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“You’re leaning on your right heel again, Tauriel,” Soren warned softly, stepping into a defensive stance.

“I’m tired, Soren,” I rasped, my voice thick with exhaustion. My ribs ached, my muscles felt like frayed rope, and the psychological weight of tomorrow’s execution was crushing my chest. “Just... give me five more passes.”

“Tauriel, you need to rest—”

“Again!” I demanded, lunging forward with my practice spear.

It was a fatal mistake born of pure fatigue. My foot caught the edge of a discarded iron shield resting on the stone floor. My ankle twisted violently, my center of gravity collapsing as I stumbled forward.

Soren tried to check his swing, but the momentum was already carrying his heavy practice staff through the air. The hard oak beam struck me square across the temple with a sickening, heavy CRACK.

Blinding white light exploded behind my eyes. The world spun violently on its axis, the stone floor rushing up to meet me before darkness swallowed my mind.

When consciousness slowly seeped back into my head, the harsh glare of the armory torches was gone, replaced by the soft, ambient glow of flickering tallow candles and the sharp, medicinal stench of crushed wintergreen and bitter liniments.

I was lying on a narrow cot inside the citadel’s medical wing.

My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, and a heavy linen bandage was wrapped tightly around my forehead.

Sitting on the wooden stool beside my cot was Soren. He had stripped off his heavy guard pauldrons, sitting in his simple linen shirt, his head resting in his hands. The moment he heard me draw a raspy breath, his head snapped up, his dark eyes wide with immense, gut-wrenching relief.

“Tauriel...” Soren breathed, reaching out to gently hover his hand over my arm, not daring to touch the raw skin. “Gods above... you scared me to death.”

“I... I tripped,” I wheezed, my voice raspy as I tried to sit up, only for a wave of nausea to slam into my chest.

“Stay down,” Soren urged gently, his hand coming down to rest softly against my shoulder, holding me against the pillow. “The healer checked your skull. It’s a mild concussion. You just need sleep before dawn.”

I looked up at his face—at the dark circles beneath his eyes, the genuine, unselfish worry etched into his features. In a keep filled with stone kings, arrogant lords, and territorial commanders, Soren was the only constant anchor that had never asked me to be anything other than myself.

“Soren... I’m sorry,” I whispered, my green eyes swimming with exhaustion. “For the duel tomorrow... for everything.”

Soren offered a small, sad, and deeply earnest smile. He reached down, taking my cold, bare hand in his, giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Tauriel,” Soren said quietly, his voice rich with an emotion that transcended military rank. “I know what tomorrow is. I know the odds stacked against you. But I need you to hear me... no matter what happens inside that ring, you can always depend on me.”

He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with absolute certainty.

“I don’t stand between you and the blade because the King assigned me to guard your body,” Soren whispered softly. “I stand there because you are my friend, Tauriel. You’ll never stand alone. And I will guard your back until my chest stops beating.”

The sheer, unadulterated sincerity in his words was a balm to my fractured soul. A faint tear slipped down my temple, lost in my copper-red waves.

“Thank you, Soren,” I breathed.

My eyelids grew impossibly heavy, the concussion and the exhaustion dragging my mind back down into the grey fog of sleep. I let my head sink back into the soft pillow, my breathing evening out as I drifted off.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the heavy fog in my mind fractured.

I briefly opened my eyes, my vision blurry and swimming in the dim, golden candlelight of the medical bay.

Soren was still sitting by the side of my bed. But he wasn’t looking at me.

He had his back slightly turned, his right hand resting flat over a brass bowl on the nightstand. In the dim light, I saw the glint of a thin iron dagger in his left hand. A fresh, deep crimson line was sliced straight across his right palm, dark blood welling up from the cut, dripping steadily onto a piece of gauze resting in the bowl.

With quiet, practiced efficiency, Soren set the dagger down, grabbed a strip of clean linen, and began tightly wrapping the bloody bandage around his own hand, his teeth gritting against the pain.

My sluggish, concussed brain tried to process the sight—Why was he cutting himself? Why was he taking his own blood?—but before I could form a thought or utter a sound, the darkness claimed me again, and I dropped back into the void.

The second time I woke, the candle on the nightstand had burned down to a tiny, flickering nub.