Alina closed her eyes and let herself float, the fever draining from her body in slow, aching waves. Ever so slowly, the pain receded and was replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion, settling into her like a blanket being drawn over her body. As she slipped under, her mind frazzled and skittish, she thought that she might actually survive this.
When Alina next woke, the world was gentler—or maybe she had just dulled enough to mistake survival for kindness. She lay on her back, head propped on a pillow that smelled of someone else’s hair, every muscle stiff and spent. The pain was a memory now, sharp but distant, replaced by a hollow ache that ran the length of her body and back again. For a few moments she did nothing but breathe, feeling the slow bloom of air in her ribs, the way her fingers and toes still tingled with leftover static. She was alive.
She was also, unmistakably, alone.
It was quiet in the infirmary, save for the steady drip of meltwater somewhere in the corridor and the whisper of her own breath. Sunlight trickled through a light shaft and started to fill the room, lightening it by degrees. From this vantage, everything looked strange—larger, lonelier, as if the space around her was waiting for something to happen.
She tried to remember what that something might be. At first, her mind skipped in anxious loops: the pain, the burning, Elara’s disappointed voice. Then, slowly, Kael’s name rose to the surface, and the longing that came with it was nearly as strong as the magic that had almost killed her.
He had not come. She knew she should not care—or at least she should not admit it—but every time the door creaked, or a shadow passed outside, her heart kicked like a trapped animal. She waited, stubbornly, for his silhouette, the familiar set of his shoulders, that rare, crooked smile that sometimes made her believe she mattered.
But she waited in vain.
After an hour, or maybe two, Finn bounced in, carrying a tray of something that looked like porridge and smelled like old socks. He set the tray on the side table with a flourish, then perched himself on the end of her cot, careful not to jostle her too much.
“Up and at ‘em, Your Highness,” he said, grinning. “Thought you might be hungry after your little… performance art piece yesterday.”
Alina tried to smile, but her lips cracked and she hissed instead. “I think I burned out my taste buds,” she said, voice ragged. “But thanks.”
Finn produced a wooden spoon from behind his ear—seemingly unable to just take it out from a pocket like a normal person—and dug into the porridge. He offered her a bite, which she took reluctantly. It was sweet, spiced with clove and something sharp, and the first mouthful soothed the rawness at the back of her throat.
“Have you seen Kael?” she asked, unable to make herself look directly at Finn.
Finn’s grin softened into something almost apologetic. “Busy. War stuff, you know. But he said to tell you he’s glad you’re alive, and that he’ll drop by as soon as he’s done plotting the downfall of civilization.”
She almost laughed, but the sound caught in her chest. “He’s probably mad I almost set the woods on fire.”
Finn shrugged and spooned another bite into her mouth. “He’s mad all right, but not like you think. Anyway, I heard you knocked Elara off her high horse. Twice!”
Alina managed a weak snort. “She’ll never forgive me.”
Finn grinned again. “Maybe she will. Or maybe she’ll just set your eyebrows on fire next time. Either way, you’re a legend now. People are talking.”
“Let them talk,” Alina muttered, feeling exhaustion drag her eyelids down. “Maybe then they’ll stop hating me.”
Finn’s expression grew serious, just for a moment. “Not everyone hates you, you know. Some of us are just waiting for you to admit you belong here.” He poked her arm, surprisingly gentle. “Eat. Heal. Then go prove the rest of them wrong.”
She opened her eyes to look at him, trying to read the sincerity behind his lopsided grin. He met her gaze, unflinching, and for a moment she felt a little less alone. “Thanks, Finn,” she said.
He winked. “Anytime, Princess.”
He left soon after with a promise to return with more food and fewer jokes. The room emptied again, and Alina felt the weight of her own thoughts settle back over her. She drifted in and out, sometimes waking to the creak of floorboards or the faint voice of Sage in the corridor.
But mostly, she just waited.
Night fell, slow and blue. Torches guttered low in the hall. The ache in her limbs grew worse as the cold crept back into the infirmary, and she shivered under the thin blanket. She remembered the story Kael had told her, about the first time he’d failed, about the lives he couldn’t save. She wondered if this was what survival looked like: not victory, but a slow accretion of scars and memories, a resolve that grew harder each time you refused to give up.
She tried to sleep, but her brain was a haunted house. Memories banged around inside: ghosts of Elara’s scorn, Maven’s hate, her own mistakes echoing louder the longer she lay awake. She turned over, pulling her knees to her chest, and bit the edge of the blanket to stifle her sobs. She thought of the way Kael had held her that night and the warmth of his hand on her back, the certainty that, for a brief moment, she was not alone in the world.
She must have dozed off eventually, because the next time she opened her eyes, Sage was sitting beside her bed. The healer looked exhausted with dark smudges under her eyes, her hair coming loose from its braid. She held a clay cup in both hands and watched Alina with friendly concern.
“You’re awake,” Sage said, voice low and even.
Alina tried to sit up, but Sage stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Not yet. You need water.” She pressed the cup to Alina’s lips and waited as she drank. The water was cold and tasted like stone, but it soothed the burning in her chest and made her headache recede.
“You pushed too far, too fast,” Sage said. “Your body wasn’t ready.”
Alina wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I didn’t have a choice.”
