My mind recoils, circling back to where it began: the cottage, the glade, the creek. I long for the simplicity of that afternoon beneath the trees, the way the sunlight threads through the leaves and sets his raven hair alight, and the gleam in his eyes when he looks at me. Those eyes that watch me with an intensity that both unsettles and steadies me.
I think of his touch. The way his hand reached to steady me near the water’s edge, though pain flickered in his gaze. His pain.
The memory jolts me back to the present, as if I’ve spoken aloud the question that rises in my chest. “How is he?” My concern slips past every other thought. “He wasn’t fully healed… we hadn’t meant for him to return until he was.”
“Now, now. He’s well,” she says softly. Her hand finds mine again, warm and anchoring. The tender presence makes something within meache in ways I cannot name. Her beauty carries her years with grace: long braided hair, a face that needs no adornment, eyes that hold both steel and sympathy. For me, who has never known a mother, not even a ghost of one to grieve, the gentleness in her care is almost unbearable.
“The healers tended to him while you rested,” she continues. “I doubt they would have allowed him to resume duties if he weren’t fit to do so.” She pats my hand as though to press reassurance into me. “In fact, I believe he should be finishing soon—and eager to see you, no doubt. The girl who brought our king back to us.”
King. Lord. Duty.
The words press into me, heavier with each breath. They threaten to crush me, yet even their weight cannot eclipse the relief that he lives.
The portraits, the gilded frames, the echoing halls—they blur to nothing as Soria guides me through the corridors. All that matters is that I’m on my way to him.
When the massive doors open, swung wide by guards on either side, I see none of the banquet set across the table. My eyes narrow on only one thing.
Vale.
He stands taller now, not because of his title, but because of the way he carries himself. The firelight silhouettes his form, his smile blooming the instant he sees me. He rises, crosses to the seat beside him, and pulls it out in invitation.
I tug at the sagging sleeve of the ill-fitted gown, suddenly aware of how it slips. His gaze catches mine, unbothered, and his hand closes gently around mine, guiding me to sit.
The fire roars behind him, cascading light across the chamber. The warmth and his nearness press at me until words tangle on my tongue. He breaks the silence first.
“I’m sorry I was kept away so long.” His voice is rougher than I remember, carrying a weight he tries to soften.
“There was much I had to discuss after being away… longer than expected.”
I frown, but relief wells out in my voice. “You’re well?”
“Yes.” His hand reaches for mine again,firm and steady. A long breath leaves him. “Because of you.” His other hand drifts to his side, unconsciously, where I know the wound lies. No bandages show beneath the linen, but I remember too well the blood.
“The healers say I would not have made it without your aid. Even with our gifts, such a wound is meant to kill.”
I flinch at the thought. “Do you know who attacked you?”
His jaw hardens. “That was part of what kept me. We have our theories.” He leans in, eyes sharp and searching, weighing how much to tell me. “Few knew of my journey, fewer still the path I took. Only a small band of my men traveled with me, returning from quiet diplomacy. We chose back roads to avoid notice. But the ambush…” His gaze falls, then rises again, kingly and resolute. “It was targeted. Someone meant me dead.”
“And your men? How have they faired?”
“They live. They fought valiantly and struck down most of the enemy.”
“Most?” The word escapes me.
He inclines his head, his voice lowering. “When they were able, my men returned to the site. They found my scattered armor, soaked in blood. They found the bodies of our foes. But not the blade that cut me or the one who wields it.”
Instinct draws my hand to his side, cupping the place where the wound had been. Heat radiates between us, my touch and his body.
His gaze dips, just once, to where my fingers brush the place of his injury, and the flicker in his eyes tells me he still carries its echo—the memory of the blade, of how near it had come. For a moment the hardness in him falters, and when his eyes lift again, they soften, the king giving way to the man who looks at me as if I’m the tether keeping him here.
“So the threat remains?”
“I’m afraid so.” His hand covers mine, warm and certain. “Mira, until we know who lies behind this, until they are stopped, it’s not safe for you. I know it’s much to ask, but I need you here. Safe.”
I draw in a sharp breath, logic and feeling warring within me. “As you wish, Lord Vale.”
The words cut at him. For a heartbeat, his gaze falters. Then, strong and certain, “No. To you, I am Vale. Just Vale.”
