a finger to her lips.
Stella grinned—suddenly conspiratorial—and nodded before immediately leaning in to poke Dionys again.
Alessia sighed, but didn’t stop her.
Dionys’ eyelid twitched—the only warning before his hand snapped up, catching Stella’s tiny wrist mid-poke.
“…No.” His voice was gravel-rough with sleep, but there was no real heat in it—just weary exasperation.
His grip is gentle as he tugs her into the crook of his arm instead of shoving her away—a secret between him and the morning sun.
Stella giggled—delighted by the development—and immediately cuddled into his side with all the triumph of a conquering general.
“You’re warm,” she informed him, as if it were both a scientific breakthrough and a personal insult.
Alessia hid her laughter with a cough as she watched Dionys blink groggily at the tiny human barnacle attached to him.
“You know, if you keep being this comfortable, you’re going to become her favorite.”
Dionys squinted at her—the full force of his sleep-rumpled glare undermined by the fact that Stella was now nesting against him like a particularly stubborn chick.
“…This,” he muttered, “is sabotage.”
But he didn’t move her. Not even a little.
Alessia bit her lip, failing to stifle another laugh.
She watched them—the mighty Dionys, lounging in bed with a five-year-old using him as a heated rock—and something warm and light bloomed in her chest.
She could get used to this.
She wanted to get used to this.
Slowly, careful of her stitches, she shifted closer—close enough to press a fleeting kiss to Stella’s wild curls, close enough for her shoulder to brush Dionys’ arm.
Stay.
She didn’t say it out loud. She didn’t have to.
Dionys glared with all the heat of the sun. “…Traitor,” he muttered, the growl in his voice undercut by the way his thumb absentmindedly brushed Stella’s shoulder.
A surrender. A precious one.
Alessia watched them with her chest so full it ached.
Then she snorted and flopped back onto the bedding, yanking a pillow over her face.
“Five more minutes.”
Dionys reached over without looking and flicked the pillow from her face.
“No.”
Stella, sensing an opportunity, immediately gasped before scrambling over Dionys with all the grace of a drunk kitten. She landed squarely on Alessia’s stomach, somehow avoiding any of her injuries.
“NO SLEEPIN’! BREAKFAST!”
Dionys made a sound disturbingly close to a laugh as Alessia let out a dramatic oof—but he didn’t lift a finger to help.
Odrian, lounging at the tent flap, leaned over to murmur conspiratorially to Stella.
“I heard someone stole honey cakes from the kitchen tent…”
Chaos, as always, was his love language.
Stella’s eyes went wide as she scrambled toward the exit with single-minded determination. “I’mma find them!”
Dionys moved, snagging the back of her tunic before she could bolt.
“Sandals,” he ordered gruffly.
Stella huffed, but obediently shoved her feet into her sandals before pausing, turning back to Alessia with sudden solemnity. “…Mama, too?”
Alessia let out an exaggerated groan as she sat up, pressing a kiss to Stella’s forehead before shooing her toward Odrian. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”
As soon as she could convince her limbs that moving was an acceptable life choice.
Dionys watched Stella drag Odrian out into the morning light—already chattering about strategic honey cake locations—before he turned back to Alessia.
“…Five more minutes,” he allowed as he pulled her back down against his chest with a sigh.
They both knew it was a lie. He’d let her doze as long as she needed. But for now, they’d steal the quiet.
Alessia didn’t argue, just curled into him with a hum, tucking her head under his chin.
Outside the tent, Stella’s laughter rang bright as bells.
Inside, Alessia breathed easy for the first time in years.
Dionys pressed his lips to her hair—silent and savoring—as the morning sun painted the tent in gold.
No oaths. No grand declarations. Just her weight against him, the scent of salt and herbs in her hair. The distant sound of Odrian pretending to lose a debate with a five-year-old about appropriate breakfast portion sizes.
As Alessia lay nestled into Dionys, with the weight of exhaustion and relief pressing her into the bedding, she listened to the muffled sounds of the camp waking around them.
She should get up. She knew she should get up. Stella was already out with Odrian, probably making trouble. But—
But for once, she let herself stay, just a little longer.
For the first time in years, she finally felt safe.
She exhaled, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of Dionys’ tunic as she surrendered back to sleep’s pull.
The war would still be there when she woke. The danger, the fear, the questions that lingered—none of it had vanished.
Dionys tightened his arm around her—silent and wordless—as her breathing evened out against his chest. He didn’t sleep, didn’t even close his eyes. He just watched over her, over them as he listened to the rhythmic cadence of Stella’s giggles outside.
He should wake Alessia, make sure she ate. But she looked peaceful like this—soft and young and unafraid—and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin it.
Let the war rage. Let the universe spin on without them.
Here, in this stolen moment, they were untouchable.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia stirred at the sound of careful footsteps nearing the tent—lighter than Dionys’ or Odrian’s, with an unfamiliar cadence. She forced her eyes open as the flap lifted, revealing a man with dark hair tied back, sharp brown eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard.
Patrian.
She vaguely recognized him as the person who had been there with Askarion after someone had stabbed her. He had sung in harmony with Odrian.
“You’re alive,” he said softly and slightly bewildered, as though he hadn’t believed his own stitching would hold.
Quieter, more hesitantly, he gestured to her bandages.
“…May I?”
“Of course,” Alessia said as she shifted her tunic so he could check her wounds.
Patrian knelt beside her, his gentle hands already unwinding the bandages with practiced ease. His gaze flicked briefly to Dottie, then back to Alessia’s face.
“Your work is careful,” he murmured. “But fabric can only bear so many repairs before the original threads fray beyond use.”
Alessia hummed in agreement, unsure what to say, and they fell silent as he continued to examine her wounds, fingers gentle and sure. His brows furrowed at the angry edges near her ribs—a lingering shadow of infection—before he nodded, satisfied.
“…You almost died on my table,” he said so casually that it took a moment for the weight of the words to land. “Lost a lot of blood, nearly drowned in it.”
His gaze flicked up, sharp and assessing.
“And yet, here you are. Sitting. Talking. Laughing with them.” He paused. “Should I be impressed? Or wary?”
Alessia exhaled, meeting his eyes.
“Both, probably,” she admitted, with a one-sided shrug. “I am a thief. And a liar.”
Patrian was quiet for another moment.
“Why did you approach the Aurean camp that day?”
There was no judgment or accusation in his voice, just curiosity wrapped in a quiet, fierce protectiveness.
He wasn’t looking at her as he asked, focusing instead on applying fresh salve to her wounds with steady fingers—but his shoulders were tense. Waiting.
Then, softer, almost to himself, he amended his question. “Or, no. The real question is: Why didn’t you leave Stella somewhere safe first?” His fingers paused. “Were you alone?”
There was no suspicion in his voice, only grief. He had seen too many children caught in the war’s crossfire. Too many on both sides.
“I left her in the safest place I could,” Alessia said, hoping she didn’t sound too defensive. “Back at the shack we’d been hiding in. It’s just been us since we left Ellun.” She sighed. “She had started getting fevers. They weren’t too bad, and they broke quickly, but I was worried. I didn’t—I don’t know enough herb lore to treat anything more than a head cold.” She looked away as she finished. “She knew what to do if I didn’t return by dusk.”
Patrian’s fingers stilled. “…Dusk?”
The word was quiet, disbelieving. He didn’t know Stella well, but he understood children, and no five-year-old, no matter how clever, should have been left alone.
“How long had she been feverish when you came to us?”
His voice was too light, as if he were bracing for her answer.
“About a week,” Alessia admitted. “I kept hoping they’d stop on their own if I just…” she trailed off, feeling foolish. “…If I just took better care of her. I started stealing more to feed her, tried to keep her as warm as I could.”
Patrian exhaled before reaching into his satchel for a cloth and a fresh vial of salve. “She wouldn’t have lasted another week,” he murmured. Not cruel, just clinical. “Not without proper medicine.”
He didn’t say, ‘You should have come sooner.’ He didn’t need to. The tightness in his jaw said it for him.
His voice dropped, quiet enough that Alessia had to strain to hear him.
“You had to know our reputation.” The pillaged villages, the burned fields. The prisoners who didn’t return. “So why? Why them?” His eyes flicked toward the tent flap, where Odrian’s laughter echoed, mingling with Stella’s. “Why him?”
His gaze flicked up—searching, knowing—but not unkind.
He wasn’t asking as a healer. He was asking as a man who had spent years stitching his friends back together after battles they started.
“Do you know who I am?” Alessia asked in return.
Patrian leaned back slightly, a silent ‘no’. He didn’t know the important parts. He didn’t know the scars beneath the scars.
His fingers resumed their careful work, but his gaze stuck to her face, waiting.
He would listen, but he’d let her choose the words, and when to say them.
Alessia nodded, unsurprised.
“My … “ she faltered for a moment before sighing. “The easiest term for him is ‘husband’, but he wasn’t … our relationship wasn’t what you would expect from that term. My husband was—is—Commander Walus. I assume you recognize his name.”
Patrian’s hands didn’t falter—he kept working, methodical and steady—but his breath caught.
Commander Walus.
The Butcher of Tharos. The man who skinned deserters alive. Who left prisoners strung up along the city’s walls like macabre banners.
“Ah.”
It wasn’t shock or pity. It was just recognition clicking into place.
“So that’s why Nomaros was sniffing around,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Then, because he had to know—
“Did he send you? To spy?” The question was quiet. Careful and backed with bronze.
Not an accusation. A calculation—because if she had been sent, if this was a trap…
…Patrian would be the one to end it.
Quietly.
Before Dionys and Odrian found out.
“You think I’d admit it if I were?” Alessia asked. She shook her head and waved a dismissive hand. “No, I didn’t come to spy,” she said. “If he had sent me, he wouldn’t have let me bring Stella. The Butcher isn’t a man in the habit of letting his leverage go.” She met his eyes again, serious. “I’m not his anymore.”
Patrian’s lips twitched—almost a smile—at her answer. “Fair point.”
Silence fell between them for a moment.
“I chose the Aurean camps because I couldn’t risk being identified near Tharos,” she said. “They would have returned us to Walus. The Aurean camps were safer.” She looked away, cheeks flushing slightly. “I also…naively…believed things my mother told me. That the tradition of guest rights made Aureans more civilized than Tharons.” She sighed, “I didn’t account for the rules being different during war.”
She hesitated before continuing. “I chose Odrian’s camp by luck. I’d been rotating camps for weeks. It just lined up that I stole from him the same night he laid a trap for me.” She sighed. “And I trusted him simply because he didn’t kill me on sight. He knew I was a thief. He knew I was the one stealing from the camp. No one would have questioned it if he had killed me or brought me back in chains. By rights, he should have. But he didn’t.”
Patrian listened—really listened—his fingers only briefly stilling when she mentioned her mother. Then he exhaled, shaking his head slightly as he resumed cleaning her wound.
“Luck,” Patrian repeated, dry as desert sand. “Luck that you stumbled into the one camp whose king would sooner let a dagger in his ribs than turn away a child.” A pause. “Luck that his warlord apparently purrs.”
There was no mockery in it, just a quiet resignation.
Then, softer, he added, “…Your mother wasn’t wrong.” His fingers pressed a fresh bandage into place. “We acted civilized. Once.” He met her gaze, suddenly weary. “War changes people.”
He didn’t say, ‘but not all of us.’ He didn’t need to. The careful hands tending her wounds said it clearly enough.
“If you had found another camp—if they had helped—would you still have stolen from us?”
“Only if I had to,” Alessia said. “I never wanted to steal to begin with.” She swallowed hard. “The first time I approached the camp was months ago, before I ran out of jewelry to barter. I asked for work. I was … turned away. About a month later, when I ran out of jewelry, I came back. Different sentries. Different sigils. Same result.” She huffed a small, mirthless laugh. “I don’t like thieving, even if I am good at it.”
Patrian finished securing the bandage—his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary—before he sat back with a sigh of his own.
“You are good at it,” he agreed, a flicker of amusement in his otherwise solemn gaze. “But that’s not what I asked.”
He leaned back on his heels, studying her.
“You knew stealing from us was a risk. You knew our men don’t take kindly to thieves. And yet—” His fingers drummed idly against his knee. “—you kept coming back to this camp. Even after that wound.”
He motioned at her shoulder.
“So I’ll ask again: why us?”
Because there was a difference between desperation and trust. Between luck and instinct.
And Patrian was a man who understood both.
“I had no other options,” Alessia said. “I was stealing drachmae to get enough to buy our way onto a caravan going north. I had enough to pay for passage, but not enough to cover a bribe to make it worthwhile not to sell us back to Tharos. Leaving on my own wasn’t an option. I can fight, but not well—especially not if I have to keep an eye out for Stella. The Tharos camps weren’t an option because they were even more likely to turn me in than the caravans.”
“Fair,” he said, “But you stayed. Even after Odrian caught you. Even after he brought you here.”
His fingers stilled, his gaze sharpening.
“So I’ll ask once more: Why us?”
A test.
A challenge
Prove you won’t hurt them.
Prove you’re worth the risk.
Prove you see them.
Prove you choose them.
Or admit you’re still running.
“Ah,” Alessia said as she realized what Patrian was getting at. She gave a small, rueful smile. “Because I’m not so stupid, I’d walk away from the first people to treat me like a person in nearly a decade. You, them, Askarion … none of you had to help me, but you did. And you never asked for repayment.”
Stella’s laugh drifted into the tent from somewhere outside.
“Besides, she likes it here,” Alessia said with a fond smile. “So do I.”
Patrian went still—just for a moment—before exhaling sharply through his nose.
“…You love the girl.”
It wasn’t a question.
“With all my heart,” Alessia said.
“Then we’re on the same side,” Patrian said as he tied the bandage with a final tug. “Stella deserves safety. You both do.”
His gaze flicked to the tent flap—where distant laughter betrayed Odrian’s location—before returning to her.
He added softly. “And they deserve someone who won’t break their hearts.”
Alessia inhaled sharply and suddenly, as if struck. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? She could leave. Could disappear into the night with Stella if things got bad. But they—reckless, loyal, hers—would follow.
“I won’t,” she whispered, her voice rough. “I can’t. Not after—”
Not after their hands in hers, their promises, their names in Stella’s bright lexicon—Uncle Ody. Uncle Dio.
She exhaled.
“…I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.”
A single word. But the way his shoulders relaxed—the way his fingers resumed their work, gentler now—said everything.
With deliberate care, he reached into his satchel to pull out a small bundle of linen—freshly laundered and neatly folded.
“For the doll,” he muttered, placing it beside her before standing. “If you’re remaking her.”
He didn’t wait for thanks, just nodded once and turned to leave.
“Askarion needs an assistant. Someone with steady hands and no patience for fools.” A beat of silence to let the offer land. “You’ll need to learn proper herb work, though.”
He paused at the tent flap. “…They’re good men,” he breathed. “Don’t make me regret vouching for you.”
It wasn’t a threat. It was a plea.
Then he was gone—leaving Alessia with cloth softer than anything she had touched in years, and the weight of a second chance heavy in her hands.
She traced a finger over the edge of the bundle, marveling at the way it felt beneath her fingertips.
“Thank you,” she whispered, knowing Patrian wouldn’t hear her.
Because that was trust, that was faith—an offering with no strings.
She looked up to see Stella standing at the tent’s entrance, grinning and covered in honey cake crumbs—then back to the linen, and she knew.
This was worth fighting for. This was worth staying for.
And when Dionys returned moments later with food, when Odrian trotted in behind him, already launching into some ridiculous story about Stella’s negotiation tactics with the cooks—
—Alessia just smiled, tucked the fabric into her satchel, and let herself belong.
This chapter contains themes of past abuse, threats made toward a child, intense fear-based coercion, discussion of a parent preparing a fatal “backup plan” for herself and her child, references to severe mistreatment by a former captor, and strong emotional distress. It also includes characters reacting with overwhelming anger and protective intensity. Please be safe while reading. A summary of events is included in the post-chapter author note.
After Alessia put Stella to bed, she sat by the fire, watching the flames dance as she absentmindedly toyed with a small vial sealed with wax.
It was among her last secrets. Beyond the vial, there were only three others—Dolos, her dreams, and what she did for Walus. She would tell them about Dolos in time. She would tell them about what Walus had made her do.
But the dreams were a secret she would take to her pyre. She knew what happened to those cursed with the prophecy. She remembered what had happened to the prince and princess when others had discovered their abilities.
Odrian spotted her by the fire—just a silhouette against the flickering light—and paused. For the first time all day, he was quiet.
Then, because he’s Odrian, he plopped down beside her and stole the vial right out of her fingers.
“…This looks important,” he mused, turning it over. “Dangerously so.” A beat and then, “So. What’s the last secret, Alessia of Ellun?”
Dionys appeared on her other side like a shadow given form—silent, sudden, there. He didn’t ask about the vial, just stared at it like it was a blade pressed to her throat.
If she said nothing, he would walk away.
If she said everything, he would burn the world.
But the choice is hers.
Alessia took the vial back from Odrian and turned it over in her fingers.
“Three years ago, I tried running after Walus hurt Stella. One of his lieutenants caught us. Didn’t even get to the city gates. That’s when Walus put the shackle on me. I was under constant guard, only allowed three places in his villa—the training yard, his bedroom, and a cell under his villa. But it wasn’t my only punishment.” She took a deep breath, her hand clenching around the vial. “He gave me a warning. Told me that if I ever tried to run again, when he caught us, he would kill Stella. You know what he does to prisoners and traitors. The torture, the long deaths. He told me those would look like mercy compared to what he would do to her. He said he’d make me watch.”
She swallowed hard, “I stole jewelry when we ran. I traded some of it for this almost as soon as we were out of the city. I…I had to be sure.”
Dionys moved before she could finish, kneeling in front of her, his hands braced on her knees. “Alessia.” His voice was rough, blistering. “What’s in the vial?”
He already knows. Gods, he already knows. But he needs to hear her say it.
Odrian had gone very still beside her—his fingers twitching like he wanted to reach but didn’t dare. When he spoke, his voice was too light.
“Alessia. Sweetheart. You didn’t.”
A plea. A denial. Anything but this.
“Bitter almond,” Alessia said softly, resigned. “Fast, painless … or relatively so. Enough for an adult and a child.”
Dionys rocked back like she struck him—just once—before surging forward again, dragging her into his arms so suddenly the vial clattered to the ground.
His grip was crushing. His breath hitched against her shoulder—just once—before he muttered, thick with fury and grief and relief, “You idiot—”
You are not alone.
You are not dying.
Not while I breathe.
Odrian—unusually quiet—plucked the vial from the ground and stood, walking to the fire. For a moment, he just stared into the flames.
Then he tossed the vial in.
The wax seal blackens.
The clay cracks.
The poison burns.
He didn’t turn back right away. Just watched it crumble to ash before exhaling roughly.
“No more contingencies,” he murmured—half to himself, half to the night. “Only us.”
Dionys’ grip on Alessia didn’t loosen—if anything, it tightened, a silent promise in the press of his fingers.
“We don’t lose.”
No room for arguments. No room for doubt.
Alessia was shaking. Not from fear now—from something else. Something raw and aching and hopeful. Tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying bled from her shoulders.
They burned it. They burned her out.
The fire crackled, the last of the vial’s remains collapsing into embers, and something in her chest unfurled.
“…Okay,” she whispered with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
It’s surrender. It’s trust. It’s everything.
Dionys exhales—rough, relieved—before dragging her tighter against her chest, his arms locking around her like she might vanish if he let go. His pulse was a drumbeat against her cheek—fast, alive, furious.
“…Okay,” he echoed—gruff, tender—into her hair.
Odrian didn’t crowd them, just sank back onto the log, close enough that his knee brushed Alessia’s, and watched the fire consume the last of the poison. His fingers tapped absently against his thigh—counting, planning—but his posture was relaxed. Certain.
Dionys finally loosens his grip—just enough to tilt Alessia’s face up, his thumb sweeping under her eye. “No more running,” he muttered. It wasn’t a request. “No more sacrifices.”
Odrian leaned in then—close enough to press his forehead to Alessia’s temple, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“You wouldn’t have used it,” he said softly. “Not really.” A desperate hope. “You’re too damn stubborn to die.”
Alessia let out a wet, trembling laugh as she leaned into Dionys’ touch—just for a moment—before pulling away,
She stared at the burning remnants of the vial.
“I wasn’t going to—” She stopped, shook her head. “Not unless there was no other choice. Not unless he had us. And even then …”
Her fingers twitched as she glanced toward the tent where Stella slept.
She exhaled, slow and shuddering. “I didn’t want to. But the world isn’t certain. The Fates aren’t kind. They hear our plans and oaths and laugh as they weave.” She wrung her hands together. “I believe…I know you would both die before letting us get taken again, but if it comes down to me or her, promise me you’ll protect her. Always her.” She swallowed hard, “Even if he gets me, Walus won’t kill me. Not immediately. I’ve survived him before. I can do it again. But Stella…” She trailed off, the words catching in her throat. She was shaking, terrified they’d see her as the monster she felt like for even considering what she had.
“I need to know she’ll be okay.”
She felt like a monster.
Dionys’ hand closed over hers—rough, warm, unyielding. His voice was barely more than a growl.
“No one is ever touching her again,” he swore. “No one is ever hurting you again.” His grip tightened, “Not while I live.”
A pause, then—so quietly only she could hear—“And if the Fates laugh?” His jaw set. “I’ll carve our names into their threads myself.”
Odrian’s fingers brushed her temple—gentle, steady—as he leaned in.
“Alessia,” he murmured. “Listen to me, really listen.”
He tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
“You don’t have to be ready to die for her anymore,” he said, each word deliberate. “Because we are here. And we are not letting either of you go.”
His thumb traced the line of her cheek before he added, softer, “You don’t have to be the monster, Thelktria. That’s our job now.”
Alessia’s breath hitched—hard—at the name. Thelktria.
She’d heard the word before—only in stories, in the old myths her mother would whisper at bedtime.
The woman who wove silver from moonlight.
The sorceress who made kings kneel with a glance.
Her fingers curled around Dionys’, her other hand fisting into Odrian’s tunic as she shook.
She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t. But her vision blurred anyway.
“…You can’t promise that,” she whispered. “You don’t know what—”
Dionys tugged—sharp and insistent—forcing her to meet his gaze. “Yes. We can.”
His eyes were alight—not with anger, not anymore, but with something hotter. Something unbreakable.
“You don’t get to argue with kings, thief.”
Odrian chuckled darkly as his hand slid to the back of her neck, grounding. “Darling, Sweetheart. You forget—we’re Aurean.”
A beat, his grin turned feral.
“Which means we cheat.”
Alessia’s laugh was half sob, but she leaned into them both—letting their certainty, their fire, seep into her bones.
Maybe she didn’t have to carry this alone anymore. Maybe she could believe.
“…Fine,” she muttered. “But if you two idiots get yourselves killed, I’m going to the Underworld just to yell at you.”
Dionys snorted, sharp and satisfied, before flicking her forehead.
“Good.”
He didn’t say we’d drag you back. He didn’t have to. The look in his eyes said it for him.
Odrian’s fingers tightened against her nape, his smirk all teeth. “Promise?”
He didn’t want her in the Underworld. Not ever. But the thought of her rage, of her storming after them even into death—
It was the most Alessia thing imaginable.
“Yes,” she said. “I promise.”
Dionys exhaled before pressing his forehead against hers, “Good.”
It’s a growl. A prayer. A promise.
Then he locked eyes with Odrian over her shoulder to snarl, “We’re keeping them.”
It isn’t a request. It isn’t even a declaration. It was a law of nature.
Odrian didn’t smirk, didn’t argue. He just met Dionys’ glare head-on and nodded—sharp and final.
“Was there ever any doubt?”
The fire wasn’t quite loud enough to cover the crack in his voice, but they all pretended it was.
“Never again,” he murmured to Alessia—fervent and desperate. “You hear me? No more backup plans. No more exit strategies.”
His thumb swiped at the dampness on her cheek. “You don’t need it. Not while we’re here.”
Dionys’ arms tightened—just slightly—before he pulled back, gripping her shoulders hard enough to bruise.
“You run,” he growled, “we chase you. You fight, we fight beside you. You die—” He draws in a ragged breath. “—we burn the world after you.”
It isn’t poetry. It isn’t pretty. It is a promise carved in blood and bone.
“But you don’t get to leave first.”
Alessia closed her eyes. Breathed.
They’re keeping us.
It settled in her chest—warm, solid, and real.
No more poisons. No more running. No more alone.
When she opened her eyes again, she was smiling.
“…Does this mean I get to call you my kings now?”
Dionys snorted and flicked her forehead. “No.”
Odrian gasped, clutching his chest like she had mortally wounded him. “Barbarian. After all our bonding? After the olives?”
He’s teasing, but his fingers brush her wrist—gently. “You’re stuck with us, thief.”
Alessia grinned, bright and alive, before she stole the wineskin from his hand.
“Good.”
Odrian’s grin softened, something unbearably fond in his eyes as he watched Alessia and Dionys.
“To family,” he murmured as he took the wineskin back and tipped it to his lips, half toast and half prayer. There was no mischief in it, just truth.
He rested his cheek against Alessia’s hair, just for a breath, before murmuring again, “We should get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.”
“Planning homicide takes energy,” Dionys said with a nod.
“Not homicide,” Odrian corrected, his smirk almost audible. “Just a long-overdue demotion.” He paused. “…To corpse.”
Dionys huffed and stood, then offered a hand to Alessia. “Bed,” he ordered—no room for argument. But his thumb brushed her wrist, just once.
Alessia took his hand with a grateful squeeze, letting him pull her up—she swayed slightly, exhaustion and relief hitting her all at once.
She glanced toward the tent, where Stella slept in safety and warmth, and then back to the two of them—these impossible, stubborn, wonderful men who had somehow become hers.
Hers.
“Bed,” she agreed, her voice rough but steady. Then, softer—for them alone, “Thank you.”
Not just for that night. For everything. For seeing her—really seeing her—and staying, anyway.
Alessia was home.
And they were hers.
Odrian pressed a kiss to the crown of her head—quick, playful, affectionate—before nudging her toward the tent. “Save the mushy stuff for after we’ve murdered your ex.”
“Too late,” Dionys muttered—but he’s looking at Odrian, not Alessia, with something dangerously close to fondness in his glare. “You’ve already gone soft.”
He tugged Alessia toward the tent, stopping just long enough to mock-glare at Odrian. “You’re on first watch.”
It wasn’t a request.
Odrian clutched his chest—gasping, betrayed—but he didn’t argue. He just watched them disappear into the tent before turning back to the fire, his grin softening into something quieter. Something warm.
His strategist. His warrior. His impossible, vicious, perfectly matched set.
─ ·⋆˚☆˖°· ─
Alessia let Dionys steer her into the tent, settling beside Stella—who instinctively curled into her, the second she felt the dip of the bedroll.
Dionys lingered—just for a heartbeat—to brush a calloused knuckle against Stella’s cheek, checking her temperature with gruff tenderness.
Then—without a word—he turned to leave.
Alessia caught his wrist before he could go.
“…Stay?” she murmured—half question, half plea.
It was too soon. Too much. But she didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to wake from nightmares to an empty tent.
She was so tired of being alone.
Dionys stilled. For one endless second, he just stared at her hand on his wrist, like he’d seen nothing like it before.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
“…Move over.”
He didn’t ask whether she was sure. Didn’t hesitate. Just toed off his sandals and folded himself onto the bedroll beside her with all the grace of a man settling into a siege.
“Move once and I push you off,” he grumbled.
A lie. If Alessia woke screaming tonight, he would be there. If Stella cried out, he’d answer.
If the world burned, he would stand between them and the flames.
His arms locked around her waist like a steel band. His heartbeat was thunder against her spine. He didn’t let go.
Alessia let out a shaky breath—half laugh, half relief—and curled into him, savoring the warmth, the weight, the sheer solidness of him.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she whispered.
And she meant it.
Stella, sensing the shift even in sleep, wriggled closer—nestling against Alessia’s chest with a contented sigh, her tiny fingers clutching her mother’s tunic.
Alessia closed her eyes—breathing them in. With Dionys at her back, Stella in her arms—and for the first time in years—she let herself rest.
Outside the tent, Odrian watched the fire dim, his gaze occasionally flickering toward the tent as his smirk softened.
Safe, he thinks. They’re safe.
Then—because someone needed to be dramatic about it—he tossed a pebble at the tent’s canvas. It barely made a sound, but it was enough.
“Goodnight, paramour.”
His voice was barely louder than the wind, but he knew Dionys heard him. Knew Alessia did, too.
Alessia sits by the fire after putting Stella to bed, turning over a small sealed vial—her last and most desperate contingency. When Odrian and Dionys join her, she finally admits what the vial is: something she acquired long ago as a final escape if Walus ever caught them again. The revelation hits both men hard—Dionys with raw panic and fury, Odrian with a quieter but just as devastating grief. They burn the vial, making it clear that she doesn’t need that kind of plan anymore, not with them.
The rest of the chapter is the emotional aftermath of that confession. Alessia struggles with the guilt of having even considered such an option, while Odrian and Dionys ground her with fierce, absolute assurances that she and Stella are safe now—and that she no longer has to survive the world alone. The scene ends with the three of them settling into a fragile but real sense of family, safety, and mutual trust, with Dionys staying beside her and Stella as they sleep and Odrian standing guard just outside.
Tiny Raven 