Page 15

15

Eden

WHEN WE RETURNED to the village, I headed to the knights’ quarters, ignoring the protest of my aching limbs and the bone-deep weariness clawing at my skull. Every part of me screamed for rest—my muscles burned, my fingers trembled from overuse, and a dull ache pulsed at the base of my spine. But I couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not when knights still needed to wake up, and fevers required watching.

I had long since learned to push through exhaustion. It was a lesson carved into me through nights spent curled on chilly tiles, shivering beneath threadbare blankets. Through the sting of untreated wounds, skin cracked and raw, left to mend on its own, and through the hollow ache of a body forced to endure what no one wanted to repair.

I learned because no one was ever there to heal me.

Fatigue was a luxury I had never been allowed. My parents taught me that. Marcus reinforced it. Pain became my instructor, my reality.

If I stopped, I lost. If I faltered, I suffered. If I slowed, I paid the price. So, I adapted. I trained my body to move when it wanted to collapse, to work when exhaustion blurred my vision. I learned to ignore the slow, creeping drag of fatigue, to push past the limits that others acknowledged. I kept going because even if it was just one more patient, one more person, I could help them.

Because no one had done it for me.

Behind me, Oberon huffed. The sound sliced through the silence, a wordless statement in itself. Yet he didn’t stop me. Of course, he wouldn’t. He knew better. He understood that no matter how often he urged me to rest, I wouldn’t listen. Not when people were still suffering.

The knights’ quarters smelled of sweat, aged herbs, and the acrid bite of alcohol. The hearth burned with clean wood, the fire brighter, casting jagged shadows across the wooden beams.

I adjusted my satchel, squared my shoulders, and entered.

Soft murmurs filled the air—restless knights shifting in their cots, the rustle of blankets as bodies turned in fitful sleep, and the groggy mutterings of men caught in that fragile space between wakefulness and oblivion. The smell of sweat, stale ale, and lingering herbs thickened the atmosphere, pressing against my senses. Several knights had succumbed to unconsciousness after drowning themselves in celebration until they could take no more. Others stirred as I passed, blinking sluggishly, their gazes unfocused and their minds still clouded by exhaustion and drink.

I moved through the room in silence, my hands working on instinct—pressing the backs of my fingers to fevered foreheads, checking pulses that thudded too weakly, and smoothing blankets that feverish patients had kicked aside. A few knights murmured quiet thanks, but most were too far gone to notice my presence. That was fine; I didn’t need gratitude.

But my body slowed down. My thoughts dragged; each movement required more effort, and every breath felt heavier. I had pushed myself too far again, but stopping wasn’t an option.

There was a sudden shift in the air, a ripple of tension so thick it felt suffocating, that unmistakable prickle of being watched.

I pushed myself to keep moving, my fingers steady as I completed the examination of the knight before me, but my senses expanded outward, searching. My heartbeat quickened.

I lifted my gaze and scanned the room.

Oberon stood near the entrance, motionless—too motionless. Rigid tension gripped his broad shoulders, and his chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths. He clenched his jaw, and I half expected to hear his teeth grinding together.

A knot formed in my stomach when I followed his line of sight.

Valdier.

The arrogant knight who had gripped my face stood at the back of the room, speaking to two younger knights in hushed tones. His stance was casual, and his expression relaxed. He didn’t even glance our way.

Dark bruises marred his jaw and cheekbone in unsightly shades of purple and blue. Those bruises hadn’t been there before. My gaze flicked back to Oberon.

His expression was a facade of stony indifference. Yet, fury burned in his eyes.

Whatever had happened to Valdier, it hadn’t been enough. He contemplated completing what he had begun. A tense sigh escaped my lips, softened by the crackling hearth and the restless whispers of the surrounding knights.

I returned my attention to my work, moving to the next cot and willing myself to ignore the storm brewing behind me—the unspoken violence, the slow, simmering aggression rolling off Oberon in waves. I didn’t have time to mull over his temper or analyze how those bruises on Valdier’s face sent a strange, unsettling heat curling low in my stomach; a feeling I couldn’t put into words and couldn’t push away.

There was no time to reflect on the fact that he had done that because of me. I had spent far too much time trying to understand Oberon Sinclaire.

The cots nearest to the hearth flickered in the firelight, with the warmth casting long, wavering shadows along the stone walls. A slow inhale broke the silence as I approached the knight in the worst condition. There was a shift beneath the blankets. His chest rose and fell in steady, even breaths.

His eyelids fluttered. His gaze was unfocused, still caught in the haze of sleep, but when he noticed me, his expression changed. His breath hitched, and his lips parted as if he had forgotten how to speak. His eyes widened, filling with raw wonder.

I faltered.

No one had ever gazed at me like that.

Not my parents, who viewed me as a burden, a nuisance, ugly in both form and presence—an obligation rather than a daughter. They looked at me with unsympathetic detachment, as if I were nothing more than a weight chained to their lives.

Not Marcus, who had treated me like a possession. A thing to own, to break, to control. A lie in the shape of a human, meant to be erased in private but paraded in public when it suited his image.

For as long as I could remember, I had been too much and never enough. Overly stubborn. Excessively plain. Quite inconvenient. I learned that my usefulness measured my worth; that my hands could heal, but my face could never inspire softness. My presence was tolerated at best and ignored at worst.

Yet this knight regarded me as though I were worthy of being noticed, as if I were more than merely my purpose.

“You’re awake!” I exclaimed. My fingers reached for his wrist, searching for his pulse and clinging to the comfort of routine. His gaze dropped to my hands, taking in the burns, the bruises, the raw, reddened skin that still throbbed and needed bandaging again after the fight in the woods. His brows furrowed when he reached out, grasping my hands.

I froze.

His grip was careful and reverent. His thumbs glided over my knuckles, brushing against the wounds as if he could erase them with the lightest touch. His hands were warm, rough with calluses, yet gentle.

As if I were something fragile.

Precious.

My heart stuttered, creating a sharp, uneven rhythm against my breast. I swallowed hard and forced a shaky laugh. “It’s nothing,” I blurted. “Just a little…”

His grip shifted, holding me still. He reached up with his other hand, his fingertips brushing my temple as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The touch was achingly soft.

I wanted to say something—anything. But all I managed was a breathless, startled “oh”, and my body went rigid. Heat bloomed across my cheeks.

What is happening?

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice soft yet confident. The words pierced me, leaving me fragile and brittle, like a wounded animal trying to protect itself.

Beautiful?

That word didn’t belong to me. “Beautiful” was meant for delicate things, for things that mattered. It wasn't for the girl who learned that love was conditional, who discovered that affection was a trick, dangled out of reach, a prize she had never been good enough to earn. The girl who knew, with quiet certainty, that he wouldn’t have said that if he had seen beneath her sleeves, if he had truly seen her from the inside.

No.

Beautiful wasn’t a word meant for people like me.

But his hands were so warm, his voice was steady, and he spoke as though he saw what I couldn’t. His thumb traced over the backs of my fingers, avoiding the most profound injuries marring my skin.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, as if he had sensed every fractured thought in my mind. “If only you could see yourself as I see you.”

I couldn’t breathe. I should have distanced myself and responded dismissively to push the moment away before it could harm me. However, for a brief, disorienting moment, I let it overwhelm me: the comforting warmth of his touch, the strangeness of his words, and the dangerous, unfamiliar spark of longing curling in my chest.

A scoff shattered the growing tension. “Oh, cut it out, Heartwell,” another knight mused. Heartwell sighed, his fingers relaxing, and the warmth faded away. With it, the fragile haze that had enveloped me disappeared.

Shaking my head, I reached for something to say to fill the awkward, gaping silence and to mend how foolish I must have appeared. “I— I don’t…” The words tangled in my throat, emerging softly- uncertain. Heartwell’s gaze softened as if he could perceive the battle raging behind my eyes.

He pitied me.

Gods, that made it so much worse.

I took a clumsy step back, desperate to create space between us, but my boot caught on the uneven floor, and the room tilted. A familiar, sharp inhale pierced my senses as steady hands gripped my biceps, arresting my fall. My back met solid, warm muscle. My breath trembled.

His grip was firm. His fingers pressed hard enough to anchor me. I tilted my head back, but Oberon didn’t look at me; he watched Hartwell. The knight’s expression was weary yet watchful, a subtle hardness seeping into his features. He must have known he had overstepped. He must have understood too late that his words had unsettled more than just me.

The muscles in Oberon’s jaw tightened before his piercing onyx eyes met mine. “You’ve done enough, Herbalist,” he insisted, voice firm yet devoid of anger. “The knights will live. You must rest.”

“I’m fine,” I whispered.

His fingers flexed. “No.”

The single word held weight, resting between us in an unspoken vow. His voice didn’t rise or sharpen. It conveyed a finality that was impossible to defy. “Enough.”

Oberon’s hands relaxed and then fell away. He stepped aside, gesturing for me to go first. I hesitated, my gaze flicking back to Heartwell. Exhaustion still clung to his features, shadowing his eyes, but his expression softened when I met his gaze, as if I had become a quiet moment in the storm, a presence worth holding onto.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” I whispered. A small smile tugged at his lips, but he didn’t respond. My gaze shifted back to Oberon, who continued to stare at him. He was merely being cautious. After what had happened with Valdier, he had his reasons. It was his duty to protect me.

So why did I feel as if I was missing something?

Heavy footsteps trailed behind me as I stepped into the chilly night air. “He was lying.” Oberon walked beside me, his expression as unyielding as stone. His usual stoic mask hid a sharp edge beneath it.

I blinked. “I… What?”

“That knight. He was lying.”

I let out an incredulous breath. “About what? His ability to hold a conversation?”

Oberon ignored the quip, his gaze fixed ahead. “Men like him will say whatever you want to hear to get you under them.”

I scoffed, crossing my arms. “What makes you think I wanted to be under him?”

The muscle below his eye twitched. “I noticed the way you looked at him, Dilthen Doe.” He gritted his teeth as if it pained him to say those words.

My steps wavered.

The way I looked at him? Like what? That I felt heard? Seen?

Fiery heat pooled in my chest. “Perhaps,” I clipped, “he would make better company than you.”

Oberon stopped.

His nostrils flared, and his eyes flickered silver, reminding me of how his arm had appeared in the forest as it expelled the black magic seeping through his veins. The way the air shimmered around him, and how he seemed—heaving and cradling his arm after the creature crumbled before us—weighed on my mind. Regret washed over me. He must have been exhausted and sore. Yet he followed me to ensure I stayed safe in a room full of arrogant men. I was too stubborn to consider anything beyond checking on the men who had spent an entire day celebrating at the tavern.

The innkeeper called out to him, but he didn’t slow his pace as he climbed the stairs. I walked over to the counter in his stead. “You have a letter,” she said. “It appears to be from the castle. The postman mentioned it was urgent.”

I forced a gentle smile. “Thank you,” I murmured, accepting the letter with steady hands despite the fatigue weighing on my limbs. With a practiced motion, I slid my dagger under the wax seal, slicing it open with a quick flick of my wrist. Another formality. Another task. Another demand.

The words blurred together until my eyes landed on “Vaelwick”. My breath hitched, and my fingers gripped the parchment tightly. Exhaustion melted away as I reread the message, scanning over the words as if they could change, as if they would rearrange themselves into something less impossible.

The Courts summoned us to Vaelwick.

A creeping pressure coiled around my ribs. My boots thudded against the floor as I marched down the hall. The letter crumpled in my grip.

Oberon stood in the center of the room, his eyes snapping to mine as I entered with my arms crossed. The moment he opened his mouth, I interrupted him. “We have orders.” I marched past him and slammed the letter onto the table, my voice harsher than I intended. “We’re going to Vaelwick.”