Chapter Text
The tent was already too warm when she ducked inside; canvas walls sagging slightly from last night’s rain, the air was thick with the smell of blood, boiled linen, sour sweat, and crushed herbs, a scent she had long since learned to learn the trade of healing. She moved her feet carefully, threading their way across the narrow spaces between stacks of pallets and crates, making sure she was careful enough not step on discarded bandages or the hem of someone’s cloak. A small basket is tucked against her hip, fingers numb from scrubbing them raw in cold water only moments before, her mind already counting what she had left—three clean cloths, half a jar of honey salve, one small bundle of dried comfrey, barely enough for the afternoon, and certainly not enough for the number of wounded that kept arriving in uneven waves like a cruel tide that never truly receded.
A young lord was waiting for her on the far side of the tent, propped awkwardly against a stack of folded blankets as though even sitting upright offended him, with his fine boots still polished despite the mud outside, his cloak spread carefully beside him so that no one might step on it. His face is pale and slick with sweat and the dark curls that were plastered to his forehead. One of his hands was gripping the edge of his pallet as if he expected it to flee at any moment, and when he saw her approach, he let out a long, exaggerated breath that sounded more like a sigh of martyrdom than a simple reaction to pain.
“You’re late,” he said at once, voice thin and sharp, eyes flicking to the stained cloth in her hands. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”
She did not answer, only set her basket down beside his pallet and knelt, smoothing her skirt automatically—because answering would waste breath and breath was better saved for counting stitches and murmured reassurances to those who really needs it, and because she had learned very early that some patients would complain no matter what she did, and this one had been complaining since before she even touched him.
“I hope you washed those,” he added, watching her hands with suspicion. “My uncle’s maester always washed his things three times. With wine.”
“They’re clean, my lord,” she replied quietly, lifting the edge of the bandage that wrapped his upper arm, already stiff with dried blood.
“It still smells,” he muttered. Everything in the tent smelled, she thought, but she did not say it, only loosened the knot with careful fingers, peeling the cloth back inch by inch to reveal the angry red slash beneath—it looks shallow but wide, with the skin torn open where a sword had glanced off his shield and found flesh instead—not a mortal wound, not even a serious one, but definitely was enough to frighten him, enough to bruise his pride, enough to make him feel wronged by the world.
“Oh—oh—gently,” he hissed as she cleaned around it with damp linen. “You’re pressing too hard.”
“I’m not, my lord,” she said.
“You are. I can feel it.” She adjusted her grip anyway, though she knew she had been careful. Her hand went to dip the cloth again and wipe away old blood and dirt. Carefully, she checks for signs of rot, heat, swelling, or anything that might mean trouble later.
“My maester never did it like that,” he went on. “He always used blue oil first.”
“Blue oil traps dirt,” she replied automatically.
“Well, he said—ah—Seven save me, that hurts!” He jerked his arm suddenly, nearly knocking her hand away, and she caught it on instinct—steady despite the jolt of fear that shot through her.
“Please don’t move, my lord,” she said, her voice still soft, though something tight had entered it. “You will make it worse.”
“You’re the one making it worse,” he snapped. “You’re going to scar me. Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” she said. Truly because she did, because everyone knew, because his banner flew outside and his name had been whispered often enough since he arrived, but knowing did not change how she cleaned a wound. She applied the honey salve next, spreading it carefully with the flat of her finger, watching his face twist as if she were pouring molten gold onto him instead of medicine.
“Gods,” he groaned. “Do you have to?”
“Yes.”
“It burns!”
“That means it’s working.”
He laughed bitterly. “That’s what they say when they don’t know what they’re doing.”
Her hand hesitated for the smallest fraction of a second, then continued. Her jaw tightened as she reached for her needle and thread, already threaded and boiled, her old mentor’s voice echoing in her head as it always did—small stitches, close together, don’t rush, don’t let them see you doubt.
When the needle barely pierced his skin, he cried out, loud enough that several heads turned, one of the other healers glancing over with mild irritation.
“Stop,” he gasped. “Stop, stop, stop. I can’t—this is unbearable. Get someone else. Get someone who actually knows medicine.” She paused, looking up at him at last, meeting his eyes for the first time. She saw fear there beneath the arrogance, the terror of being hurt, of being weak, of being powerless in a tent full of dying men, and for a moment she almost felt sorry for him.
“I know what I’m doing, my lord, if you would just—” she said quietly.
“No, you don’t,” he snapped, his voice rising sharply, cracking with panic and wounded pride. “You’re just a stupid girl with herbs and dirty rags. Send for a real healer. Send for a maester.”
The words fell into the tent as stones dropped into still water. The low murmur of pain and complaint faltered. A man halfway through a groan fell silent, his mouth still open. Another froze with a cup halfway to his lips, dark liquid trembling at the rim. Someone near the back stopped muttering a prayer. Even the flies seemed to pause in their lazy circling, hovering in the heavy air.
A few soldiers turned their heads, though some stared openly. Some others looked away at once, suddenly fascinated by their bandages or their boots. One older man, his arm bound in bloody linen, frowned faintly and shifted as if uncomfortable. Two men exchanged an uneasy glance, the kind shared by people who knew something cruel had just been said and did not know whether to intervene.
Each syllable found its place inside her chest, pressing against old doubts she had never quite managed to silence, doubts whispered by tired mentors, by impatient officers, by her own reflection on sleepless nights when she wondered whether she truly belonged here at all. After all, she hasn’t been here long.
Her fingers loosened on the needle. The thread sagged.
For a heartbeat, she thought of standing. Maybe she could step back, murmur an apology she did not mean, or say that she needed more water, more cloth, more anything. She briefly thought of escaping into the press of bodies and noise before anyone could see the way her throat tightened, before anyone noticed the sting gathering behind her eyes.
Then the tent flap lifted. Light spilled in, thin and pale, cutting through the smoky dimness like a blade, and with it came the sound of boots on straw and the low murmur of voices outside falling abruptly silent, as if someone had reached out and closed a door on the world. A ripple passed through the tent.
A wounded man near the entrance straightened painfully. Another tried to sit up and failed, settling back with a grimace. A pair of soldiers hastily pushed aside a crate to clear space. Someone whispered a name under their breath while someone else crossed themselves. She noticed that the conversations died mid-sentence.
“Is there a problem here?” asked Baelor Breakspear, calmly, as if he was asking with genuine curiosity.
The young prince did not stop walking as he spoke—he moved slowly along the nearest row of pallets, pausing briefly to rest a hand on a soldier’s shoulder to murmur a quiet word to another, before glancing down at a bandage that had slipped and gesturing for it to be fixed. Only then did he turn fully toward the young lord.
Baelor stood just inside the tent now, tall and broad-shouldered, mail dulled by dust and sweat. His cloak looks more practical than lavish,=, dark hair tied back at his nape. His eyes were already moving from her half-raised needle to the loose thread, from the bleeding wound to the young lord’s flushed, petulant expression, taking everything in within seconds, missing nothing, weighing it all in silence.
“She’s hurting me, my prince,” the lord blurted. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
Baelor stepped closer, stopping beside the pallet, folding his hands behind his back. “You were struck by a sword, young man,” he said mildly. “That tends to hurt.”
The lord flushed. “But—”
“I’ve seen men lose arms for less,” Baelor continued, his tone unchanged. “They complained less, too.”
A few soldiers nearby hid their smiles. Baelor turned his gaze fully on the young lord now. “This girl has cleaned your wound, treated it, and is closing it properly. If she were careless, you would already be feverish. If she were foolish, you would already be bleeding through the straw. You are fortunate she is here.”
The lord opened his mouth, then closed it again, shrinking slightly beneath the authority in Baelor’s voice. “I… I didn’t mean…”
Baelor shifted then, his attention returning to her, and when he spoke again, his voice softened, as though he were speaking to someone entirely different. “You’ve done well,” he said. “Continue.”
She stared at him for a heartbeat, startled, her mind scrambling to catch up, then nodded quickly. “Yes, my prince.”
“I trust your hands, young lady,” he added, with a small pat on her shoulder.
Her fingers stopped shaking. She bent over her work again, thread sliding smoothly through skin, her movements steady now, certain, the young lord utterly quiet beneath her hands, watching her with something like awe where irritation had been before, and when she tied off the final stitch and wrapped the fresh bandage around his arm, he whispered, “I’m sorry,” so softly she almost missed it.
Outside, the sounds of soldiers training continued—shouts, hoofbeats, distant horns—but inside the tent, for a brief moment, she felt something settle inside her chest, something fragile and new and bright, the knowledge that someone important had seen her, had believed in her, had named her work for what it was, and that no matter how many wounds waited tomorrow, no matter how many doubts whispered in the dark, she would remember this moment, and hold onto it, and keep going.
The tent had finally grown quiet in the late afternoon.
Not the deep, peaceful kind of quiet—nothing in a medical camp was ever truly peaceful—but the thin, fragile lull that came when the worst of the day’s rush had passed, and the screaming had faded into hoarse murmurs, and most of the wounded had sunk into uneasy sleep or dull, grinding endurance. Outside, distant hammering and shouted orders drifted faintly through the canvas, reminders that the war had not paused just because this small corner of it had run out of breath.
This was her teacher’s tent. Normally, he would still be here at this hour, checking her work, correcting her stitches, sending her back to wash her hands again if he thought she had rushed. But he had gone to the nearby village earlier, trading bandages and coin for dried herbs and crushed roots from a local healer who knew the hills better than any book ever could. He had told her to rest. She had, of course, ignored that.
Now she sat cross-legged beside a low wooden crate that served as both table and stool, wiping dried blood from her needle with slow, careful strokes of a rag already stained beyond saving. Her shoulders ached dully, as if weighted with stones. Her fingers were getting stiff. Her eyes burned from smoke, sweat, and hours of forced focus. Every blink felt like dragging sand across her vision.
She had just finished cleaning her tools, just begun to let herself think about stretching her cramped legs, when the canvas flap was shoved aside so abruptly that light spilled in and dust leapt up from the straw-covered floor. She startled, looking up too late.
Before she could properly register who it was, a familiar, steady presence filled the entrance, as unmistakable as a change in weather. Baelor Breakspear stepped inside with his broad shoulders nearly brushing the canvas, his expression composed as ever—though now touched with faint irritation, the kind he rarely allowed himself to show.
And behind him, half-dragged, half-stalking in under his own stubborn power—came his brother, Maekar Targaryen.
He scowled fiercely, brows drawn low, jaw clenched as if he were biting back both pain and complaint. One hand was pressed hard against his forearm, where dark blood had already soaked through the sleeve of his tunic, turning the fabric stiff and heavy. His other hand was clenched at his side, fingers flexing impatiently, as though he resented even the act of bleeding.
His boots left small crimson marks on the straw as he walked, as though the ground itself were tattling on him, recording every step he had stubbornly refused to admit was difficult.
Baelor paused just inside the tent, releasing his grip only when he was certain Maekar would not immediately turn around and leave again.
She remained where she was, frozen for half a heartbeat, rag still in her hand, needle glinting faintly between her fingers, suddenly acutely aware that she was alone, exhausted, and about to tend to a prince with a temper and a wound he clearly did not intend to take seriously.
“I told you,” Maekar snapped, trying unsuccessfully to pull his arm free, “it’s nothing. Let go.”
“You are bleeding on my boots, brother,” Baelor replied mildly, still holding him by the elbow. “Sit.”
“I don’t need—”
“Sit.”
Maekar glared, but he sat, dropping heavily onto the nearest pallet with an expression that suggested he was being sentenced to public execution rather than basic medical care, his eyes immediately finding her and narrowing slightly, as if offended that someone so small and unassuming had been selected to deal with him.
She rose at once, heart leaping unpleasantly into her throat, smoothing her skirt with one hand out of habit, her other already reaching for clean cloth and water. She bowed her head briefly.
“My prince,” she murmured to Baelor Breakspear, then turned to the younger man. “May I see?”
“It’s a scratch,” Maekar Targaryen muttered, shifting his weight.
“It’s bleeding, my prince,” she replied quietly.
“It will stop.”
“Eventually,” Baelor said mildly, leaning against a crate nearby, arms folding loosely across his chest. His gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. “Possibly after you faint.”
Maekar shot him a dark look but did not respond. Instead, he thrust his arm toward her with exaggerated impatience.
“Fine. Get it over with.”
She knelt beside him, skirts brushing the straw, and carefully rolled back the torn sleeve. The cut stretched long and shallow across his forearm, with dirt ground into the edges. As she began cleaning it, cool water darkening with grime, Maekar sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his shoulders tensing despite himself.
“Hells,” he muttered. “You’re rough.”
“I’m sorry, my prince, but I must clean the dirt first,” she said, stammering slightly.
“Well,” he grumbled, “remove it more gently.”
She did not answer further. Instead, she simply continued. A loose strand of hair slipped forward near her cheek, catching the light, and she pushed it back absently with her wrist without breaking her concentration. Though, her pulse hammered in her ears.
Poor girl was acutely aware of Baelor’s presence behind her—of the way his eyes followed her hands, seemingly with growing respect, of the faint softening in his expression each time she worked through a difficult patch without hesitation.
And she was just as aware of Maekar’s gaze.
Sharp. Assessing. No longer merely irritated.
He watched her fingers trace the edges of his wound, watched the way she leaned in slightly when she stitched, close enough that he could catch the faint scent of crushed herbs and smoke in her hair. He caught himself staring and looked away, jaw tightening.
Baelor, sensing the tension, spoke lightly.
“You’ve been busy today.”
“Yes, my prince,” she replied, without looking up.
“How long have you been with the host?”
“Since this spring, my prince.”
“And before that?”
“With my teacher, in the riverlands.”
“Mm,” Baelor hummed softly. “You’ve learned quickly.”
There was warmth in Baelor’s voice now that threads gently through his calm, steady tone—not the polished courtesy he offered by habit, nor the charm expected of a prince, but something more sincere. It carried the weight of genuine recognition, of having truly seen her work and understood its worth. As he spoke, his gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary, and he inclined his head slightly in her direction—a small, respectful gesture that felt far more meaningful than praise spoken loudly.
Beside her, Maekar let out a faint scoff in response, a soft breath of sound pushed through his nose rather than a proper laugh, his lips curving briefly in what was meant to be dismissal. Yet it lacked its usual sharpness. His eyes flicked toward her hands and then away again, his jaw tightening as though he were arguing with himself, and the scoff faded almost as soon as it appeared, leaving behind an expression that was more thoughtful than scornful, as if he were reluctantly, quietly, beginning to agree.
“She’s barely older than some squires.”
Baelor glanced down at her, eyes gentle. “How old are you?”
She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then answered honestly.
“Sixteen, my prince.”
Maekar turned his head sharply, finally looking at her properly—not as a pair of competent hands, but as a girl kneeling in the straw, exhausted and far too young for this work—especially in this place. His brows drew together, surprise giving way to something more unsettled.
“Sixteen?” he repeated.
She nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Yes, my prince.”
Baelor studied her with concern and something unmistakably close to admiration. His gaze softened further.
“And you’ve been stitching men twice your size back together all summer,” he said.
“Yes, my prince.”
Maekar looked away again, jaw tightening, his voice lower when he spoke. “Hmph.” But this time, he did not intend for it to be dismissive. It was thoughtful.
After that, he did not complain.
He still flinched when she applied salve. He still clenched his teeth when the needle pierced his skin. But he did not pull away, nor would he snap. He sat rigid and silent, staring at the far wall as though enduring a private trial. When she finished and began wrapping the clean bandage around his arm, Maekar finally spoke again, his voice rougher than before. “Will it scar?”
“Not much,” she answered. “If you keep it clean.”
He nodded once. “Good.” Which, for him, was praise.
Baelor straightened as she tied off the final knot. “There. You’re patched up. Try not to undo her work by charging headfirst into walls, brother.”
Maekar snorted faintly. “No promises.” He stood, then hesitated, glancing down at her. “You… did well, girl.” he muttered, barely audible, before turning and stalking toward the exit.
After they were gone, the tent settling back into its familiar murmur of pain and exhaustion, Baelor paused at the flap and looked back at her. “You handled him better than most seasoned maesters,” he said quietly.
She felt warmth spread through her chest, sudden and overwhelming, and lowered her head quickly so he would not see her smile.
== timeskip
The light shifted as the afternoon wore on, slanting lower through the canvas and turning the dust in the air into drifting gold. Outside, the clatter of practice dulled into slower, heavier rhythms. Men queued for food with bowls tucked under their arms. Someone began singing softly near the cookfires, his voice thin but stubborn, as though refusing to let the day end in silence.
Inside the tent, work continued. She barely noticed when her master finally finished with the worst cases and began moving down the line, checking her bandages with curt nods and muttered corrections. He adjusted one knot, grunted at another, then moved on without comment. For him, that was approval.
She was rinsing her hands in a bucket when she noticed a familiar shadow fall across the entrance. Baelor Breakspear stood there, just outside the flap, as though uncertain whether he was welcome back with no reason. He had removed his gauntlets and held them loosely in one hand. His cloak hung open now, hem dusted with straw and ash. The tension she had seen earlier in his shoulders had not entirely left; it lingered in the way he stood, weight slightly forward, as if bracing for something.
He waited until her master turned away to bark at another patient before stepping inside.
She straightened at once. “My prince.”
“There’s no need,” he said gently. “Not here.”
He glanced around the tent, taking in the rows of pallets, the stained cloths, the exhausted faces. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“I wanted to thank you,” he continued. “For earlier. For Maekar. And… for everything.”
She hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “It is my job.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s precisely it.”
He looked at her hands. They were clean now, freshly washed, but the skin was cracked, her nails look uneven, even the knuckles were faintly bruised. He saw a pair of hands that had done too much for someone so young.
“You shouldn’t have to be here,” he added quietly.
She blinked. “I wouldn’t know where else to be, my prince.”
For a moment, he simply stood there, his gaze drifting past her to the far end of the tent, where a man moaned softly as her master reset a splint. His expression grew distant, heavy with thoughts he did not voice.
At length, he broke the silence.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly.
She glanced up, faintly puzzled. “For what, my prince?”
He hesitated, then lifted one hand in a small, helpless gesture that seemed to take in the tent, the rows of pallets, the low moans of the wounded, the smoke-stained canvas, and beyond it all, the vast, grinding weight of the war itself.
“For this,” he answered at last. “For what it costs. For those who must bear it. It should not fall so heavily on those who never chose it.”
She was silent for a moment, her fingers stilling on the cloth in her lap as she considered his words.
Then she said, simply, “If it were not me, it would be another.”
Baelor turned to her at once. She met his gaze steadily—without challenge, without fear. There was no bitterness in her eyes, only a sense of certainty, as though she had long since made her peace with this truth. Something eased in his face then, even as something else tightened. He nodded once, slowly, as if committing her words to memory.
“You’re… remarkable,” he said, and seemed faintly embarrassed by his own honesty. “If there is ever anything you need—”
“I need more linen,” she interrupted, almost apologetically. “And stronger thread, my prince.”
He stared at her for a moment before, quite unexpectedly, he broke into a laugh—a low, quiet huff, touched with surprise and genuine amusement.
“Very well,” he said warmly. “I shall see it done.” He bowed his head to her, not as a prince to a subject, but as one exhausted person to another, and left.
Not long after, she noticed another figure lingering near the entrance.
Maekar stood half in shadow near the entrance of the tent, arms folded tightly across his chest, posture rigid as a drawn bowstring. His bandaged arm was held carefully against his side, as though he barely trusted it not to reopen if he relaxed. He had clearly been there for some time, lingering just beyond the edge of the light, watching her work in silence, hesitating, gathering the courage for something he did not particularly want to do.
She finished tying off a strip of clean linen around a soldier’s wrist, tucked the knot neatly away, and only then lifted her head.
“Is there anything that needs tending, my prince?”
He stiffened, as if she had caught him doing something forbidden. “I—” He stopped, lips pressing together. Then he tried again. “My arm… it’s fine.”
“I’m glad,” she replied simply.
Another pause followed. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, boots scraping softly against the packed earth. “It does not … hurt much.”
“That’s good.”
The words fell between them and lingered. Silence stretched, very awkward and heavy. Somewhere outside, someone laughed too loudly. A pot clanged near the cookfires. The canvas walls were suddenly blown by a gush of wind. Maekar frowned at the ground, studying a dark stain in the dirt as though it might offer him instructions.
Then, abruptly, he reached into the pouch at his belt. His movements were quick, almost furtive, as though he feared someone might catch him. He drew out a small bundle wrapped in pale cloth, slightly misshapen. The edges were smudged and flattened from being hidden too tightly. When he unfolded it, a delicate honeycake lay inside, its sugared crust cracked, one corner crushed.
“… here.”
He held the small bundle out stiffly, arm extended, as though afraid he might change his mind if he hesitated any longer.
Her gaze flicked from the slightly crushed cloth in his hand to his face, then back again, brows knitting in confusion.
“What is it, my prince?” she asked.
His scowl deepened at once, as though the question itself had offended him. “It’s—” He broke off, jaw tightening, clearly irritated with his own uncertainty. “It’s cake.”
“Oh—I see that,” she replied mildly.
“It’s from supper,” he added quickly, almost defensively. “I was not in the mood for cake.”
His mouth opened, then closed again. His jaw set hard. The cloth crinkled softly as his fingers curled into it without his noticing. “I figured you might not have more than that mush you call a stew for tonight,” he muttered at last. “I know you do not have the time to.”
She froze, but slowly, she lifted her eyes to him. He was not looking at her—his gaze was fixed stubbornly on the far wall, his expression carved into something very stern and unreadable, as though he were bracing himself for ridicule. Only the faint flush creeping up his ears betrayed him.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
He shifted his weight at once, boots scraping softly against the packed earth. His shoulders drew in, as though he had suddenly become aware of how close he was standing. With an awkward, almost impatient motion, he thrust the small bundle toward her, nearly pressing it into her hands.
“You should—eat—” he muttered, stumbling over the words. “You look tired.”
The sentence came out rough and hurried, as if he were afraid to linger on it. Yet he did not take the cake back. His arm remained extended, rigid, offering.
It was the closest he could manage to kindness. She accepted it carefully, as though afraid it might crumble in her grasp. Her fingers closed gently around the cloth.
“Thank you, my prince,” she said.
He nodded once, as though concluding a formal exchange. Without another word, he turned on his heel, clearly intending to leave. Maekar had taken only two steps when he stopped. She could see his shoulders tense. His jaw worked once, as if he were biting back something he had not meant to say.
“… that lord,” he muttered suddenly.
“The one earlier,” he continued, the words beginning to spill out faster than he seemed able to control. “The way he spoke to you. That was… unacceptable. Completely. If he had said that to me—” He broke off, scowling. “I would have knocked him flat. Rank or no rank.”
She blinked, taken aback by the force of it. He pressed on, now fully caught in his own momentum. “Calling you stupid. Acting like you didn’t know what you were doing. As if he hasn’t been screaming over a splinter for three days. His father would be so embarrassed. He wouldn’t last a minute without you and your—your ‘dirty rags.’” He made a short, irritated gesture with his good hand. “It’s ridiculous.”
She lowered her eyes to the cake and took a small bite, trying not to smile.
“It’s sweet,” she said.
“That’s because it’s made with real honey,” he replied automatically. Then he paused, realizing he was still talking. “I mean—of course it is. They wouldn’t serve bad food at—”
He cut himself off, lips pressing together as though he had nearly said too much, his jaw tightening as he stared at some indistinct point beyond her shoulder.
She took another bite of the cake. Fine sugar dusted the corner of her mouth, catching faintly in the thin light that filtered through the canvas. She did not notice it—she was too busy chewing slowly, savoring the sweetness, having never tasted something as good before.
Maekar noticed without meaning to. His gaze lingered a just a second too long, drawn to that small, careless trace of sugar. He shifted his weight, clearly intending to look away, to mind himself, to remember who he was and where he stood.
Before caution or pride could intervene, before he could think better of it, he reached out—thumb brushed lightly against her lip, wiping away the stray crumb. The contact lasted no more than a heartbeat, but it surely felt much longer.
They both froze. Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her face. Her breath was caught between her munches, barely audible, and she went perfectly still, as though afraid that moving might somehow make the moment worse.
His hand jerked back as though burned. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Color rushed into his face, spreading from his ears down his neck. He stared at his own hand as though it had betrayed him, fingers curling slowly into his palm, fingertips digging into his palm.
“I—” He cleared his throat roughly. “There was—crumb.”
Having no words to say, she nodded—her cheeks just as warm, her voice steady despite the faint breathlessness beneath it. Another silence fell between them.
Though it felt different from the first one. Something warmer. Stranger, even. Maekar looked away first, fixing his gaze on the tent wall as though it had suddenly become fascinating, jaw tightening as he struggled to gather himself and return to familiar ground.
“You … shouldn’t let people talk to you like that,” he added gruffly. “They should know better.”
“Most do,” she replied gently, her fingers tightening briefly around the cloth in her lap before relaxing again.
He glanced back at her then. For a brief moment, the hardness slipped from his expression. What remained was uncertain and earnest, something like pity tangled with respect, admiration he did not yet know how to name.
“They should,” he repeated. With a stiff nod, as though sealing the thought away, he turned and left the tent.
She watched the prince go, her gaze lingering on the place where he disappeared into the shifting shadows and noise of the camp.
Only when he was truly gone did she lower her eyes to the cake in her hands. The sugar had melted slightly into the cloth, leaving faint, sticky stains. One edge was flattened and bruised from being hidden too tightly against his side. It was imperfect, misshapen—clearly smuggled out in haste, clearly meant for her alone.
She finished it slowly where she stood, taking her time with each bite. Around her, the tent never paused in its labor. Blood was washed from weary hands. Fresh bandages replaced old, darkened ones. Groans softened into uneasy sleep, even as new wounded were carried in.