"Rhyn! Rhyn, wake, will ye!"
The voice dragged her from sleep, followed by a rough shake at her shoulder. Serenya's eyes flew open. Brisa stood over her, face pale and anxious in the dim light of the servants' quarters.
She pushed herself upright, still tangled in her blanket. "Brisa? What is it—what's happened?"
"The Captain," Brisa hissed, glancing toward the door as if someone might be listening. "He's down sick. Burnin' hot, they say. Marta's runnin' mad tryin' to fix summat till the physician comes."
Serenya blinked the sleep from her eyes. "Sick?" The word lodged strangely on her tongue. Captain Darian, sick? The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.
Brisa tugged her arm. "Come quick, afore Marta skins the both of us. She's callin' fer everyone."
Serenya scrambled to her feet, smoothing her skirt as her heart kicked up. The corridor outside buzzed with hurried footsteps and muttered voices. Servants darted past with basins of steaming water, bundles of linens, jars of dried herbs. The usual rhythm of the manor had shattered; now there was only panic beneath a thin layer of order.
Marta's voice sliced through the noise the moment they reached the kitchens. "Where's the broth? Don't stand gawkin'—boil it proper, not that watery slop! And ye—stir faster, or I'll have yer ears off!"
The kitchen was a storm of heat and clattering ladles. Brisa melted into the rush, but Marta's sharp eyes caught Serenya instantly.
"Rhyn!" she barked, thrusting a hand toward her. "Yer quick with yer hands—find summat the Captain can stomach. Not too heavy, not too weak. Hop to it, girl!"
"Yes, ma'am!" Serenya answered, moving before she could think.
Her hands reached for a pot, but her thoughts were already pulling elsewhere. The smell of onions in butter, the sound of broth simmering, her mother's quiet voice humming as she stirred the pot—
When you're sick, Serenya, you don't want a feast. You want comfort.
The memory rose so sharp and clear she could almost hear her. Her mother's soup.
That was what he needed.
The kitchen was chaos. Steam clouded the air, herbs spilled across the counters, and half a dozen servants shouted over one another. Serenya pushed through them, slipping to the hearth where the largest pot boiled.
"Oi, Rhyn," one of the lads muttered, sweat dripping down his face as he stirred furiously. "This ain't near strong 'nuff. Man's a soldier, not a babe. Needs meat."
"No," Serenya said firmly, surprising even herself. She set her hand on the ladle, steadying it. "Too heavy. His stomach won't take it."
He blinked at her. "An' how d'ye know, then?"
Because I watched my mother soothe fevers with this same broth. Because when Calen was sick, only this would stay down. Because I am not who you think I am.
But she only said, calm and low, "Because it works."
She swept aside the hunk of pork the boy was about to drop in and reached for onions instead. Butter hissed in the pan as she sliced them thin, letting the scent rise sharp and sweet. Next went the garlic, then carrots, celery, and a pinch of thyme. The smells wove together, softening into something familiar, something safe.
Brisa hovered at her elbow. "Rhyn, what's that yer makin'? Smells… diff'rent."
"A soup," Serenya murmured, stirring slowly. "Clear broth. Gentle enough for fever, but strong enough to give him strength."
Behind her, Marta's voice cracked like a whip. "What's this then? Playin' cook, are ye?"
Serenya stiffened but kept stirring. "No, ma'am. Just somethin' simple. Easier on the stomach."
Marta swept closer, eyes narrowing. "Ye'd best hope it works. Else it'll be yer hide, girl."
Serenya bowed her head, hiding the way her pulse raced. "Yes, ma'am."
She added the broth, the scent rising with a warmth that filled the frantic kitchen. As she sprinkled in a last pinch of herbs, memory tightened her chest—her mother's hand guiding hers, whispering: Not too much, Serenya. Let the flavors speak plain.
She lifted the ladle. The soup shimmered, pale gold in the firelight.
This would do.
The soup simmered gently, golden broth steaming in the dim light. Serenya ladled it into a bowl, steadying her hands so none would see the way her heart raced.
Marta swooped in like a hawk, eyes narrowing at the bowl. She sniffed once. "Thin."
"It's meant to be, ma'am," Serenya said quietly.
"Thin," Marta repeated, her lips pursed. Then she snatched a spoon, tasted, and paused. Her brow furrowed. "…Hnh."
Brisa leaned in, whispering, "Smells right, don't it?"
Marta slapped her arm without looking. "Quiet, you. If the Captain spits it out, it'll be her hide, not yours." She jerked her chin at Serenya. "Take it. Now."
Serenya froze. "Me?"
"Aye, you." Marta thrust the bowl into her hands, nearly spilling it. "Yer the one made it, so yer the one to answer for it. Don't dawdle—he's burnin' up, an' the physician's still an hour off."
The heat of the bowl seeped into Serenya's palms, too real, too heavy. Serve the Captain—alone, while he lay sick? Her throat tightened.
"Yes, ma'am," she murmured, bowing her head to hide the flicker of dread in her eyes.
She turned, cradling the bowl carefully, and stepped out of the kitchen. The clamor of pots and voices dimmed behind her, replaced by the hush of the manor's corridors. Every step toward the Captain's chambers made her pulse quicken.
She remembered last night—his nearness, his words. It would be easier if I disliked you.
And now she was walking straight into his room while he lay vulnerable.
Her grip tightened on the bowl.
The heavy oak door creaked as she pushed it open.
Heat struck her first. The chamber was stifling, the hearth piled too high, air thick with smoke and fever. Shadows clung to the corners, but the bed at the center blazed with firelight.
Darian lay half-reclined against the pillows, his dark hair damp with sweat, his skin flushed too bright against the linen. His coat had been discarded on a chair, his shirt loosened at the collar. Even ill, his presence filled the room, sharp as steel.
His eyes slid open at the sound of her steps. Fever-bright, still cutting.
"You?" His voice rasped, low and rough. "What are you doing here?"
Serenya lowered her head, clutching the bowl tighter. "Marta sent me, sir. I've brought something light to ease you."
His gaze narrowed. "Get out."
The words struck like a whip, but she held her ground. "You need to eat. The physician isn't here yet. Please, sir."
Darian shifted, trying to push himself higher. His hand trembled faintly against the blanket. "I don't need—" He broke off, a cough wracking his chest.
Serenya stepped forward without thinking, setting the bowl down on the small table at his bedside. "You do," she said, softer but firm. "It will help."
His eyes snapped back to her, sharp even through the fever. "Bold. You've grown bold, Rhyn."
Her heart stuttered. She bowed her head quickly to hide it. "I only do as Marta ordered."
For a moment, silence stretched. The fire popped in the hearth. Darian's gaze lingered, hot as the fever burning him, but at last he gave a small, grudging tilt of his head.
"Very well," he muttered, his voice frayed with exhaustion. "But if it's poison, I'll see you hanged before I die."
Serenya managed the faintest smile. "It isn't poison, sir."
Her fingers brushed the bowl, lifting it again, steam curling between them.
Serenya dipped the spoon into the broth, steadying her hands though her pulse thudded like a drum in her ears. The rising steam curled against her face, carrying the scent of onions and thyme—too familiar, too close to home.
Darian's eyes followed her every movement, fever-bright, unrelenting. When she raised the spoon, his hand lifted as though to take it, but the motion faltered halfway. His fingers shook. His jaw clenched.
He let his hand drop, scowling as if the weakness itself were an insult. "I can manage."
"You can't," she said before she could stop herself.
The sharpness in her own voice startled her—but not as much as the look he gave her. His gaze cut into hers, surprised, narrowed, as though he were seeing her not as a servant but… something else.
Her breath trembled, but she did not lower her eyes. Instead, she lifted the spoon closer, close enough that the heat warmed his lips.
For a long breath he resisted, stubborn pride fighting through fever. Then, with a sound halfway between a scoff and a bitter laugh, he parted his lips.
The broth touched, warm and soft. He swallowed, and his lashes lowered. For an instant, the harsh lines of his face eased, softened by exhaustion and something she couldn't name.
Serenya dipped the spoon again. Leaning closer this time, she brought it to his lips once more. He accepted, slower now. His breath brushed her fingers, hot and shallow, sending a shiver racing through her skin.
"Strange," he murmured, voice frayed and husky, barely audible above the crackle of the hearth.
Her throat tightened. "What is, sir?"
"That I should trust you like this." His gaze lifted, piercing despite the fever. Close enough she could see the flecks of gold caught in the storm-gray of his eyes. "One wrong drop, and I'd never wake."
The air thickened between them. She swallowed, forcing her voice to stay even. "Then it's a good thing I'm not careless."
Silence stretched, heavy, taut. He studied her face as though peeling back every layer she tried to hide. His lips parted, as if the fever had stripped him too bare to keep his words locked away.
Then, suddenly, he turned from her, leaning back against the pillows with sharp defiance. "Enough."
The word cut, but not cleanly. His hand brushed hers as he pushed the spoon aside—too fleeting to be an accident. Too deliberate to be dismissed.
Serenya set the bowl down, breath quick, her chest rising faster than it should. She smoothed her skirt with trembling hands, trying to gather herself. "I'll tell Marta the physician needs haste."
She turned to leave—
—but his hand shot out, catching hers.
She froze.
His grip was unsteady, burning with fever, but strong enough to stop her in her tracks. His palm was rough against hers, his fingers curling as if refusing to let go.
Her eyes widened, caught between instinct and something deeper. He lay half-sunk against the pillows, sweat plastering his dark hair to his temple, yet his gaze cut through the haze, startling in its clarity.
For a breathless moment, the world outside the chamber ceased to exist. The fire roared. The air pressed heavy. And she could feel his pulse thudding against her skin.
When he spoke, his voice was softer than she'd ever heard it. Not a command. Not a threat. A plea that trembled at the edges.
"Stay."