I hesitate with my hand on the door handle. She’s been through enough without me barging into her private moments. But the sound comes again—smaller this time, more vulnerable—and my resolve crumbles.
I ease the door open and peer inside.
She’s tangled in her bedding, auburn hair dark with sweat, face twisted with whatever she’s experiencing. Her branded wrist glows faintly in the darkness, pulsing in rhythm with her rapid heartbeat.
"No," she whispers to her dream. "Please, no."
I’m across the room before conscious thought kicks in, settling carefully on the edge of her bed. Up close, I can see tears tracking down her cheeks.
"Rhea." I keep my voice soft, not wanting to startle her awake too suddenly. "It’s just a dream."
She stirs at the sound but doesn’t wake. Her hand reaches out blindly, fingers closing around my wrist with surprising strength.
"Don’t leave," she mumbles, still caught between sleep and waking. "Please don’t leave me alone."
The words hit me harder than they should. When was the last time anyone asked me to stay? When was the last time my presence brought comfort instead of fear?
"I’m here," I tell her, though I’m not sure she can hear me. "You’re safe."
Her grip on my wrist loosens slightly, but she doesn’t let go. Her breathing gradually evens out, and the tension leaves her face as the nightmare fades.
I should go. Return to my own quarters and let her sleep undisturbed. But something keeps me rooted in place—the trust implicit in her grip on my wrist, the way she seems to find peace in my presence.
When was the last time someone needed me for something other than violence?
The thought unsettles me more than I care to admit.
I stay through the worst of it, watching shadows move across her face as the nightmare gradually loses its hold. My presence seems to anchor her, giving her something stable to cling to while her dreams tear at old wounds. The brand pulses gently between us, carrying reassurance instead of pain.
Gradually, her hand relaxes in mine, though she doesn’t quite let go. Her breathing deepens into natural sleep, and the lines of distress smooth from her features. Whatever demons plagued her have retreated for now.
Only then do I allow myself to really look at her. The delicate line of her jaw, sharper than it should be after days of poor rations. The way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks in the moonlight. The stubborn set of her mouth, even in sleep, as if she’s ready to argue with whatever comes next.
She’s stronger than she looks. Braver than she has any right to be. Most people would have fled after seeing what happenedin that ritual chamber. The shadows reaching for her soul, the way ancient magic tore reality apart around us. Any sane person would have run as far and fast as possible.
Instead, she stayed. Chose to bind herself to a cursed warlord rather than abandon someone in need.
The mark on my palm pulses warm against her skin, a reminder of what ties us together. For better or worse, we’re connected now. Her fate is mine, mine is hers. The responsibility should terrify me—I’ve lost everyone I ever tried to protect. But somehow, it doesn’t.
Maybe because she’s not asking me to protect her. She’s asking me to stand beside her.
There’s a difference, and that difference might be what changes everything.
Dawn’s light begins to creep through the windows, painting the stone walls in soft gold. The harsh shadows of night give way to gentler illumination, though the abbey’s oppressive atmosphere doesn’t entirely lift. This place has been touched by too much darkness to ever be truly at peace.
Rhea stirs as the light touches her face, her grip on my wrist tightening momentarily before her eyes flutter open. For a heartbeat, she just stares at me, confusion clear in her green eyes.
"Krath?" She blinks, trying to orient herself. "What are you doing here?"
"You were having nightmares," I explain, suddenly aware of how this must look. A massive orc sitting on the edge of her bed, her hand still wrapped around his wrist. "I heard you call out."
She sits up slowly, wincing as if her head aches. The movement pulls her hand away from mine, leaving my wrist feeling strangely cold.
"I don’t remember calling anyone." Her voice carries the rough quality of someone who’s been crying in her sleep.
"You were asleep. Asked me not to leave you alone."
Color rises in her cheeks at that, and she looks down at her hands. The vulnerability in the gesture does something uncomfortable to my chest.
