"Still," she says. "You saved my life. A fae healer saving an elven queen. That's not exactly common."
"No," I admit. "It's not."
She studies me for a long moment, then asks quietly, "We're enemies. Our kingdoms are at war. You could have let me die. Why save me?"
I almost tell her it changes nothing. She will die all the same tonight. What comes out is closer to the truth than I'm comfortable with.
"I owed a debt."I meet her lilac eyes briefly. "Healing you settled it."
Her brow lifts slightly.
"You saved me once," I add after a beat. "That makes us even."
"I suppose it does." A faint smile touches her mouth.
But then it fades. Something shifts in her expression. She looks away, toward the window where pale light filters through. The change in her pulls at something in my chest.
The bond stirs, telling me she’s thinking about the suffering of her people.
"I need you to know something," I hear myself say.
She turns back to me, waiting.
"I wasn't part of the main force that attacked your kingdom."
I don't know why it matters that she knows this. In a few moments she will be dead. Yet the words rise anyway. “The wyvern riders who burned the western regions. That wasn't my command.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
What the fuck am I doing?I’m going to kill her tonight anyway. But something about the sadness in her face, the weight she's carrying made me want her to know the truth.
She studies me quietly. "Then why were you there?"
I hold her gaze for a moment, then look away. "I was sent to observe. The king's mistress acted on her own and brought an army without proper authorization. I was sent to extract her if things went wrong."
They fucking did go wrong.
I don't tell her about the betrayal or the riders who turned on me mid-battle. The explanation feels inadequate, but it is the only truth I allow her. For some gods-damned reason, it felt important that she understand I wasn't the one who led that slaughter.
Rhianelle is quiet for a long moment, processing. She shifts against the pillows, trying to sit straighter. The movement draws a sharp breath from her.
"You're in pain," I observe.
"My ribs," she admits. "And my side. It's not terrible. But it’s—”
I move closer before I can stop myself. My hands hover over her ribcage, not quite touching.
"May I?"
She nods.
I press gently through the thin fabric of her nightgown, testing for instability. The bond stirs at the contact, warmththreading through my fingers. Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away.
"Two cracked ribs," I murmur. "Left side. They’re healing cleanly, but still tender. You'll feel it for a while. Give it time."
"Time," she echoes.
I withdraw my hands, restoring distance between us again. "You should rest. Let the healing continue."
