Neriah lay curled beneath the sheets, unmoving except for the subtle shift of her chest. Sleep had not come easily.
She had tossed, turned, drifted and returned. Her eyes stung from trying not to cry. Her limbs ached from clenching too tightly.
And her mind… her mind would not stop painting the same memory — blood against white stone, the cold thud of a severed head, and the man she had kissed, standing motionless as if he'd merely signed a letter.
She'd dozed off only moments ago, lulled into rest not by peace, but by sheer exhaustion.
So she didn't stir when the door eased open.
He didn't knock.
Damon stepped inside without a sound. His boots were quiet against the rug as he crossed the room, not going to the bed immediately, but instead standing still — watching her.
He saw the pale curve of her cheek, half-tucked into the pillow. The way her brow still furrowed in sleep. She looked like someone haunted by dreams.
He hated that he might be in them.
He lowered himself into the bed and sat - he simply watched her.
For a long time, he did nothing else.
Her fingers twitched. She turned. She shifted again, restlessly.
Then, slowly — her lashes fluttered.
And she stilled.
She felt it.
Her eyes blinked open, hazy, adjusting to the soft light. Then she turned — and saw him.
He sat there next to her, half-shadowed in the flickering candlelight. Not in his royal garb now — just a simple dark tunic, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His eyes fixed on her like they hadn't moved in hours.
She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket with her.
"…Damon?"
He didn't speak right away. Just looked at her — really looked. And somehow that was worse.
She swallowed. Her voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you," he said softly. "I didn't know… I didn't know you were there. Today. At the execution."
Silence stretched between them. Heavy.
Neriah's eyes dropped to the blanket twisted in her hands. Her fingers had gone white from gripping.
"You killed him," she whispered. "You didn't even hesitate."
"He was guilty," Damon said, not harshly, just plain. "Of crimes I cannot — will not — allow."
Neriah looked back up at him.
There was something fragile in her eyes. "I've never… I've never seen anything like that before. Gods, I didn't know what I was expecting. But not that. Not…"
Her breath caught. "Not you."
Damon's jaw tensed, but he said nothing.
"I don't know what I feel," she admitted. "I don't know if I'm scared of you or if I'm just…"
She blinked hard, fighting the burn in her eyes.
"I thought he was just some lord who made a mistake. I thought you were punishing him too harshly. I thought…"
"He ran a slave empire, Riah," Damon said gently. "He traded lives — girls, boys, women, men. He sold them across borders, broke their spirits, used their bodies. And then hid behind titles and silver."
Her eyes widened slightly — not in disbelief, but in horror.
"You think I wanted to do what I did?" he asked. "You think it gave me pleasure? I've lived in courts where people like Travis were celebrated. I've seen noble houses built from bones."
He looked away then, just slightly. "But I've never taken an innocent life. Not once."
She breathed slowly, shallowly, her chest rising and falling like a sea struggling to calm.
"You didn't flinch," she said. "You didn't even blink."
Damon didn't move. "Because if I did, they'd think I could be shaken. They'd test me again. And again. And again."
He looked at her now — and gods, how tired he looked.
"I do what I must," he said. "So that others don't suffer."
She stared at him for a long time.
"I don't know what I thought you were," she murmured. "Maybe I was swept up in you — the way you looked at me, the way you touched me like I was something sacred. I thought that was all you were."
"That is me," he said quietly.
"But it's not all of you," she replied.
No one spoke.
The candles crackled.
Damon reached for her hand — slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't. Their fingers touched.
His grip was careful, almost reverent. "Riah," he said, "I've bled, I've fought, I've done things I don't want you to ever see. But I will never hurt you. I swear that."
Her voice was small. "I believe you."
"But?"
"I don't know if that's enough."
That hit harder than he expected.
She looked away.
A pause.
"I want you to leave... please" she said softly.
He didn't say anything right away. His thumb brushed the back of her hand once more before he pulled away.
Then he stood.
And quietly, he nodded.
He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. He didn't look back.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And Neriah sat in silence, alone in the dim, flickering room — heart full, head aching, and a war blooming quietly inside her chest.
*******************
The sun crept into the room like a gentle intruder, pushing its golden fingers across the embroidered blankets and cushions, casting soft warmth across the stone floor. Neriah stirred with a sigh, the light drawing her from uneasy sleep. Her eyelids fluttered open, and for the first time in hours, there was no image of blood, no clang of steel echoing through her memory — only the quiet breath of a new day.
She sat up slowly, the sheets rustling around her. The fire had long since gone out, leaving a faint chill in the air. She wrapped her robe tighter around herself and turned her face toward the morning sun. The light was kind today. She closed her eyes and let it kiss her skin.
There was a soft knock at the door.
Gwen entered with her usual bustle and a tray of warm bread and dried fruit. "Good morning, my lady," she chirped. "You've slept longer than usual."
"I needed it," Neriah murmured, her voice still thick with sleep.
Gwen placed the tray down with a faint smile. "You had visitors early. A messenger, actually. From the north."
Neriah's brow lifted. "From Halemond?"
"Yes." Gwen held up a parchment with a broken seal — one Neriah knew intimately.
She took it with trembling hands, her breath catching in her throat. She didn't read it right away — instead, she held it to her chest for a moment, eyes closed, heart thudding.
Then, slowly, she broke the seal and began to read.
Her lips parted, her eyes scanning the neat, firm handwriting.
Dearest Daughter,
The storms in Halemond have been relentless — not just the rain, but the unrest. You know what Halemond becomes when the rains come; the roads flood, and the messengers get swallowed by mud and silence. But I am well. I have received your letters. All of them.
I have missed you, my little flame.
I will come to Arkenfall soon.
With all my heart,
—Your Father
A laugh escaped her lips — light and startled, like a sound that didn't expect to be born.
He was coming.
Her father — after all the silence, after all the ache — he was coming.
She leapt from the bed, letter still in hand. Gwen gave her a curious look. "Good news, my lady?"
Neriah turned, eyes shining. "Yes. Yes, Gwen. The best."
********************
Later that day, dressed in her ceremonial training gown of sapphire blue, Neriah sat beneath the high dome of the study with Lady Vax. The room was heavy with scrolls and parchment, wax stamps, and the scent of old wood polish. Lady Vax was in one of her more animated moods, tapping a long pointer against a drawn-out map of the kingdom.
"…and when you evaluate a council's petition, you must first determine whether it serves the crown, the realm, or the petitioner alone. Most serve none."
Neriah nodded, trying to absorb the flood of knowledge. She jotted notes. Listened. Asked questions when she could.
Lady Vax paused occasionally to study her.
"You're quiet today," she remarked after a time.
"I'm learning," Neriah said with a small smile.
"Hmm," the older woman mused,
—
When the summons came, it was discreet. A guard in silver and crimson, bowing low.
"His Majesty requests your presence in the western solar."
Neriah hesitated.
Just for a breath.
The walk there was not long — but it felt like it. Every step reminded her of yesterday. The echo of boots on stone, the way the court had gone silent before the executioner's axe fell, the way Damon had not flinched.
She entered the solar with careful steps. The doors opened wide, and the warm light of afternoon spilled in. The room was vast and filled with sunlight — tall arched windows, shelves of old tomes, and the scent of citrus and ink.
Damon stood by the far window, facing the courtyard below.
When she entered, he turned — slowly, as if unsure how she might receive him.
His eyes met hers. Not with hunger, or authority, or that quiet yearning he so often looked at her with.
But with apology.
"Thank you for coming," he said gently.
"You summoned me," she replied. "You're the king."
He winced almost imperceptibly, but nodded.
There was a long pause.
Then he gestured toward the seats beside the hearth.
"I thought you'd like to sit. Just talk."
She moved with measured steps and took her seat. Damon sat across from her — not beside her, not too close.
"Do you still want to ride to Halemond?" he asked after a moment.
Her eyes lit faintly again. "There is no need for that. I received a letter this morning from my father."
And despite everything — despite the tension thick between them — Damon smiled.
Neriah hadn't realized how much she missed that smile.
"He's all right?" he asked.
"He is. He said Halemond's been drowning under the rains. No messengers in or out. But he'll be coming here soonest."
Something in Damon's shoulders eased. "Good. I'm glad."
She looked down at her hands in her lap.
He noticed.
"I know I hurt you yesterday," Damon said quietly. "Not with my hands. But still."
Neriah didn't respond immediately.
Then, softly, she said, "It wasn't you. It was what you did."
A silence stretched. Long. Not cold — but uncertain.
Her fingers twined together. "I don't know how to feel about any of this, Damon. I still care. I do. But it's… it's hard. I've never seen something like that. Never even imagined it."
"I know."
They sat like that for a while. Neither knowing what the next words should be.
Eventually, Damon leaned back slightly. His voice low. "You looked happy when you spoke about your father's letter. I've missed that light in your face."
That startled her. She glanced up.
And then, as if unsure of the space between them, Damon rose to his feet.
"I won't keep you."
She stood as well, awkwardly. But before he turned, her voice stopped him.
"I believe you," she said. "About what you said last night. About only taking guilty lives."
His eyes flicked to hers — just for a heartbeat.
"That doesn't mean I'm not still trying to understand it," she added.
Damon gave a faint nod. "Take all the time you need."