"Stay"
The word was a hammer blow, shattering the carefully constructed wall she had built. The mask of 'Rhyn,' the quiet, competent servant, cracked. For a single, agonizing moment, Serenya was simply herself—a girl whose heart had begin to beat for a man she was meant to betray. His hand, burning with fever, held hers fast. She could feel the fragile hope that had just begun to stir within him, a plea that contradicted the formidable captain he was in every other moment.
But the world was not so kind as to grant them a moment's peace. Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor outside, growing louder.
Darian's head snapped toward the sound, the feverish haze in his eyes clearing with alarming speed. The mask, his own stoic, unyielding face, slammed back into place.
His grip on her hand tightened for a fleeting second before he released it as if it had burned him. "Leave," he commanded, his voice back to its usual crisp, sharp tone. "I will not have a servant gawking while the physician examines me."
The cruelty of the words, the swift return to indifference, was a stark contrast to the vulnerability she had just witnessed. It was a cold splash of water on the fire that had ignited between them. Serenya bowed her head, the formal gesture feeling like a final, painful surrender. "Ye, sir."
She turned and left the chamber, pulling the door shut behind her just as the physician, a wizened old man with a large leather bag, arrived. As the door clicked shut, her legs carried her a few steps down the hall before they refused to go any further.
Her heart burned of what she knew she had to do.
Serenya pressed her back against the cold stone wall, her heart still a frantic drum against her ribs. She didn't leave. She stayed, just outside the door, straining to hear anything. Anything useful. Anything that could get her some answers.
The physician's voice was a low murmur, but Darian's, even in his weakened state, cut through the quiet.
"A fever, a common cold, nothing more. A captain of the Blackfen Guard has no time to be coddled over a bit of sickness. Tell me what I need to do to return to my duties."
"A common cold, you say?" the physician responded, his tone a mix of exasperation and concern. "Captain, you're no fool. But don't underestimate the signs.This is no common cold. This is a sickness of the blood, born of tainted marsh water. You've ignored the signs too long. Another day, and it would have been too late."
Serenya's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Tainted marsh water. The kitchen had been abuzz with the talks of a mysterious illness sweeping through the lowlands of Blackfen, an illness that was being suppressed by the guard. The captain, it seemed, was not immune. She listened for more, but the sounds within the room subsided. The physician's voice became a quiet, urgent whisper she couldn't decipher.
When the chamber door finally opened, Serenya was a discreet distance away, pretending to polish a candlestick. The physician exited, his face grim, and hurried away. Serenya waited another ten minutes before she, too, finally returned to her duties.
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The next morning, the world seemed to have forgotten the events of the previous night. Like clockwork, Serenya completed her morning task. Then, she was called to Darian's study. The chamber was still dark, heavy with the scent of old paper and woodsmoke. Darian himself was not in his chair but stood before the hearth, a cup of dark liquid in his hand. He looked better. The feverish flush had receded, and the sharp lines of his face were back in their place, though his movements were stiff and deliberate.
He didn't look at her when she entered. "Rhyn. My correspondence has piled up. See to it that you copy all these letters by tonight."
He gestured to a large stack of scrolls and envelopes on his desk. Serenya moved to the desk, her fingers brushing the cool wood. "Ye, sir."
He turned then, his gray eyes falling on her. She swallowed, trying to hold his gaze. "How… how are you feeling, sir?" she dared to ask.
His expression hardened. The coldness was
back, a complete and total wall between them. The man who had pleaded with her to stay seemed a ghost. "That is none of your concern. Do your work."
The glare was enough to send a shiver down her spine. Serenya bowed her head and got to work. She began copying the letters, her mind racing. Each scroll was a bland, bureaucratic report on troop movements, supply requisitions, and border patrols. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing suspicious—just the predictable affairs of a military captain.
She worked for an hour, the scratch of her quill the only sound in the room besides the crackle of the hearth. Darian eventually settled into a chair by the fire, a book in his hands, his attention apparently consumed by the text. Serenya's eyes drifted to the stack of letters she had yet to copy.
Most of the envelopes were open, their contents spilled out. But one remained sealed. A letter from the Council, perhaps? It was an envelope of fine, off-white paper, and sealed with an unfamiliar crest: a wolf's head clutching a sprig of mountain ash. Not the royal crest. Not the council.
It was a personal sigil.
The captain turned a page in his book, his attention elsewhere. Serenya's heart hammered a frantic rhythm.
This was it. This was what she had been looking for.
With feigned carelessness, she reached for the stack, nudging the unopened letter with the tip of her quill. She pretended to adjust the pile, her fingers trembling as she slid the personal letter from the bottom. She flipped it over, as if to check its address, and then with a calculated flick, she broke the seal, making it look as though it had come undone on its own.
As her eyes scanned the elegant script, she saw the signature at the bottom: an unfamiliar name, but the content was impossible to mistake.
It was from a family member.
The letter trembled slightly in her hands, though she forced herself to keep it steady. The ink was neat, almost painfully so, betraying the care of someone accustomed to restraint. Serenya's eyes moved down the page, absorbing every word, her pulse thrumming like the strings of a taut lyre.
"Darian," it began, the tone immediately personal, intimate even, in a way the council letters never were. "I hear whispers of your recklessness, and I cannot remain silent. You have always been too quick to throw yourself into danger, too proud to ask for aid. I know the Blackfen Guard expects much of you, but there is a limit to even your strength. You are not invincible."
Serenya's fingers brushed the paper, sensing the weight of the concern behind the words. There was no accusation, only fear masked as command. The handwriting wavered slightly toward the bottom, as though the writer had paused, swallowed hard, and forced themselves to continue:
"I know you carry the weight of our family's past—the mistakes, the betrayals, the ghosts that linger in the halls of Blackfen Keep. But that does not grant you permission to throw yourself away. There are those who love you, Darian. There are those who would see you safe, even if you cannot see it yourself. Please… for their sake, for your own, do not be reckless."
A single, quiet word concluded the letter:
"—Elysar."
Her eyes flicked toward Darian. He was still absorbed in his book, oblivious to the quiet storm in the room. Serenya's fingers lingered on the edge of the letter, the elegant script calling to her like a siren. Every instinct screamed that she had no right to read it, yet every heartbeat whispered a harsher truth: he deserved to know.
The warning, the concern, the reminders of a past he had buried deep—all of it belonged to him. Not to her, not to the shadows that hung in the corners of the study. She swallowed hard, the weight of her own duplicity pressing against her chest. One misstep, one careless glance, and she could be accused of treachery—or worse.
But the truth burned brighter than fear. Serenya's jaw set. She would take the punishment, whatever it might be. He needed this, needed to feel the tether of family even if the world demanded he stand alone.
With deliberate care, she lifted the letter from the desk, her fingers steady despite the tremor in her chest. Stepping closer, she placed it before him, gently nudging it toward the book he still held.
"Sir," she murmured, her voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the hearth, "this… this is for you."
Darian's eyes flicked up, gray and sharp, and landed on the envelope. A faint crease appeared between his brows. He did not speak immediately, only regarded her with that piercing gaze that could cut through stone. Serenya bowed her head, her heart hammering, knowing she had likely sealed her own fate.