Odrin shifts in his chair. “The blade mattered.”
“Yes,” Vale agrees. “But not only the blade.” His gaze returns to me. “Mira,” he says gently, “you once told me magic seems to answer care. That it responds most freely when the cost is willingly paid.” I nod again. I’ve felt it—plants stirring beneath my hands, the wind carrying song when I ask instead of command. Vale exhales slowly. “My wounds nearly killed me. We believed old magic played a part in that damage.” His voice tightens. “But what if it also played a part in what spared me?”
Ace frowns. “You’re saying she healed you before she knew she could?”
“I’m saying,” Vale replies, “that I’m no longer certain she wasn’t already touched.” I open my mouth to protest, but he continues, softer now. “You heard the call from the Sanctum when you first arrived. But even before that, I watched you move through this world.” He gestures vaguely, as if grasping for memory. “You were… aligned. As though listening to something the rest of us could not.”
Soria’s fingers tighten around mine.
“Magic didn’t leave,” Vale says quietly. “We were cut off from it.” He looks around the room now—to Odrin, to Soria, to Ace. “We still are,” he adds. “But Mira—she isn’t.”
Ace lets out a weak, breathless laugh. “That would explain a few things.” Vale’s eyes return to the bandage at Ace’s chest.
“If blades can carry old magic—dark, ancient, corruptive,” he says, “then why shouldn’t care carry its counterweight?”
No one answers. We don’t need to.
The lantern light flickers. Ace’s breathing remains steady. And somewhere between fear and wonder, something new takes shape—not understanding, not yet. But possibility.
“What if I’m not there?” The thought slips out before I can stop it, dark and sudden. “The next time some corrupt force makes a move—on one of you—what if I’m not there to stop its magic before it—” I break off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
“But you were there,” Vale says gently. “You were there when I needed more than refuge. And you’re here now, with Ace.” His words are meant to comfort me. Instead, they only sharpen the edge of how close we came to losing everything.
Ace exhales softly, then smirks despite himself. “Careful, Your Majesty. That almost sounded like doubt.” I glance at him. “Don’t fight your destiny,” he continues, voice rough but steady. “Seems the fates have a habit of placing you exactly where you’re needed—precisely when you’re needed.” He pauses, then adds, “Maybe all you have to do… is what you’ve always done.”
I arch a brow. “Which is?”
“Listen,” he says simply. “And not just to my magnificent ballads, m’lady.” He manages an incorrigible wink. “Though that would be wise.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it—thin, but real. “You truly are singular, my friend.”
“That’s why we call him Ace,” Vale says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
I blink. “Wait—what?” I look between them, suddenly suspicious. “His name isn’t actually Ace?”
Ace gasps, scandalized. “I will hear no such blasphemy.”
Vale chuckles. “His real name is known to very few.”
“And they intend to keep it that way,” Ace adds solemnly, attempting to rise in protest. He makes it halfway before gravity—and common sense—win, dropping him back against the pillows with a groan. “Perhaps I’ll tell you… in a few decades.”
I glare at him, half tempted to shove him off the bed despite everything. If he weren’t still bleeding, I absolutely would.
He grins anyway.
Laughter fades, and the late hour presses in at last. Soria stretches through a yawn, then startles herself—clapping a hand over her mouth and straightening with practiced composure. Vale laughs softly at the display before taking command. “We need rest. All of us.” He points at Ace, who responds with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.
“I’ve been in a bed for a day and a half,” Ace drawls, ever droll, ever defiant.
“You go,” I tell Soria and Vale. “I’ll sit with our patient a little longer, then come to bed.”
They hesitate only a moment before conceding. Soon enough, the ward settles into quiet. Just Ace and me. I reach for the book, already anticipatingthe little storytelling game forming in my mind. “What tales might we uncover from ancient promise?” I ask dramatically, thumbing through the pages.
Ace tilts his head as I return to where I last left off. “Read me the last page,” he says, sudden and intent.
I blink. “What? Why would I do that?” There may be no tidy story laid out here, but one page at a time feels… right.
“I like to know how things end.” When his smile fails to sway me, he resorts to theatrics—pouting, batting his lashes in a way so transparently manipulative I can’t help myself.
