Chapter 20

The sun had begun to lower behind the treeline when Elias emerged from the forest, a soldier's arm slung over his shoulders. The younger man limped heavily, his face pale from blood loss and shock. Sir Caedan followed a few paces behind, similarly supporting another soldier who bore a jagged gash across his side and leg. The air was thick with pine and iron, the aftermath of battle clinging to their clothes like smoke.

Villagers looked up from where they had gathered near the former ruins, their conversations silencing at the sight. Relief swept through the crowd at the knowledge that the beast must be dead, tempered by the sobering reality of what had been faced and the injuries come of it.

Ilya stood near the edge of the square, hands clasped tightly before her. When she saw Elias, she exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. He wasn't limping. He wasn't bleeding. But his movements were stiff, deliberate—the kind of weariness that came from pushing beyond one's limits.

He helped the soldier to the healer's wagon before turning toward her, his jaw set, eyes shadowed beneath his brow.

"Ilya," he said, his voice low.

"You're not hurt?" she asked, scanning him quickly.

"Nothing new," he replied with a half-smile, but his body told another story. His shoulders were tight, and when he turned, she noticed the way he favored his right side.

"I have something for that," Lysia said, stepping up beside Ilya and pressing a small clay jar into her hands. "The Madam sent it with me. Balm fo…for the pain. It's strong—just don't get it in his eyes."

Ilya gave her a look of gratitude, then turned back to Elias. "Come with me."

He arched a brow. "Where?"

"Somewhere away from all this. Just for a moment."

He didn't argue.

Lysia, watching them go, smiled to herself as she turned away, almost smug. The Madam had warned her this might happen—and entrusted her with the balm just in case. She was quite pleased to have played her part well.

Ilya led him behind the carriages where the light was soft, filtered through the leaves. The silence here was gentler than the square. Birds chirped faintly from the branches overhead. A breeze stirred her at her hair as she uncorked the jar, reading something about burns on the side.

"Sit," she said.

Elias obeyed with the ease of a man too tired to protest. He settled on the edge of the carriage bed, and she stepped closer. The scent of the balm hit her—sharp mint, camphor, and something earthy like crushed pine needles and clay.

"I'll need you to lift your shirt," she said, trying to sound clinical. But her voice had caught slightly in her throat.

He gave her a tired look, then slowly peeled the linen off over his head.

The sight made her pause.

He wasn't bulky like some soldiers who did nothing but work out. His build was forged by necessity, not vanity—lean and roped with sinew. Larger than the average but cut in stone. Scars laced across his skin like a history written in flesh: a line over his ribs, another down his side, the faded remnant of something large and molten near his shoulder. A thin patch of chest hair dusted his torso, trailing down his stomach.

She swallowed, cheeks warming. Her hand hovered for a moment before dipping into the balm.

Focus, she reminded herself.

"I can tell when you're staring," he said mildly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"I'm inspecting, not staring." she lied softly, not meeting his eyes. "Hold still."

She touched his side gently, eyes tracing the burns that stretched from his ribs to his shoulder. His breath hitched—not from pain, she realized, but from the cold balm. Still, the flinch sent a flicker of guilt through her.

"You fought it alone?"

He nodded. "The beast was clever. Led us in circles. Waited to strike. Got two men pretty bad."

"And you killed it."

"It nearly killed me."

Her hand stilled. Her fingers rested just over one of the burns…it still felt hot to the touch, as though alive with fire to this day.

"But it failed…" she whispered.

He looked up at her then. The space between them felt like something fragile and alive.

"I don't make a habit of dying…" he murmured.

"Good," she replied, her voice softer than she meant it to be.

She worked the balm across his ribs and back, the muscles shifting under her hands. The intimacy of it—the quiet, the scent of the woods, the warmth of his skin—drew something low and uncertain in her stomach. She tried not to notice how close they were, how her knee brushed his. But he was quiet too, as if caught in the same suspended breath.

"I am…glad you are okay." she said before she could stop herself.

He turned slightly to look at her.

"....thank you."

Her hands stilled, and for a moment she didn't move. Then she stepped back, the balm sealed tightly in her grip.

"I'll fetch more when we return," she said.

Elias pulled his shirt back over his head and stood, slower than usual.

"Thank you," he said again simply.

They returned to the square where the villagers had gathered again, this time bearing gifts—baskets of fruit, wheels of cheese, dried meats, and glass jars of honey and preserves. Children stepped forward with flowers, and old men bowed with trembling hands.

The mayor approached, flanked by elders and the owner of the home that had been damaged.

"You've given us more than protection, my lord," the mayor said, bowing. "You've given us a future."

Elias inclined his head. "I'll leave ten of my men here for the next fortnight. Within the month, I'll send a group of builders. You'll have a small garrison posted near the woods—a permanent defense. You'll not be left unguarded again."

There were murmurs of gratitude, some with tears, others with cheers. One of the village women pressed a knitted shawl into Ilya's hands, whispering blessings. Another gave Elias a carved wooden token in the shape of a stag. The blacksmith and his daughter were near the back, and Ilya's eyes would catch on them. Nessa waved energetically, standing on her tiptoes. A faint smile graced the lips of Behn, who just gave a single little wave of his hand. Ilya smiled warmly and waved back at them, more reserved but paired nicely with her slight bow of the head.

As the sun began to fall lower, the carriages were readied. Elias gave Caedan instructions and clasped hands with the remaining villagers. Ilya watched him as he moved among them—steady, quiet, enduring.

They reached the keep just as twilight settled in full. The gates opened wide and warm lamplight spilled across the courtyard. The scent of stew and baked bread met them at the door.

Dinner was laid quickly in the great hall—bowls of thick vegetable stew, platters of soft cheese and warm rolls, spiced wine and roasted apples. The candles glowed low, their flicker soft against the high beams.

Ilya did not go to her usual spot and instead sat beside Elias at the long table. She could still feel the warmth of him beside her, the memory of her fingers on his skin. Their knees brushed now and again beneath the table, though neither commented.

They didn't speak much. There was a quiet between them, not heavy, but full—like the space after a storm when everything feels cleaner somehow.

After the meal, the others filtered out slowly. Sir Caedan excused himself, rubbing a shoulder and muttering something about bruises he hadn't earned.

Elias stood slowly, rolling his shoulders. "I'll be turning in as well."

Ilya stood as well, not sure what to say. "Rest well."

He hesitated, then watched her a long moment. "May I…?" He gestured at her hand.

The question caught her off guard, but she nodded, offering it up to him

He stepped close, hand coming up to take hers. He was closer than he had been before in a moment like this. Maybe two feet. Maybe less. She knew that he was warm and solid and she could smell his scent, a faint of draft of pine and iron. He brought her hand up, looking down at it…and kissed the back of her knuckles.

Her heart leapt into her throat as he looked into her eyes a moment.

"Thank you for today…and….goodnight, my Lady." he said softly before he turned to go, cane tapping gently on the door as he did not look back.

She watched him disappear into the corridor.

Madam Therin entered not long after, almost as though she had been peeping which she would totally never do, her usual quiet authority present in her posture. She glanced after Elias, then looked to Ilya.

"Well?"

Ilya turned toward the fire, her voice quiet. "It's an interesting feeling, Therein. My feelings seem to be…mixing themselves about." She didn't know how to phrase it, and the next part slipped out, rather raw and unpolished.

"I find myself beginning to like him more than I should, Madam Therin…"

Madam Therin gave a very gentle smile.

"And how, I wonder, should a wife feel about her husband?" she asked.

Ilya glanced at her, not wanting to acknowledge the truth in those words. They may be married but she worried that his heart still belonged to another.

"I must work harder to keep this from him…until such a time as he is…ready to receive it."

What she didn't see—what neither of them noticed—was the shadow just around the corner.

Elias had paused outside door, standing against the wall in the hallway.

He had meant to go. But something had made him linger.

And now, her words echoed in his chest like thunder in a canyon.

He stood there for a long moment, eyes closed.

Then, for the first time in recent memory, he forgot the pain of it and smiled only for himself, feeling warmth spread through his chest and down to his toes before he made his way to bed.