Lost ark fanfic (AI)

The celebration had gone on far longer than anyone planned.

Music filled the hall, loud and bright, punctuated by laughter and the clink of mugs. Someone had pushed the tables aside to make room for dancing, and the bard had been pulled into it almost immediately, her own songs echoing back at her from other voices.

Kadan stayed where he always did—at the edge of the room, half in shadow, watching.

He didn’t drink. Didn’t dance. Didn’t speak unless spoken to. But he stayed.

Mostly, he watched her.

She was glowing tonight, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, hair slipping loose as she spun with strangers and friends alike. Someone kept handing her refills, and she kept accepting them with a laugh.

He noticed the change before anyone else did.

The way her steps got a little uneven. The way she laughed a little too loudly. The way she leaned into people when she spoke, not quite steady on her feet.

Drunk, he realized.

He had just started forward when she slipped from the dance floor and made her way toward the far end of the hall, where a few others were gathered.

Armen was there, smiling patiently as she spoke to him, hands wrapped around a cup of his own. Thirain stood nearby, mid-conversation with someone else, but he turned when he heard her voice.

Kadan stopped a few paces away.

He wasn’t close enough to hear every word, but he could see her expression. Soft. Warm. A little unfocused.

“You’re very kind,” she was saying to Armen, her words slightly slurred but sincere. “You always listen. Even when I ramble.”

Armen chuckled gently. “I don’t think you ramble.”

She stepped closer to him, swaying just a little.

Kadan’s jaw tightened.

“And you’re very handsome,” she added, as if this were an important discovery she’d just made. “Has anyone told you that recently?”

Armen blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I—thank you, but—”

The bard reached up, fingers brushing his sleeve, and leaned in.

That was enough.

Kadan closed the distance in two strides. His hand caught her wrist before she could finish the motion, firm but not rough, and he gently pulled her back.

She turned, startled. “Kadan?”

His expression was calm. Controlled. But there was something sharp beneath it.

“You’ve had too much,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she protested, though she nearly stumbled trying to turn toward him. He steadied her automatically, his hand shifting to her waist.

Behind them, Armen politely excused himself, already retreating with a knowing smile.

“You’re not fine,” Kadan said quietly.

She looked up at him, eyes unfocused but warm. “You’re always so serious.”

He didn’t answer.

“Thirain!” she called suddenly, spotting the king a few steps away. “You’re handsome too, you know.”

Thirain laughed, clearly amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She tried to step toward him.

Kadan’s arm tightened around her before she could.

“Come on,” he said, already guiding her away from the crowd.

She frowned, confused, glancing back. “I was talking—”

“You were about to do something you’d regret tomorrow.”

“I don’t regret things,” she said stubbornly, though she leaned heavily into him as they stepped into the quieter hallway beyond the hall.

The music faded behind them, replaced by the soft hush of distant voices.

Kadan stopped once they were alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she looked up at him, really looked this time, and her expression softened. “You’re warm,” she murmured, her hands coming to rest against his chest as she tried to steady herself.

He went very still.

“You pulled me away,” she added, tilting her head. “You didn’t want me to kiss them.”

It wasn’t a question.

Kadan’s gaze dropped to her face. Her lips. The faint flush across her cheeks.

“No,” he said.

“Why?”

The word came out small. Curious. Almost vulnerable.

His hand was still at her waist. He hadn’t let go.

“Because,” he said, his voice lower now, “you don’t look at them the way you look at me.”

Her breath caught, just slightly.

Even drunk, she seemed to understand.

“Then…” she started, swaying closer. “What if I wanted to kiss you instead?”

That was the last fragile thread of his restraint.

Kadan’s hand came up to cradle the side of her face, steadying her before she could lose her balance again. For a split second, he hesitated—like he was giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t careful this time. It wasn’t hesitant or restrained. It was warm and deep and full of something he’d been holding back for far too long. His other arm tightened around her, pulling her closer as she clutched at the front of his coat.

She melted into it, returning the kiss without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders.

When he finally pulled back, their foreheads nearly touched, her breath uneven.

“You’re jealous,” she mumbled, sounding oddly pleased.

Kadan exhaled slowly, his composure already knitting itself back together. “You’re drunk.”

She smiled up at him, eyes half-lidded. “Maybe.”

Her head tipped forward, resting against his chest.

The inn was quiet by the time night truly settled in.

Most of the travelers had gone to their rooms, and the common hall had dimmed to a handful of candles and the low glow of the hearth. Rain tapped gently against the windows, a soft, steady rhythm that made the whole place feel tucked away from the world.

The bard sat on one of the benches near the fire, her lute resting against her knee. She wasn’t playing. Her fingers hovered over the strings, then stilled again.

Kadan stood a short distance away, near the wall. Even at rest, he looked like he belonged on a battlefield rather than in a warm, cramped inn. But he had stayed. Again.

“You don’t have to keep watch,” she said, glancing up at him. “Nothing dangerous has happened for days.”

“I know,” he replied.

He didn’t move from his spot.

She smiled faintly. “Then why are you still standing over there like a guard post?”

A pause.

“…Habit.”

That was the most she was going to get out of him, she knew. Still, she patted the bench beside her. “Sit. Please? You’re making the innkeeper nervous.”

His gaze flicked to the empty space beside her, then back to her face. For a moment, she wondered if he would refuse.

But he crossed the room and sat.

Not too close. Not too far. Just enough space between them to feel the warmth of the fire rather than each other.

She started to play then, soft and slow, a melody she only ever played when things were calm. When she was safe. When she didn’t feel like she had to be ready to run.

Kadan listened in silence.

After a while, she realized he was very still. More still than usual. His shoulders were tense, the kind of tension that came from someone who didn’t quite know what to do with their hands.

“Does it hurt?” she asked gently.

“No.”

“Not your body,” she said, setting the lute aside. “Your arm. You’ve been holding it stiff all evening.”

He looked down at it, as if only just realizing. There was a faint dark stain on the edge of his sleeve, nearly hidden in the low light.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

“Kadan.”

He didn’t answer.

With a small sigh, she shifted closer, reaching for his sleeve. He didn’t pull away, but she felt the subtle hitch in his breath as her fingers brushed his wrist.

The cut was shallow, but not clean. It must have happened earlier that day, when he’d stepped in to deal with a wandering pack of beasts before they got too close to the road.

“You always say that,” she murmured, dabbing gently at the wound with a clean cloth. “ ‘It’s nothing.’ You said the same thing when you could barely stand last month.”

“I was standing,” he said.

She laughed softly. “Barely.”

He didn’t argue after that.

The closeness made her suddenly, acutely aware of him. The heat of his skin, the faint scent of rain and steel, the quiet steadiness of his breathing. Her hands slowed, then stopped as she finished tying the bandage.

“There,” she said, but her voice came out quieter than she meant it to.

She realized she was still holding his hand.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Kadan’s fingers were warm and calloused, strong even at rest. She felt his thumb shift slightly against her palm, not quite pulling away, not quite holding on.

She looked up.

He was already looking at her.

His expression was as composed as ever, unreadable to anyone who didn’t know him. But she did know him, now. Well enough to notice the tightness in his jaw, the careful stillness, the way his breath seemed just a fraction slower than normal.

“You should rest,” he said quietly.

“I could say the same to you.”

“I don’t need—”

Before he could finish, she leaned forward.

It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just a small, hesitant press of her lips to the corner of his mouth, like she was afraid he might vanish if she aimed any closer.

For a moment, he went completely still.

She pulled back almost immediately, eyes wide. “I— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Kadan moved.

His hand came up to her shoulder, not forceful, just steady. He leaned down slightly, and this time when their lips met, it was deliberate. Careful. Like he was handling something fragile.

The kiss was brief. Soft.

But it left her breathless.

When he pulled away, his hand didn’t leave her shoulder. It lingered there, grounding and warm. She realized she was trembling a little and, without thinking, leaned closer, her forehead resting against his chest.

He hesitated.

Then, slowly, awkwardly, his arm came around her.

Kadan held her like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to. Like if he held too tightly, she might break. But when she shifted closer, fitting against him, he relaxed just a fraction and let his chin rest lightly against the top of her head.

Neither of them spoke.

The inn was quiet in the late afternoon, caught in that lull between travelers arriving and the evening meal beginning. Most doors were shut, the hallways empty, the only sound the soft creak of wood and the distant murmur of voices from below.

Kadan had meant only to check on her.

She’d been sore after the last journey, stiff from the cold and the long road. He’d noticed the way she rubbed at her shoulders when she thought no one was looking, the way she winced when she reached for her lute. When she mentioned she might take a hot bath before resting, he had simply nodded.

Time had passed. Longer than he expected.

So he came to her door, intending to make sure she was all right.

He knocked once.

No answer.

He waited, listening. He could hear water shifting, faintly, and what might have been the softest hint of humming. He frowned slightly, assuming she hadn’t heard him, and pushed the door open just a few inches.

“Are you—”

He stopped.

Steam curled thickly through the room, warm and hazy. The window was cracked open, letting in a sliver of cool air that carried the scent of soap and fresh water.

And there she was.

Sitting in the bath, half-turned away, her hair damp and falling down her back, shoulders bare above the rim of the wooden tub. One arm rested along the edge, her fingers tracing lazy circles through the steam.

For a moment, Kadan forgot how to move.

Then she turned at the sound of the door.

Their eyes met.

Her expression shifted from relaxed to startled in an instant. “Kadan?!”

He reacted immediately, stepping back and turning away so fast the door bumped against the wall behind him.

“I knocked,” he said, a little too quickly, his voice tighter than usual. “You didn’t answer.”

“I didn’t hear you!” she called, mortified. Water sloshed faintly as she shifted, likely sinking lower into the tub. “You can— you can close the door!”

He did. Immediately.

The hallway felt very quiet.

Kadan stood there, staring very intently at the opposite wall like it had suddenly become fascinating. His posture was rigid, his expression carefully neutral, but the tips of his ears had gone just slightly red.

Inside the room, there was a flurry of movement. The sound of water, the scrape of the tub’s edge, hurried footsteps. A few moments later, the door opened just a crack.

She peeked out, now wrapped tightly in a thick towel, her hair still damp and clinging to her cheeks. Her face was just as red as his ears.

“…You could have waited,” she said, though there wasn’t any real anger in it. Just embarrassment.

“I was making sure you were safe,” he replied, still not quite looking directly at her. “You’ve been hurt before.”

She softened at that, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I appreciate that. But I promise, I can survive a bath on my own.”

A pause.

Then, a small, helpless laugh slipped out of her. “You looked more startled than I was.”

“I wasn’t startled.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You nearly fled the room.”

“I stepped out,” he corrected.

“Very quickly.”

He finally looked at her then, and she caught it—the faint stiffness in his expression, the careful control. For someone who had faced monsters without blinking, he looked deeply, genuinely flustered.

And that made her smile.

“I’m decent now,” she said gently. “You can come in. If you want.”

He hesitated, just a fraction, before stepping back into the room.

The steam had started to fade, the air cooling. She sat on the edge of the bed, towel still wrapped securely around her, working slowly at untangling her damp hair.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“…Your shoulder,” he said at last. “Is it still hurting?”

“A little,” she admitted. “The hot water helped.”

He nodded, but didn’t move any closer.

She watched him for a second, then held out the comb. “Could you… help? Just the back. My arms are still sore.”

Another pause.

Then he stepped forward.

His movements were careful, almost overly so, as he took the comb from her. His fingers brushed her damp hair, separating it gently. He worked slowly, methodically, as though treating a wound rather than hair.

But his touch was soft.

She relaxed under it, her shoulders lowering. “You’re very gentle for someone who wields a sword like that.”

“It requires a steady hand,” he said.

“So does this.”

He huffed quietly at that, something close to amusement.

For a moment, the earlier embarrassment lingered in the air between them, but it shifted into something warmer, softer. His fingers accidentally brushed the back of her neck as he worked out a stubborn knot, and she shivered slightly.

“Cold?” he asked.

“A little.”

Without a word, he reached for his cloak and draped it carefully over her shoulders, over the towel. The weight of it was warm and familiar.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

He didn’t answer right away. His hand lingered for a second on her shoulder before he pulled it back, like he’d almost forgotten himself.

A week passed more quietly than the last.

The road had been kind, the weather mild, and for once there were no monsters waiting in the shadows, no urgent summons, no battles to be fought. They’d stopped near a small overlook above the sea, a place Armen said was safe enough to rest for the evening.

Thirain had gone to gather firewood. Armen had volunteered to help, though he’d taken a moment to sit by the cliffside first, enjoying the view.

The bard stayed near the edge of the path, her lute in her lap, playing something soft and slow. The melody drifted on the wind, light as the sea air.

Kadan stood a short distance behind her.

He told himself he was keeping watch.

But he hadn’t moved in several minutes.

She finished the song and glanced over her shoulder. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“More than usual,” she said, smiling a little. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.”

She set the lute aside, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Then what is it?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer.

The sky was painted in gold and pale pink, the sun beginning its slow descent. The wind tugged gently at her sleeves, and she pulled his cloak a little tighter around herself, still wearing it as if it belonged to her now.

Kadan looked at her, really looked, like he was memorizing something.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said at last. “You never do.”

She laughed softly. “That’s not true at all.”

“It is to me.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Her smile faded, replaced by something more careful. “Kadan?”

He hadn’t meant to say it. He hadn’t meant to say any of it.

But once the first words were out, the rest followed.

“I thought it would pass,” he said quietly. “I’ve lived a long time. I’ve seen things come and go. Feelings fade.”

She turned to face him fully now, her expression gentle, patient.

“But this hasn’t,” he continued. “It only grows stronger.”

Her breath caught slightly.

“I don’t need anything from you,” he went on, voice steady but low, as if he believed the wind would carry it away. “I don’t expect anything. I just… needed to say it. At least once.”

He took a slow breath.

“I love you.”

The words came out softer than anything he’d said before, like something fragile placed carefully into the open air.

He thought only she could hear it.

She stood very still, eyes wide, lips parting slightly in surprise.

Behind them, further down the path, Armen had just returned, an armful of wood in his hands. He stopped mid-step.

Beside him, Thirain had done the same.

Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved. They simply stood there, caught in the moment, the confession carried clearly on the quiet evening air.

Back by the cliff, the bard blinked once, like she needed a second to believe what she’d heard.

“Kadan…” she whispered.

He was already looking away, as if he regretted saying it aloud. “You don’t have to respond. I only wanted you to know.”

She stepped forward before he could retreat any further, her hand catching his sleeve.

“Don’t do that,” she said softly.

His gaze returned to her, guarded now. “Do what?”

“Say something like that and then act like it doesn’t matter what I say back.”

For the first time, he looked uncertain.

“I was trying not to pressure you.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around his sleeve. “You’re not.”

She moved closer, her voice quieter now. “I love you too.”

He went still.

The tension in his shoulders eased slowly, like something heavy had finally been set down.

“Are you sure?” he asked, the question almost uncharacteristically vulnerable.

She smiled, warm and steady. “I’ve been sure for a while.”

Relief flickered across his face, subtle but unmistakable. His hand came up to rest gently at her waist, drawing her closer. When he kissed her, it was soft and certain, no hesitation left.

Down the path, Thirain let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Armen leaned slightly toward him and murmured, barely audible, “We should probably pretend we didn’t hear that.”

Thirain nodded once. “Definitely.”

They both turned around at the same time, very deliberately walking back the way they came, the firewood forgotten for the moment.

It was a small thing that made him notice.

At first, it was just that she seemed more tired than usual.

They had not been traveling particularly hard, and yet she lagged behind more often, her hand drifting to her side as if she needed to steady herself. She slept deeper, longer. Sometimes she would wake with a faint crease between her brows, pressing a hand to her stomach like something felt off, though she never complained.

Anyone else might have missed it.

Kadan didn’t.

He noticed the way she paused halfway through a song one morning, swallowing hard as if suddenly unwell. The way certain smells from the roadside markets made her turn her head away. The way her appetite changed—one day eating very little, the next picking at anything she could find.

At first, he thought she was sick.

That alone was enough to worry him. He watched her more closely after that, always a step nearer than usual, his attention divided between the road ahead and the quiet changes in her.

But the days passed, and she didn’t grow weaker.

Just… different.

One evening, they stopped by a stream. She sat on a smooth rock, her boots off, her feet dipped into the water as the sun lowered behind the trees. She looked peaceful, humming to herself, one hand absentmindedly resting over her lower abdomen.

Not in pain.

Just… there.

Kadan stood a short distance away, watching.

And then it clicked.

The realization came slowly but landed all at once, settling heavily in his chest.

He’d seen this before, long ago. In villages they passed through, in quiet homes where laughter came easily. The early signs were small. Easy to dismiss.

But they added up.

Tiredness. Sensitivity. The way she held herself without thinking.

He felt a strange, sudden tightness in his throat.

She was pregnant.

For a moment, the world seemed to go very still.

His first instinct was to step forward, to ask, to make sure she was all right—but something stopped him. She didn’t know yet. He could see it in the way she moved, the casual ease. If she had known, she would have said something.

So he stayed where he was, silent, thinking.

Pregnant.

The word echoed in his mind, heavy with meaning.

His child.

The thought should have felt simple. Joyful.

Instead, it came tangled with something deeper. A low, creeping worry he couldn’t quite push aside.

He looked at her again. The fading sunlight caught in her hair as she laughed quietly to herself, splashing her feet in the water like she didn’t have a single concern in the world.

She trusted him.

She had followed him across roads and into danger without hesitation. Slept beside him without fear. Given him a place in her life like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And now there would be more.

A family.

Kadan had lived through centuries of war and loss. He had watched people grow old and disappear, entire generations passing like seasons. He knew better than most how fragile happiness could be.

What would this mean for them?

For her?

The thought of her in danger had always unsettled him. But now, imagining her carrying a child, vulnerable in ways she’d never been before, made something sharp twist in his chest.

He stepped closer before he realized he was moving.

She looked up at the sound of his boots against the stones, her face brightening immediately. “You’re staring again.”

“I am not.”

“You are,” she insisted, smiling. “You get this look when you’re thinking too much.”

He stopped beside her, his gaze dropping to where her hand still rested lightly over her stomach. The motion was so natural, so unthinking, that it only made his chest tighten more.

“…Are you feeling well?” he asked.

“Mm?” She tilted her head. “I’m fine. Just a little tired lately.”

His jaw shifted slightly. “And your stomach?”

That made her blink. “What about it?”

“You’ve been unwell in the mornings.”

She stared at him for a long second.

Then her eyes widened, just a little.

“I thought it was just the travel,” she said slowly. “Or something I ate.”

He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched.

Her hand, still resting over her abdomen, went still.

“Oh,” she said, the realization dawning across her face all at once. “Oh.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she looked up at him, searching his face. “You knew.”

“I suspected.”

“Since when?”

“A few days.”

She let out a slow breath, somewhere between a laugh and disbelief. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I wasn’t certain,” he replied. “And I didn’t want to worry you.”

She was quiet for a moment, absorbing it. Her hand moved slightly, pressing more firmly now, as if trying to feel something that was still far too small to notice.

“Kadan,” she said softly.

He was already looking at her.

There was something guarded in his expression. Not fear, exactly. But a weight she didn’t often see.

“You’re worried,” she said.

It wasn’t a question.

He didn’t deny it.

“Yes.”

Her smile softened. “About me?”

“About everything,” he admitted.

The honesty in it made her chest ache a little.

He stepped closer, his hand coming to rest gently over hers where it lay on her stomach. The touch was careful, almost reverent.

“I don’t know what kind of world I can offer a child,” he said quietly. “My life is not… peaceful.”

Her fingers curled slightly under his. “We’ll make one,” she said. “A peaceful place.”

His gaze flickered up to hers. “I don’t want you in danger. Either of you.”

The way he said it—so steady, so certain—made her heart swell.

“You protect me already,” she said. “You always have.”

His thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles. “It’s different now.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”

She shifted closer, her free hand coming up to his face, warm and sure. “But we’re not alone. And we’re not helpless.”

He leaned into her touch just slightly, his hand still resting over hers, over the small, hidden life neither of them could see yet.

After a moment, his shoulders eased.

Not completely.

But enough.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said softly.

Kadan nodded once, his forehead lowering to rest gently against hers.

The war ended more quietly than anyone expected.

There was no single moment where the world seemed to change. No grand silence that fell across the land. Just the slow, steady realization that the sky no longer burned at the horizon, that the ground no longer trembled with distant battles, that people were beginning to return home without looking over their shoulders.

Kazeros was gone.

And for the first time in centuries, Kadan did not have a war waiting for him.

Luterra felt different in peace.

The streets were louder now, filled with merchants and children and music that drifted from open tavern windows. Banners snapped in the breeze from the castle walls, bright and proud. The smell of fresh bread carried from the markets, mingling with the salt of the nearby sea.

It was a life he had never imagined having.

A home.

Their house stood just beyond the busier streets, near a quiet rise overlooking the water. It wasn’t grand. Just sturdy wood, a small garden, and a wide window that caught the afternoon sun. The bard had insisted on the garden. Flowers grew in uneven clusters now, bright and slightly chaotic, like her.

Inside, the sound of laughter echoed.

Kadan paused just outside the door, one hand resting lightly against the wood. He could hear them both.

“…and then I played this part!” the bard was saying, her voice full of mock drama. A few notes rang out from her lute, clumsy and exaggerated.

A child’s giggle followed, high and delighted.

Kadan stepped inside.

Their child sat on the floor with legs folded awkwardly beneath them, watching with wide, adoring eyes as the bard strummed. The little one clapped eagerly at every sound, even the wrong notes, even the off-beat rhythm.

“See?” the bard said, grinning. “Best audience I’ve ever had.”

The child spotted him first.

“Da!” they called, scrambling to their feet with all the unsteady determination of someone who had only recently learned how to run. They stumbled halfway across the room before Kadan reached down and lifted them easily into his arms.

The little one grabbed at his collar immediately, as if checking he was real.

Kadan held them close, steady and warm. He had faced creatures that could split mountains. He had stood against forces that threatened to tear Arkesia apart.

Nothing had ever made his chest feel as full as this.

“Did you behave?” he asked quietly.

The child nodded with serious conviction.

The bard snorted. “They tried to eat dirt ten minutes ago.”

Kadan looked down. The child avoided his gaze very deliberately.

“I see,” he said, his voice even.

“Only a little,” the bard added, laughing. “I stopped them.”

He stepped further into the room, his eyes lingering on the scene. The lute resting against the chair. The small shoes kicked off near the door. The sunlight spilling across the floor where their child had been playing.

Peace.

Real, quiet peace.

The bard stood and walked over, reaching up to brush a loose strand of hair from his face. “You were gone a while.”

“Just to the market,” he said. “They were crowded.”

“Luterra’s like that now,” she said softly. “People aren’t afraid to gather anymore.”

He nodded.

Their child had started playing with the strap on his shoulder, tugging at it with deep concentration. He adjusted his hold without thinking, one hand supporting their back.

The bard watched him for a moment, her expression gentle.

“You still look like you’re waiting for something,” she said.

“For what?”

“For the next battle.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then, slowly, he shook his head. “I’m learning not to.”

She smiled at that, relief flickering across her face. She leaned forward, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. Their child immediately made an indignant sound and grabbed at her sleeve, demanding equal attention.

“Oh, I see how it is,” she laughed, scooping them from Kadan’s arms. “Jealous already?”

The child buried their face against her shoulder, but one small hand reached back toward him anyway, fingers opening and closing.

Kadan took it gently.

For a long time, he had lived knowing everything could be taken away in an instant. Every victory came with another war waiting just beyond it.

But now, standing there in the late afternoon light, his child’s small hand wrapped around his finger and the bard smiling at him like he was something steady and safe—

This felt different.

This felt like something that could last.

Outside, Luterra carried on. People talked and laughed, carts rattled over stone, and somewhere, someone was singing.

Inside, the house was warm.

The first time the bard saw Kadan, she thought he looked like a man carved out of winter.

He stood apart from the others, half-turned from the campfire, his presence quiet but impossible to ignore. Everyone else talked easily—Armen’s gentle voice carrying over the crackle of flames, Thirain’s laughter rising now and then—but Kadan remained still, watchful, his sword within reach even while at rest.

He looked like someone who never truly stopped fighting.

She had heard the name before, of course. Everyone had. Sidereal. Legend. Survivor of things she could barely imagine. She had expected someone larger, louder, someone who filled space with authority.

Instead, he barely spoke.

And yet, somehow, he commanded the entire clearing without saying a word.

She found herself staring longer than she meant to.

There was something about him that pulled at her attention. Not just the way he carried himself, but the loneliness of it. Like he stood a little outside the world everyone else lived in.

She didn’t realize he’d noticed until his eyes shifted toward her.

The moment their gazes met, she felt like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. She looked away quickly, pretending to adjust the tuning pegs of her lute, her cheeks warming.

First impressions, she thought, trying to collect herself.

He’s intimidating.

That was the word she settled on.

Not unkind. Not cruel. Just… distant. Hard to approach. The kind of person who seemed like he wouldn’t know what to do with a joke, or a song, or anything soft.

So she decided, almost immediately, that she would make him smile.

—

Kadan’s first thought when he saw her was that she was too loud.

Not in an unpleasant way. Just bright. Alive. Her voice carried easily across the camp as she spoke to Armen, then to Thirain, then to someone else passing by. She laughed often, and when she did, people turned toward the sound without meaning to.

It was distracting.

He had spent years in silence and battlefields and lonely roads. He was used to quiet.

She brought noise with her. Music. Conversation. Light.

He watched her without intending to, noticing how easily she moved among the others, how quickly people warmed to her. She didn’t seem to fear anything—not the long journey ahead, not the danger that shadowed them, not even the Sidereals themselves.

When their eyes met for the first time, she startled and looked away.

He looked away too, but not before noticing the faint color rise in her face.

Strange, he thought.

She didn’t look like someone who frightened easily.

He told himself she was simply another traveler. Another ally. Someone he would fight beside and then part from, like countless others before her.

But later that night, when the camp had gone quiet and she picked up her lute and played something soft and slow, he found himself listening.

And staying awake longer than he meant to.

—

Their first real conversation was awkward.

She approached him the next morning while he was checking the edge of his blade, the steady rhythm of the whetstone familiar and grounding.

“You don’t talk much,” she said.

He didn’t look up. “I talk when necessary.”

“That sounds exhausting,” she replied cheerfully.

That made him pause. He glanced up at her.

She was smiling, not mockingly, just… warmly. Like she wasn’t bothered by his short answers at all.

“Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?” he asked.

“Mostly,” she admitted. “It saves time.”

He returned his attention to the blade. “Then you’ll have to forgive me. I prefer silence.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “That’s fine. I can talk enough for both of us.”

Before he could think of a response, she wandered off again, already greeting someone else.

He found, to his surprise, that the corner of his mouth had nearly curved upward.

—

Attraction, for her, came quickly.

Not all at once. Not like lightning.

But in small moments.

The way he stepped slightly in front of her when they walked along narrow paths. The way his attention sharpened whenever danger was near, his body shifting just enough to shield the others. The way he listened when she played, even when he pretended he wasn’t.

He was kind, in quiet ways.

Once, she tripped on uneven ground, and his hand caught her elbow before she hit the dirt. He let go immediately, like the contact meant nothing, but she felt the warmth of his grip long after.

Another time, he wordlessly handed her his cloak when the night grew too cold. He didn’t mention it again. Didn’t ask for it back until morning.

He wasn’t easy to read. But he cared.

And she found herself watching him more and more, trying to understand the man behind the legend.

—

For Kadan, it came slower.

At first, she was simply… there. Always moving, always humming, always asking questions he didn’t know how to answer.

She didn’t treat him like a Sidereal. Didn’t look at him with awe or fear. Just curiosity.

And patience.

She would sit near him sometimes, playing quietly, not asking for conversation. Not demanding anything. Just sharing the space.

He began to notice the way her music changed depending on the mood of the group. Brighter when spirits were low. Softer when people were tired. He noticed how she checked on Armen when he seemed troubled, how she spoke to Thirain like an old friend.

She made people feel safe.

That was new to him.

One evening, after a difficult battle, she sat beside him without saying a word and began to play something gentle. The sound settled into the silence like a balm.

He hadn’t realized how tense he was until then.

When she finished, she looked at him, hesitant. “Was that too much?”

He shook his head. “No.”

A pause.

“It helped,” he added.

Her smile then was small but genuine, like she hadn’t expected that answer at all.

That was the moment he realized something had shifted.

He was no longer just noticing her.

He was looking for her.

—

It wasn’t quite love. Not yet.

But when she laughed, he found himself listening.

And when he wasn’t nearby, she found herself wondering where he’d gone.

Neither of them would have called it attraction at first sight.

At first, no one said anything.

But people noticed.

It was small things. Easy to miss if you didn’t know what to look for. Kadan standing just a little closer to the bard than before. The way she drifted toward wherever he was without realizing it. The way he seemed to know, instinctively, when she was about to speak, about to move, about to wander off on her own.

It wasn’t obvious.

But it was there.

Armen noticed first.

He noticed because she was easy to talk to. Gentle. Kind. The kind of person who listened with her whole attention, who made you feel heard even when you struggled to find the right words. They had fallen into conversation quickly in those early days—about music, about faith, about the strange places the journey took them.

One afternoon, they sat together near the edge of camp while she tuned her lute. Armen was smiling softly as she tried to explain the difference between two similar chords, growing increasingly animated when he kept getting it wrong.

“No, no, like this,” she laughed, leaning closer, guiding his fingers lightly across the strings. “You’re pressing too hard.”

“I’m trying,” he said, amused. “It’s harder than it looks.”

Kadan, across the clearing, had been sharpening his blade.

The sound stopped.

He didn’t look up right away, but his focus shifted. The whetstone stilled in his hand as he listened to her laughter carry across the camp.

Then he glanced over.

He saw the way she leaned in, her hand resting over Armen’s to guide him. Saw the way Armen smiled at her, soft and open.

Something in his chest tightened.

He looked back down at his sword.

Pressed harder than necessary.

The scrape of stone against metal grew sharper, more forceful.

—

Thirain noticed next.

He had always been friendly with her. It was easy to be. She treated him like a person, not a king, not a symbol. Just Thirain. They spoke often, especially in the evenings, trading stories. Sometimes she would play for him, testing new melodies while he listened, his head tilted thoughtfully.

One night, she laughed at something he said, reaching out to tap his arm lightly. It was casual. Natural.

But Kadan was there.

Standing nearby, watching the horizon.

Or at least, pretending to.

Thirain saw it out of the corner of his eye. The subtle shift. The way Kadan’s shoulders straightened. The way his gaze flicked over just for a second too long before turning away again.

Not anger.

Not quite.

But not approval, either.

Later, when the bard wandered off to refill her water, Thirain stepped closer to Kadan.

“You know,” Thirain said lightly, “she enjoys talking to you the most.”

Kadan didn’t respond.

Thirain smiled a little. “You may not notice, but she always looks for you first when something happens.”

Silence.

Then, after a moment, Kadan said, “You’re mistaken.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Kadan didn’t argue further. But his jaw tightened slightly.

Thirain saw that too.

—

The bard didn’t understand it at first.

She just knew that Kadan seemed… different some days.

If she spent too long talking with Armen, he would grow quieter. If she laughed with Thirain, he would drift a little further away, as though giving them space.

At first, she thought she had done something wrong.

So she tried to fix it.

One evening, she found him sitting alone, as usual, near the edge of the camp.

“You disappeared,” she said, lowering herself beside him.

“I didn’t.”

“You did. I was looking for you.”

That made him glance at her. “You were busy.”

“With what?”

He didn’t answer.

She followed his gaze across the clearing. Armen and Thirain were still talking near the fire.

“Oh,” she said softly, understanding dawning.

She turned back to him. “You could’ve come over.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

He looked at her then, really looked. “You seemed… comfortable.”

The words were neutral. Controlled.

But something about them felt heavier than they should have.

She tilted her head. “Are you saying you don’t like it when I talk to them?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she smiled, a little gentler this time. “I like talking to them. But I like talking to you more.”

Kadan went still.

It was such a simple thing. Said so easily. Like it was obvious.

She leaned back on her hands, looking up at the sky. “You just don’t make it easy sometimes.”

“I don’t?”

“No. You’re always off somewhere. Watching. Thinking. I never know if I’m bothering you.”

“You’re not,” he said, too quickly.

She glanced back at him, surprised.

He held her gaze for a second, then looked away again. “You’re never a bother.”

The sincerity in it caught her off guard.

Across the camp, Armen watched the exchange quietly, then leaned toward Thirain.

“…I think we lost,” Armen murmured, half amused.

Thirain chuckled under his breath. “I don’t think we ever stood a chance.”

Near the edge of the firelight, the bard was smiling at something Kadan had said—something small, probably, but enough to make her look at him like he was the only person there.

It happened by accident.

At least, that’s what Kadan told himself later.

The camp had settled for the evening near a quiet bend in the river. The others were busy with small tasks—Armen tending to the fire, Thirain speaking with one of the scouts. Someone had mentioned fresh water just beyond the trees, and Kadan had gone to check the perimeter, following the sound of the current more than anything else.

He didn’t expect to find her there.

The river curved into a shallow, sheltered pool where the water ran slow and clear, catching the last gold of the evening light. Her clothes were folded neatly on a rock at the edge. For a brief moment, he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

Then he saw her.

She was standing waist-deep in the water, back turned, her hair unbound and darkened by the river as it fell down her shoulders. She was rinsing it out, head tilted back slightly, one hand combing through the strands as the current curled around her.

The world seemed to go very still.

Kadan stopped where he was, half-hidden by the trees. He should have turned away immediately.

He didn’t.

The water lapped softly against her skin, catching the fading sunlight. She looked peaceful. Relaxed in a way he rarely saw, without her usual alertness or laughter, just quietly present in the moment.

He realized, with a sudden tightness in his chest, that he was staring.

And he couldn’t seem to stop.

He wasn’t looking in the way of a passing glance. His gaze lingered, drawn in by the gentle motion of the water, by the soft sound of her humming under her breath, by the simple, unguarded way she moved when she thought no one was around.

Something unfamiliar twisted low in his stomach.

He had faced monsters without hesitation. Walked through fire and darkness and ruin.

This felt far more dangerous.

She shifted slightly, turning just enough that he caught a glimpse of her profile. The line of her shoulder, the way droplets traced down her arm as she lifted her hand to push her hair back.

Kadan swallowed.

He should leave.

He knew he should.

But his feet didn’t move.

And then she turned.

Her eyes landed on him almost immediately.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

Then her expression went wide with shock. “Kadan?!”

He turned away at once, as if the sound of his name had snapped whatever spell had held him in place.

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. “I was checking the area.”

The water splashed faintly behind him as she sank lower into it, mortified. “You could have said something!”

“I realized too late,” he replied, staring very intently at the trees in front of him.

Silence stretched between them, thick with embarrassment.

“I’ll leave,” he added quickly.

He took a step—

“Wait.”

He paused.

“I mean— just—” she sounded flustered. “Give me a second.”

He stayed where he was, back turned, rigid as stone. He could hear the quiet movement of water, the soft rustle of fabric as she reached for her clothes.

His mind, unhelpfully, kept replaying the image he’d just seen. The curve of her shoulders, the way the light had caught in her hair, the calm expression she’d worn before she realized he was there.

He forced himself to focus on the sound of the river instead.

After a moment, her voice came again, softer this time. “Okay.”

He turned slowly.

She was wrapped in a cloak now, her damp hair clinging to her cheeks, her face still faintly pink. She wouldn’t quite meet his eyes at first, fiddling with the edge of the fabric.

“I really didn’t know,” he said again, quieter.

“I believe you,” she murmured.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then she risked a glance up at him.

He looked… unsettled. Not embarrassed, exactly. But different. His composure was still there, as always, but there was something under it now, something restless and unsteady.

It made her cheeks warm all over again.

“You were staring,” she said before she could stop herself.

The words hung in the air.

Kadan didn’t answer right away.

Then, slowly, honestly, he said, “Yes.”

That only made her more flustered.

“Oh.”

Silence again. The river kept moving quietly beside them.

“I should return to camp,” he said at last, his voice steadying again. “It’s getting dark.”

She nodded quickly. “Right. Yes. I’ll be right behind you.”

He turned and started back through the trees, but the calm he usually carried with him was gone. His thoughts were louder than the river now, circling around the same image, the same feeling he didn’t quite know what to do with.

Behind him, she pressed a hand to her chest, her heart still beating a little too fast.

The door opened before she remembered to knock.

It was an honest mistake — she’d been looking for him, and the room was quiet, the light inside already lit. She stepped in halfway before realizing—

Kadan was shirtless.

He stood near the window, back turned, in the middle of drying his hair with a cloth. For a moment she just froze, hand still on the door, brain completely blank.

He turned at the sound.

And there was a very long, very quiet pause.

Kadan did not startle easily. He didn’t scramble for a shirt or try to cover himself. He simply looked at her, water still clinging to his skin, dark hair falling loosely around his shoulders.

The silence stretched.

The bard’s eyes, very traitorously, dropped.

He was… well.

Strong.

She had seen him fight, of course. Seen the power in the way he moved, the precision of every strike. But seeing it like this — without armor, without layers, without distance — was different.

His shoulders were broad, muscles defined from years of battle and training. Scars traced across his skin in pale lines, each one telling a story she’d never heard.

Her gaze lingered longer than she meant it to.

And she realized, with horror, that she was staring.

Kadan noticed.

Of course he noticed.

One corner of his mouth tilted upward — just barely. The faintest hint of amusement. Of all the reactions she expected, that was not one of them.

“Did you need something?” he asked, voice calm.

She blinked rapidly, dragging her eyes back up to his face. “I— I was just— I didn’t know you were—”

Shirtless. Bare. Standing there like that.

Her words tangled and fell apart.

He watched her for another moment, clearly taking in the way her cheeks had turned warm, the way she couldn’t quite seem to look at him and not look at him at the same time.

“You can come in,” he said.

She hesitated at the doorway. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not hiding,” he replied simply.

That didn’t help.

Still, she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Her eyes tried very hard to stay politely on his face.

They failed again almost immediately.

She swallowed.

“You’re staring,” Kadan said, not unkindly.

“I am not.”

A pause.

“…A little,” she admitted.

The hint of that almost-smile returned.

He set the cloth aside and took a slow step closer. Not threatening. Not even particularly bold. Just… closing the distance.

Up close, she could see more details. The way the light from the window traced along the lines of his arms. The steady rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth radiating from him.

“You look like you want to ask something,” he said quietly.

“I don’t,” she said too quickly.

His gaze flicked down, then back up again, as if he could read every thought she was trying very hard not to have.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

And then, because honesty had always been her weakness around him, she muttered, “Because you look… strong.”

The words hung there, fragile and earnest.

For a second, he didn’t react.

Then, slowly, he lifted her hand.

Her breath caught as his fingers wrapped gently around her wrist, guiding her closer until she stood right in front of him. He placed her palm lightly against his arm, the movement calm and deliberate.

“If you’re curious,” he said, voice lower now, softer, “you can touch.”

Her heart immediately started racing.

“Kadan…”

But she didn’t pull away.

His skin was warm under her fingertips. Solid. Real. She could feel the strength there, the steady tension in the muscle beneath her hand. She traced over one of the faint scars without thinking, her touch gentle.

He didn’t move. But his eyes stayed on her face, watching her reaction.

“You’ve never done this before,” he observed quietly.

She shook her head, barely able to speak. “No.”

His hand was still lightly holding hers in place, grounding, steady. The air between them felt different now — thicker, charged in a way that made her pulse flutter.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

“No,” she said quickly. Then, softer, “Not at all.”

His thumb brushed once against the inside of her wrist, a small, absentminded movement that sent a shiver up her arm.

“You’re staring again,” he murmured.

She looked up at him.

This time, neither of them looked away.

He leaned in first.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, his hand slipping from her wrist to rest at her waist, drawing her just a little closer. She melted into it almost instantly, her free hand coming to rest lightly against his chest.

He was warm. Solid. Alive under her palm.

When they finally pulled back, they were still close enough to share the same breath, foreheads nearly touching.

“Next time,” he said softly, that faint teasing note still in his voice, “knock.”

She let out a small, breathless laugh.

The moment was brief.

So brief that, later, the bard would wonder if it had really happened at all.

They had been speaking quietly just outside the training grounds, the evening sun low and warm, turning the stone paths gold. Armen had always been gentle in the way he spoke to her — thoughtful, careful, kind. There was a softness to him that made people feel safe.

That was all it was supposed to be.

A conversation.

A shared laugh.

She hadn’t noticed how close they’d stepped to each other until it was already too late.

Armen paused mid-sentence, his gaze dropping to her lips for the smallest fraction of a second before he seemed to make a decision all at once. He leaned in, hesitant but certain, and pressed a soft kiss to her mouth.

It lasted only a heartbeat.

A warm, startled brush of lips before she even had time to react.

And then—

A presence behind them shifted.

The bard’s eyes widened as she pulled back, breath catching. Armen stepped away immediately too, his expression changing as he realized they weren’t alone.

Kadan stood a few paces away.

He hadn’t made a sound. He rarely did. But his eyes were locked on them, dark and unreadable.

The air felt suddenly cold.

“Kadan—” she started, taking a step toward him.

He didn’t look at her.

His gaze was on Armen.

For a moment, no one spoke. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Armen straightened, his expression steady despite the tension.

“It was my fault,” Armen said quietly. “I shouldn’t have—”

Kadan’s jaw tightened.

He finally looked at her then.

And the look in his eyes made her chest ache.

Not anger. Not exactly.

Something deeper. Sharper.

Something hurt.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice low.

It wasn’t a demand.

But she followed him anyway.

They walked in silence, away from the training grounds, away from the castle walls, until they reached a quiet stretch of the courtyard where no one else lingered.

He stopped.

For a moment, he said nothing. His back was to her, shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides like he was holding something in.

“Kadan…” she said softly.

He turned.

The restraint in his expression was barely holding. His eyes searched her face, intense and restless, like he was trying to understand something he didn’t want to name.

“Did you want that?” he asked.

The question caught her off guard.

“What?”

“The kiss.” His voice was tight. Controlled. “Did you want it?”

She shook her head quickly. “I didn’t expect it.”

That wasn’t quite an answer.

He stepped closer.

“And if I hadn’t been there?” he pressed.

Her heart started racing. “Kadan…”

He stopped just in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him, the tension in the way he held himself.

“I saw him kiss you,” he said, quieter now. “And I didn’t like it.”

The words sounded almost foreign coming from him. Honest in a way he usually avoided.

Her hands lifted, resting lightly against his chest. “I didn’t ask for it,” she said gently. “I would have stopped him.”

Something in his expression shifted at that.

But the tightness didn’t leave.

“I should have been the only one,” he said before he could stop himself.

The moment the words were out, his eyes flickered with something like surprise at his own honesty.

The bard’s breath caught.

“Kadan…”

His hand came up, hesitating for the briefest moment before resting at her waist, pulling her just a little closer. There was a possessiveness in the gesture, raw and unguarded.

“I don’t like the thought of anyone else touching you,” he admitted, voice rougher now. “Kissing you.”

Her heart pounded.

“You’re jealous,” she said softly.

He didn’t deny it.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle at first.

It was intense, immediate, full of everything he hadn’t said — the anger, the hurt, the fear he didn’t like naming. His hand tightened slightly at her waist as she leaned into him, her fingers curling into his shirt.

But after a moment, the kiss softened.

Slowed.

His forehead rested against hers when they pulled apart, his breath uneven.

“I shouldn’t lose control like that,” he murmured.

She shook her head, still close, her hands sliding up to his shoulders.

“You care,” she said.

He closed his eyes for a moment.

The masquerade ball in Luterra felt like something out of a dream.

Gold and silver lanterns bathed the grand hall in warm light, music drifting through the air as nobles and knights spun across the polished floor. Masks hid identities, but not presence. Some people you could recognize without ever seeing their face.

Kadan was one of them.

He stood near the edge of the dance floor, dressed more formally than she had ever seen him, dark fabric fitted neatly across his broad shoulders. A simple black mask covered the upper half of his face, but it did nothing to soften the intensity of his gaze.

The bard spotted him immediately.

And, as if he’d felt her looking, he turned.

For a moment, the crowd faded into nothing.

Then he walked toward her.

He didn’t speak right away. Just held out his hand, quiet and steady, the silent invitation unmistakable.

“Do you dance?” she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips.

His voice was low. “With you.”

That was enough.

She placed her hand in his, and he led her onto the floor. His other hand settled at her waist, firm but careful, guiding her into the rhythm as though he had done this a hundred times before.

He hadn’t, she was certain of that.

But he learned quickly.

They moved together beneath the lantern light, her skirts brushing the floor, his steps sure and precise. He wasn’t flashy or dramatic like some of the others. Instead, he was steady, grounded. Every turn felt deliberate. Every step anchored.

His hand tightened just slightly at her waist as she turned back into him, and for a moment she forgot entirely where they were.

“Everyone is watching,” she murmured, breathless.

“I don’t care,” he replied.

She laughed softly. “You should. You’re supposed to be mysterious tonight.”

“I am,” he said. “They don’t know who I’m looking at.”

Her heart skipped.

The music swelled, and he drew her a little closer, just for a moment, just long enough that her shoulder brushed his chest. Even through the mask, she could feel his eyes on her face.

When the song ended, applause rippled through the hall.

Before she could step away, his hand closed gently around hers again.

“Come with me,” he said.

This time, it wasn’t a request.

He led her through the crowd, out a pair of tall doors and onto a quiet stone balcony overlooking Luterra’s lights. The night air was cool, carrying the distant echo of music from inside.

It was quiet out here. Private.

She turned to him, the soft glow from the hall lighting the edges of his silhouette.

“You don’t like crowds,” she said.

“I like you,” he replied.

The honesty of it caught her off guard.

She stepped closer, resting her hands lightly against his chest. “You’ve been watching me all night.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t want to share.”

The words were quiet, but there was a possessive warmth in them that made her pulse quicken.

He reached for her then, his hands settling at her waist, lifting her before she even realized what he was doing. She let out a soft, surprised laugh as he set her carefully on the wide stone railing, his body immediately close, one arm braced securely around her to keep her steady.

“I won’t let you fall,” he said, noticing the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

“I know,” she whispered.

From up there, she was almost eye level with him. Close enough to see the faint tension in his jaw. Close enough to feel his breath.

His hand slid gently along her back, holding her in place, protective and certain.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

Then he leaned in and kissed her.

It was slow at first, like he was testing the moment. But when she leaned into him, her fingers curling lightly into his collar, the kiss deepened, warmer, fuller. His hand tightened at her waist, steadying her against him as the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them and the quiet night air.

When they pulled apart, she was still sitting on the railing, his forehead resting briefly against hers.

The music from inside drifted back out, distant and soft.

“We should go back,” she murmured.

“In a moment,” he said.

They didn’t tell anyone at first.

Not Armen. Not Thirain. Not even the friends who would have stood proudly beside them without hesitation.

It wasn’t that they were ashamed.

It was that neither of them wanted something loud. Or grand. Or watched.

They had spent too much of their lives in the middle of war, of prophecy, of expectation. This — this was something they wanted to keep just for themselves.

So they chose somewhere quiet.

A small chapel just beyond Luterra’s outer fields, half-hidden by trees and wildflowers. It was old stone and ivy, rarely used except by passing travelers who stopped to pray. The windows were simple, the altar worn smooth with time.

But sunlight poured through the glass that morning, soft and golden.

The bard stood just inside the doorway, fingers nervously smoothing the fabric of her dress. It wasn’t elaborate. Nothing like the gowns worn in noble ceremonies. Just something simple and pale that moved gently when she shifted her weight.

She heard the door open behind her.

She didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

Kadan’s steps were always quiet. Measured. But she felt his presence before she saw him, warm and steady at her back.

When she finally turned, the breath left her chest for a moment.

He looked… different.

Still Kadan. Still serious, still calm. But without armor, without the weight of battle hanging from his shoulders. He wore dark formal clothes instead, the lines clean and simple. His hair was tied back loosely, and for once, there was nothing guarded in his expression.

Just something soft. Certain.

They didn’t speak right away.

He walked toward her, each step unhurried, until he stood close enough that she could reach out and touch him. His hand found hers, fingers threading together naturally, like they had always belonged that way.

“You’re sure?” he asked quietly.

He had asked her before. More than once. Not because he doubted her — but because he wanted to give her every chance to walk away from the life tied to his.

She squeezed his hand.

“I chose you a long time ago,” she said.

Something in his shoulders eased at that.

The ceremony itself was small. Just an older priest who had welcomed them with a kind smile and no questions. No music, no crowd, no long procession down an aisle.

Just the two of them standing together before the altar.

Kadan wasn’t a man of many words. When it came time to speak, he hesitated for a moment, like he was searching for something he didn’t quite know how to say.

But when he looked at her, the words came.

“I don’t promise an easy life,” he said, voice low and steady. “I never could. But I promise that wherever I go… you will never face it alone.”

Her eyes stung.

When it was her turn, she laughed softly through the emotion threatening to catch in her throat. “You were alone for so long,” she said. “I think I just wanted to make sure you never had to be again.”

The priest finished the final blessing, the words gentle and warm in the quiet chapel.

And just like that, it was done.

No applause. No cheers.

Just silence, sunlight, and the sound of their breathing as Kadan reached for her, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. He leaned down and kissed her slowly, carefully, like this moment was something fragile and sacred.

When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.

“Is it strange?” she asked softly. “Being married now?”

He thought about it.

Then he gave the smallest shake of his head.

“No,” he said. “It feels right.”

They left the chapel hand in hand, stepping out into the open fields where the wind moved gently through the grass. No one was waiting for them. No celebration waiting back at the castle.

Just the quiet road home.

It was meant to be a private discussion.

Unfortunately for Thirain, very little inside the Luterra palace stayed private for long.

The bard hadn’t meant to overhear anything. She had been on her way to deliver a report, pausing just outside the council chamber when she heard her name spoken from inside.

She froze.

“…a queen would bring stability,” one of the older advisors was saying. “The people would welcome it.”

Thirain didn’t answer right away.

Another voice chimed in. “She is beloved. Brave. Close to the crown already. The people know her name.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, more deliberate: “You could do far worse than her, Your Majesty.”

Her heart began to beat faster.

They meant her.

The door was only slightly ajar. Just enough that she could hear the faint shift of Thirain’s chair as he leaned back.

“…She is important to Luterra,” Thirain said slowly.

Not a refusal.

Not a yes, either.

But he was considering it.

That was enough to make her stomach twist.

She stepped away before she could hear more, retreating down the hall, mind racing. It felt strange — unreal. Thirain was kind, noble, someone she respected deeply. But the thought of being discussed like that, weighed like a political solution…

It made her chest feel tight.

She didn’t notice Kadan at first.

He was standing at the end of the corridor, half in shadow, arms crossed. Watching.

“How long were you there?” she asked quietly.

“Long enough,” he replied.

There was something off in his voice.

She walked toward him slowly. “You heard?”

“Yes.”

One word. Flat.

His jaw was tight, shoulders tense in a way she recognized immediately. Not battle-ready tense. Something else. Something simmering under the surface.

“They were just talking,” she said, trying to keep her tone light. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

Kadan didn’t answer.

His gaze had shifted past her, toward the council chamber doors. Toward where Thirain still sat inside, surrounded by advisors and possibilities.

“They’re looking for a queen,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

She nodded, hesitant. “It’s for the kingdom. Thirain needs—”

“You?” Kadan cut in.

The word came out sharper than he intended.

She blinked, taken aback.

“Kadan…”

His hand clenched at his side. He hadn’t realized how much it bothered him until that moment. The thought of her at Thirain’s side. Wearing a crown. Belonging to the throne.

Belonging somewhere he couldn’t follow.

“He didn’t say no,” Kadan muttered.

She hesitated. “He didn’t say yes either.”

That didn’t help.

Kadan finally looked at her fully, and the anger there wasn’t really anger at all. It was frustration. Fear. Something raw and unguarded.

“They’re planning your life for you,” he said. “Deciding where you belong.”

Her voice softened. “And where do you think I belong?”

The question hung between them.

He stepped closer before he could stop himself, the distance between them disappearing in two long strides. His hand came to her waist, pulling her gently but firmly toward him.

“With me,” he said.

It came out low. Immediate. Certain.

Her breath caught.

“You’re not part of court politics,” he continued, voice rougher now. “You’re not something to be placed beside a throne to make things easier.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“Do you?” His gaze searched her face. “Because they think you could be queen.”

“And what do you think?” she asked.

His grip tightened slightly at her waist, like he was afraid she might slip away if he didn’t hold on.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that if they ask you… you might say yes. Because it’s the right thing. Because it helps people.”

She didn’t deny it.

That was answer enough.

Kadan exhaled sharply, looking away for a moment, trying to gather himself. He wasn’t a man who fought for things like this. He didn’t compete. Didn’t beg. Didn’t ask.

But the thought of losing her to something so permanent — to a crown, to a throne, to a life he couldn’t be part of — made something in his chest burn.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said quietly.

It was the most honest thing he could have said.

Her expression softened immediately. Her hands came up, resting against his chest.

“You won’t,” she said. “I’m not a prize to be offered to a kingdom.”

Kadan’s eyes flicked back to hers, searching for doubt.

“There’s only one place I chose to belong,” she continued gently.

He swallowed.

“And where is that?” he asked, voice barely above a murmur.

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, just beside his ear.

“With you.”

For the first time since hearing the conversation, the tightness in his shoulders eased.

He pulled her closer, resting his forehead briefly against hers, the tension slowly draining away.

Behind them, the council chamber doors opened.

Voices spilled into the hall.

Kadan didn’t even look back.

--

Thirain knew the moment the doors opened.

Not because he saw them.

Because the hallway felt… different.

The council chamber had been full of voices just moments before — measured, political, careful. Advisors speaking in circles, offering suggestions wrapped in diplomacy. The discussion had lingered on longer than he’d intended, the topic turning again and again to the same place.

A queen.

A symbol.

A future.

And her name had come up more than once.

When the doors finally swung open, the advisors began filing out, still murmuring to one another. Thirain remained seated for a moment longer, staring down at the table, fingers loosely interlaced.

Something felt off.

He stood.

And then he saw them.

Not directly outside the door — they were farther down the corridor. Close. Too close to have been passing by without hearing anything.

Kadan stood facing her, body angled slightly as if shielding her from view. The bard stood close, one hand resting lightly against his chest. They weren’t speaking loudly, but the tension between them was unmistakable.

Kadan’s posture alone told Thirain everything he needed to know.

Rigid. Protective. Possessive in a way he rarely let show.

They’d heard.

Thirain didn’t move right away.

He watched from the doorway, just for a moment.

The bard leaned in, saying something soft. Kadan’s shoulders slowly relaxed, his hand settling at her waist like it belonged there. He lowered his head slightly, their foreheads almost touching.

It was an intimate kind of closeness. The kind that didn’t need words.

And suddenly, the conversation inside the chamber felt heavier than it had before.

Thirain stepped forward.

The sound of his boots on the stone made them both look up.

The bard’s eyes widened slightly. Kadan straightened, his hand falling away from her waist, though he didn’t step back. He never did.

Thirain stopped a few paces away.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, gently, he said, “You heard.”

It wasn’t a question.

The bard hesitated, then nodded. “We didn’t mean to.”

Kadan didn’t say anything.

But Thirain noticed the way he positioned himself just slightly closer to her, as if he expected to have to defend something.

That, more than anything, told him the truth.

Thirain exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing.

“I should have been more careful,” he said. “It wasn’t meant to reach you like that.”

“It’s alright,” the bard replied softly. “I understand why they’d talk about it.”

Thirain studied her face for a moment.

She wasn’t flattered. Or excited. If anything, she looked unsettled.

And Kadan—

Kadan looked ready to tear the idea apart with his bare hands.

A faint, almost amused breath left Thirain’s nose before he could stop it.

“So that’s how it is,” he said quietly.

The bard blinked. “What?”

He looked between them. The way they stood. The way Kadan’s attention never strayed far from her. The way she leaned toward him without realizing it.

It suddenly felt very obvious.

“You two,” Thirain said. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

The bard’s cheeks warmed. Kadan’s expression didn’t change much, but his jaw tightened slightly.

Thirain smiled faintly.

“I didn’t say yes,” he added. “In there.”

Kadan’s eyes flicked to his, sharp and searching.

“And I wasn’t going to,” Thirain continued. “Not without asking her. Not without knowing what she wanted.”

The bard let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“I don’t want to be queen,” she admitted.

Thirain nodded once, like he’d expected that answer all along.

“I thought so.”

Silence settled for a moment, softer now.

Then his gaze shifted to Kadan.

There was no hostility in it. Just understanding.

“You looked like you were ready to fight my entire council,” Thirain said lightly.

Kadan didn’t deny it.

“I don’t like people deciding her future,” he replied.

Thirain believed him.

And then, with a small smile, he said, “Good.”

They both looked at him, surprised.

“A queen should want the crown,” Thirain said. “Not be placed there by suggestion.” He paused, then added, quieter, “And she’s already chosen where she belongs.”

The bard’s hand found Kadan’s sleeve again, fingers curling into the fabric.

Thirain noticed.

He wasn’t blind. And he wasn’t hurt, not really. If anything, there was a quiet relief in seeing it so clearly now.

“You don’t need to worry,” he said gently. “I won’t let the advisors push that idea again.”

The tension in Kadan’s shoulders finally eased.

“…Thank you,” the bard said.

Thirain inclined his head once, then turned to go, pausing just briefly as he passed them.

“For what it’s worth,” he added over his shoulder, “I think you chose well.”

Kadan didn’t respond out loud.