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.
Next
Tiny Raven 