Seraphina slammed the stable door shut behind them. Rain hammered against the wood like fists, and her soaked palm slipped against the grain as she threw the bolt. Her shoulder throbbed from where the blade had grazed her, she could feel the blood, warm and wet, seeping into her sleeve.
Behind her, Caelan staggered inside, looking like hell. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed to a wound on his arm. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow and uneven.
He didn't make it three steps before collapsing to his knees and vomiting blood onto the straw.
"Poison," Seraphina muttered, already moving.
Caelan coughed, hard. "Shit... that last blade must've been coated."
She dropped beside him, their shoulders brushing. Her hand went to his temple, steady despite the chaos. "Don't move."
Magic flared beneath her skin. Not the fire meant to destroy, but something gentler, a golden warmth that radiated from her palm into his chest. She leaned in, close enough for him to feel her breath, and pushed the cleansing fire through his veins.
He jerked under her touch, muscles spasming. More blood spilled from his mouth, darker this time.
She pressed her palm flat against his chest, her knee bracing beside his. Her magic flared hotter, more insistent.
"Stay with me."
His breathing faltered, then slowly steadied. The trembling stopped.
Neither of them moved.
"You're lucky the D'Lorien bloodline comes with perks," she muttered.
Caelan managed a faint smirk. "That why you're not puking too?"
"Healers burn through toxins naturally. We're not immune, but we recover faster. Most poisons have to be tripled just to scratch us."
Their foreheads were nearly touching. The silence between them grew thick, heavy. Intimate. Caelan looked away first.
Seraphina pulled back, too fast. She stood, hissing as she cleaned the gash on her arm with rainwater from a nearby bucket, then sealed the wound with a flicker of flame.
When she knelt beside him again, her hands glowed gold. She pressed her magic into his deeper wound and tore a strip from her skirt to wrap it tight. Their hands brushed as she tied the knot.
Neither pulled away.
"Do you always bleed this much, or am I just special?"
His smile returned, faint but real. "You bring out the best in me."
"Great. I'll add battlefield medic to my growing list of job titles."
Every word pulled their gazes back to each other. She searched his eyes for lies. He searched hers for truth. The space between them buzzed, charged and reckless.
This time, neither of them looked away.
Rain drummed against the roof as the storm raged on. Seraphina finished securing the bandage and glanced at him.
"Do you ever take it off?"
He blinked. "What?"
"The mask. Not the courtly one. The one you wear when you think no one's watching."
Caelan's jaw tightened. His gaze slid to the side. A memory resurfaced.
Fifteen. A banquet. Wine that tasted off. Hands that grabbed what wasn't offered. A noblewoman who thought his bloodline was hers to claim. When she lunged for him, he managed to rake his nails across her face, deep, jagged lines that bled instantly. The sound of her shriek was still etched into his memory. His steward burst in moments later to find her screaming, clawing at him, blood on both of them. It was enough to get her removed, barely. She was dragged out, publicly shamed, then quietly protected. The scandal died in whispers. The memory didn't.
He'd learned then that his face was a liability. So he let them think he wore the mask to hide scars instead of perfection. It was easier to be underestimated than hunted.
"Some masks keep you safe," he said finally.
Seraphina didn't press. "I understand."
A horse snorted in a nearby stall, the sound sharp in the silence. Caelan's hand twitched toward his weapon. Nothing followed.
He exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers. "I'll live."
"You better. I'm not dragging your heavy ass out of another ambush."
His smile widened. "Your bedside manner is terrible."
"I'll work on it."
She met his eyes. The air between them shifted again.
"Was that flirting?" she asked. "Because I don't have the energy to decode subtle."
Caelan stared at her. Something flickered in his gaze. "If I flirted, you'd feel it."
Thunder cracked overhead.
"They won't wait long," Seraphina said.
"No."
"Next time, they won't aim to wound."
"They'll aim for the kill."
She nodded. "Still want to be involved?"
"I'm not here because it's safe."
She studied him. "Then why?"
"I've seen what they do to people who speak up. I've been used before. I know what it feels like to be someone's pawn."
"I'm not asking you to fight for me."
"Good. I'm fighting with you. There's a difference."
The words hit harder than she expected.
"They're afraid of you," he said.
"Good."
"I never meant to make you afraid of me."
"You don't."
She leaned back against the stable wall, exhaustion settling deep in her bones. Her robe was soaked and torn, her body aching. But for the first time in weeks, she could breathe.
"If this falls apart," she said, "I'd rather bleed here than keep pretending in that place."
"It won't fall apart."
"You sound confident for someone who just got poisoned."
"You're not alone anymore."
That silenced her.
She stood, brushing straw from her skirt. "When the midnight bells toll, I'll already be inside."
He raised a brow.
"There's an archive in the Vessant estate. Since marrying into the family, I've been locked out. No explanation. Just sealed doors. Whatever they're hiding, it starts there."
"You're going alone."
"This isn't a negotiation."
"Don't get caught."
"Worried?"
"For whoever catches you."
She almost smiled. "Fair point."
The bells began to toll.
She turned to the stable door, pausing with her hand on the wood. Rain streaked through the cracks, cold and sharp. She looked back at him one last time.
"Don't die while I'm gone."
"That's the plan."
They held each other's gaze across the dim stable. No masks. No lies.
She pulled the door open. Wind lashed her cloak. Rain soaked her face.
Her hand tightened on the dagger at her hip.
Time to find out what they buried.
And who she'd have to burn to take it back.
Seraphina pressed herself against the Vessant estate's outer wall, cloaked in shadow. Rain poured down ancient stone, soaking her cloak and slicking the path ahead. The guards were exactly where she'd predicted. Predictable. Complacent.
The third-floor archive window loomed above, east wing, just over the rotting garden. No wards. No patrols. No respect for the things they were hiding.
She looked up, eyes narrowing.
The door to the archives waited.
And this time, she wasn't coming for answers.
She was coming for proof.