Chapter:13 Shattered and Seen

Thory burst into the alleyway, boots skidding on the blood-speckled cobblestones.

Thory: "Fen! By the gods—what happened?!"

She dropped to her knees beside him. Fen's body trembled from blood loss, his hand pressed weakly against the gash on his neck. His torn costume—the fake helm of Thor, the battered red cape—looked pitiful now, drenched and scorched.

Fen (groggy): "I… held her off."

Thory: "You look like you lost to a dragon, not a woman with a sword."

Carefully, she slid her arm under his and hauled him up, letting him lean against her.

Thory: "We need to get you to a hospital. Now."

They stumbled together from the alley into the sunlight of the festival square, the sudden brightness making Fen squint.

And then—they saw her.

Standing beside the king on the stage, basking in applause and golden daylight, was the princess. Her long dark hair. Her graceful presence. Her brown eyes.

Fen blinked. His breath hitched.

Fen: "That's… her."

Thory: "Her who?"

Fen: "The Valkyrie. The one who almost killed me."

Thory's jaw dropped, staring at the princess anew.

Thory: "Wait… you're saying that royal sweetheart is the blade-dancing psychopath from the alley?"

Fen didn't answer. He didn't need to. His eyes locked with hers for the briefest moment.

And she looked back.

Just a flicker. Just a beat.

Then the princess turned back toward the crowd, smiling like a goddess of peace—but Fen had seen the war behind those eyes.

The clinic smelled like pine oil, old timber, and dried herbs.

Fen lay on a stiff cot by a narrow window, wrapped in bandages, sore from shoulder to spine. The window let in dull afternoon light, filtering through fabric banners still waving in the distance from the festival. He could hear the muted thump of music and laughter, like echoes from another world.

A small woman in her late sixties shuffled around the room, her long braid streaked with silver. She wore a faded white coat layered over a wool shawl, and her hands were rough with calluses. She squinted at the deep purple welt on Fen's ribs, then dabbed it with a cold herbal salve.

She muttered, mostly to herself, "Another festival brawler, huh? What was it this time—drunk bet, family feud, or too much mead and not enough sense?"

Fen grunted, his mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. "Something like that."

The old woman shook her head, tying off the bandage with practiced fingers. "You're lucky. That cut on your neck missed anything important." She paused, giving him a quick once-over. "Whoever did this knew what they were doing. Don't go picking fights with anyone that sharp again."

"Noted," Fen said, quietly.

She patted his chest—not gently—and gathered her things. "You'll live. Rest. No heroics for at least a week."

The door creaked closed behind her.

A beat later, it opened again. Thory slipped inside, tossing her coat onto the chair in the corner. Her braid was loose, eyes tired but sharp. She crossed the room and dropped onto the edge of Fen's bed.

She looked him over with a frown. "Still breathing. Barely."

Fen raised an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"

Thory gave him a flat look, then reached out and smacked him lightly across the cheek.

"That's for getting into a fight with a literal cloak-wearing mystery assassin during a citywide celebration. You really know how to make a scene."

"She attacked me."

"You still almost died."

They both paused. Fen looked toward the window. He could still feel the weight of the blade against his collarbone, the sound of steel scraping stone.

Thory leaned in, lowering her voice. "That girl on the stage… the one in the black dress—did she look familiar?"

Fen nodded slowly. "The eyes. I couldn't stop thinking about them. Same look. Same cold."

"Think it was her?" Thory asked.

"I don't know," Fen whispered. "But she looked at me like she remembered everything."

Outside, the festival carried on—music, cheers, distant fireworks.

Inside, the silence pressed close.

And Fen knew—whatever storm he'd stumbled into wasn't finished.

Not even close.