The Archlight gates yawned open, iron hinges screaming in protest as guards rushed through with their burden. Torches still burned along the walls, their orange light fighting against the creeping dawn.
On the first stretcher lay Shiro. His face was pale, his tunic torn and bloodied, every rise and fall of his chest a small miracle. The second bore Selene, her skin clammy, lips trembling as she fought to remain conscious. Her fingers clutched weakly at the blanket draped over her, as if that fragile scrap of cloth tethered her to the waking world.
"Make way! Lady Selene! The boy needs a healer!" the lead knight barked as they crossed into the courtyard.
Servants gasped and dropped their buckets. Stable boys froze, straw still clutched in their fists. Even the guards who stood watch on the battlements leaned forward, disbelief etched into their faces.
"Gods above…" someone whispered. "What happened to them?"
The group barely made it to the manor steps before the great doors slammed open.
Lord Varenthal emerged.
The man moved like a storm given flesh, his long cloak sweeping the ground, each step pounding against the stone. His hair—streaked with iron gray—framed a face carved by years of command. Fury radiated from him in waves, so sharp and palpable that the crowd fell into silence without a single word.
His eyes locked onto Selene first. His daughter. His heir. Her body was limp, her head rolling weakly against the pillow. A bruise marred her cheek, her breathing shallow.
But when his gaze shifted to Shiro, her fingers twitched—and then tightened.
Even half-conscious, Selene reached across the space between the stretchers. Her pale hand groped until it found Shiro's sleeve, and she clung to it with surprising strength, refusing to let him be carried away from her.
The sight froze the courtyard.
Varenthal's gaze lingered on that fragile, stubborn connection between them. His daughter's skin was ashen, her lips cracked, yet still she fought to keep her hand tangled in the boy's torn jacket.
"What in the hells happened?" Varenthal's voice cracked like thunder, shaking the courtyard. The guards dropped to one knee instantly, heads bowed as though the weight of his wrath might crush them where they stood.
The lead knight swallowed hard, voice shaking. "My lord, they were ambushed beyond the city road. Mercenaries, by our judgment. They aimed for Lady Selene. But this boy—" he hesitated, glancing at Shiro as though unsure the words would be believed, "—fought them. Carried her on his back through the forest. Brought her home."
Varenthal's jaw clenched, teeth grinding. His gauntleted hand dropped to the pommel of his sword. For a heartbeat, the entire courtyard thought he might march out then and there, to slaughter every last man who dared raise a hand against his house.
Selene stirred again. Her lashes fluttered, and her lips parted. "Father…" Her voice was small, broken, but it carried. "It was Shiro. He saved me. If not for him…" Her hand tightened on Shiro's sleeve, knuckles whitening. "If not for him, I wouldn't be here."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The torches sputtered in their sconces.
Lord Varenthal's gaze bore down on Shiro. For a long, harrowing moment, nothing moved. His fury was a blade, his pride a fortress, and the boy before him was neither knight nor noble—just a threadbare figure lying half-dead at his feet.
But his daughter's words lingered like an oath. Her trembling hand still clung to Shiro as if letting go would mean her life itself.
At last, Varenthal exhaled, his voice iron-clad. "See that the healers tend to him."
Relief rippled through the courtyard like a shiver.
The lord turned, his cloak snapping behind him as he strode back toward the hall. But his words carried, low and dangerous, ensuring all within earshot understood:
"If my daughter lives because of him, then he will live under my protection as well."
And with that, the matter was sealed.
The order from Lord Varenthal hung in the air, iron and absolute. The guards moved quickly, hoisting both stretchers toward the manor's inner wing where the healers waited.
But Selene would not release her grip.
Even as the servants tried to separate them, her fingers stayed curled in Shiro's torn sleeve. The cloth darkened with his blood, her knuckles whitening as she clung tighter.
"Milady, please—" one of the maids murmured, reaching gently for her hand.
Selene's eyes flickered open again, glazed with exhaustion but burning with quiet defiance. "Don't… don't take him from me." Her voice was weak but laced with the same stubborn will she'd inherited from her father. "He's mine."
The words sent a ripple of discomfort through the servants. None dared challenge her.
They carried both stretchers into the healer's hall together, side by side.
Inside, the chamber glowed with soft mage-light. The scent of poultices and iron filled the air as healers rushed forward, murmuring incantations. One placed a hand over Shiro's chest, frowning at the sluggish beat of his pulse. Another checked Selene, already preparing a draught for her shallow breaths.
But Selene fought them when they tried to move her to a separate cot. Her hand refused to unclasp, her body twisting despite her fatigue.
"I won't…" she whispered hoarsely, eyes locking on Shiro's pale, unconscious face. "Not without him…"
The healers exchanged looks, hesitant.
Finally, one sighed and gestured for them to leave the pair side by side, the two cots pressed together so her hand could remain entwined with his sleeve.
As the healers began their work, Selene's strength ebbed. The weight of exhaustion pressed down until her lashes fluttered and her breathing steadied under the draught. Still, her hand remained locked onto Shiro's, slender fingers clutching his sleeve even as she drifted into sleep.
Only when she fully lost consciousness did the healers dare begin their deeper spells, weaving threads of restoration into both their battered bodies.
And so the daughter of House Archlight, heir to one of the realm's most powerful lords, slept beside the bloodied boy who had carried her through hell itself—her hand still resting upon his arm, as though even in dreams she refused to let him go.
From the doorway, a figure watched in silence.
Lord Varenthal stood with arms folded, his shadow cutting sharp lines against the light spilling from the chamber. His jaw was rigid, his gaze fixed on his daughter's fragile grip upon the boy's sleeve.
For a moment, the fury that had driven his voice earlier returned, hot and bitter on his tongue. But as his eyes lingered—on Selene's fragile form, on the unconscious young man who had carried her home—the anger gave way to something harder, heavier.
A silence of realization.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders tight, before turning away from the doorway. His boots struck the stone with measured force, already considering what must come next.
The Temple would not forgive this.
Nor would he.
The study of Lord Varenthal was a fortress of oak and stone, its walls lined with shelves of tomes and relics older than his bloodline. Heavy curtains muffled the night beyond, and only the low burn of candlelight softened the severity of the chamber.
Lord Varenthal sat at his desk, one hand curled around a goblet of untouched wine, the other drumming slowly against the polished wood. His gaze did not rest on the papers before him—reports from patrols, petitions from vassals, whispers of unrest. Instead, his thoughts circled the scene burned into his mind: his daughter clinging to that boy, refusing to release him even as she collapsed.
The image gnawed at him.
Selene, his Selene, who rarely disobeyed him in matters of public duty, had openly defied not only his household but also propriety itself. For a boy.
He took in a sharp breath and set the goblet down with a muted thud.
It should have filled him with rage, and in part it did. Rage at the Temple's encroaching influence. Rage at the audacity of the kidnappers who had dared lay hands on his child. Rage at the weakness of a world where men like him had to bargain with priests for power they had no right to wield.
But above all, rage at himself—for not being the one to protect her.
And so it was that a bloodied commoner had carried Selene home, and she had clung to him as though her very life depended on it.
Lord Varenthal leaned back, eyes narrowing at the ceiling beams. "What am I to do with you, boy?"
A faint knock sounded at the door. His steward, an older man named Carthus, stepped inside with a bow. "My lord. The men grow restless. Word has spread already—of the attack, of the boy's deed. The servants speak of it in hushed tones."
Varenthal's lips thinned. "Hushed tones spread faster than any trumpet."
"Indeed, my lord. And forgive me, but…" Carthus hesitated, then lowered his voice. "The Temple has surely heard by now. If you take the boy under your protection, they will see it as defiance. Perhaps even provocation."
"Good," Varenthal growled, his voice low and sharp as a drawn blade. He rose to his feet, the long folds of his cloak spilling like shadows across the floor. "Let them see it. Let them choke on it."
The steward bowed deeper but did not argue.
Varenthal strode toward the window, drawing aside the heavy curtain. Below, the manor's courtyard bustled faintly even at this late hour. Guards shifted in their posts, and the faint torchlight glinted on their helms. The people would hear of this by morning.
He turned back to his steward, his expression carved from iron. "Summon the household. At dawn, I will make the announcement."
Carthus inclined his head. "As you command, my lord."
When the steward departed, silence reclaimed the chamber. Lord Varenthal remained at the window, staring out into the restless night.
"They will not take her from me," he murmured. His fist clenched. "And if that boy is the blade she has chosen to cling to… then I will make him sharp enough to cut down even gods."
The candles flickered, shadows stretching like the reach of the Temple itself. Yet his resolve did not falter.
At dawn, the house of Archlight would rise, and the Temple would learn that its grip did not extend everywhere.
Shiro stirred to the muted glow of lantern-light. His head pounded, and every muscle screamed with exhaustion, but warmth pressed against his hand.
He blinked blearily, finding Selene still at his bedside, her fingers loosely curled around his. She was fast asleep, her chest rising and falling with soft breaths. A faint furrow still marked her brow, as though even in dreams she had not fully let go of the night's terror.
He tried to shift, but pain lanced up his arm where bandages wrapped tight. The healer had done what they could—yet Shiro felt hollow, drained in more ways than one.
His gaze lingered on Selene's sleeping form. Her hair spilled like silver-gold silk across the coverlet, her hand so small in his. For a moment, he wondered if she had refused to leave him, if she had fought to remain until sleep claimed her at last.
The thought tightened something in his chest.
"Elira… Mirielle…" he murmured weakly, scanning the chamber. He spotted them curled together on a bench across the room, their small frames huddled beneath a blanket. Relief washed through him.
A part of him wanted to sink back into slumber, to let the fragile peace linger just a little longer. But unease stirred in the pit of his stomach. Something loomed at the edge of the silence—something beyond his exhaustion.
He closed his eyes, and just faintly, like a whisper against his thoughts, he heard her again.
"You are not powerless, Shiro. Remember that."
His breath caught. The voice was gone as quickly as it came, leaving him trembling.
Before he could think further, the door creaked. Shiro hastily shut his eyes, feigning deeper sleep.
Through the sliver of his lashes, he saw Lord Varenthal standing in the doorway, arms crossed, his gaze falling heavily upon Selene at his bedside. His expression was unreadable—stone, shadow, and something deeper lurking beneath.
The silence stretched. Then, with a sweep of his cloak, the lord turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Shiro let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his pulse racing.
When Shiro woke again, sunlight slanted golden through the chamber's high windows. The air was warm, filled with the faint rustle of leaves outside and the quiet breathing of those within.
Something pressed lightly against his shoulder.
He turned his head—and nearly froze.
Selene lay curled beside him on the bed, her hand still clutching his tunic. At some point in the night she must have climbed up, refusing to let go even in sleep. Her hair fanned across the pillow, catching the sunlight like strands of pale fire.
Shiro swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed for him to sit up, to put distance between them before anyone saw—but the smallest shift tugged her closer. Her forehead brushed against his collarbone.
His face burned.
For a long moment, he just stared at her, listening to the steady rhythm of her breathing. She looked so peaceful now, so unlike the determined young lady who had been bold enough to face kidnappers, to stand against her father, to shield him in ways he still didn't understand.
"…Idiot," Shiro muttered softly, though the word held no heat. If anything, it sounded almost… fond.
Selene stirred. Her lashes fluttered open, revealing clear violet eyes. She blinked, realizing her position—and to Shiro's shock, instead of recoiling in embarrassment, a faint smile curved her lips.
"Morning," she whispered, voice still husky with sleep.
Shiro's heart stumbled. "…It's afternoon."
That made her laugh softly. "Then good afternoon." She didn't move away. Instead, she squeezed his sleeve tighter, as though assuring herself he was real.
"Selene…" His voice caught. "Last night—I—"
"You don't have to explain." She cut him off gently, her gaze steady. "I was scared. You were hurt. That's all there is to it."
Her words should have eased him, but they tangled something deeper inside his chest. Before he could answer, the chamber door swung open.
"Brother—!" Elira's voice rang out, followed quickly by Mirielle's gasp. Both sisters stood in the doorway, eyes wide, jaws slack.
Shiro jolted upright instantly, nearly sending Selene tumbling off the bed. "W-wait, it's not—"
Elira's lips curved into the slowest, most mischievous grin. "Ohhh… I see how it is."
Mirielle's giggles filled the room, muffled behind her hands. "Big brother and Lady Selene, cuddling~!"
Selene flushed at last, hiding half her face in her hair, though she didn't quite let go of Shiro's tunic.
Shiro groaned, burying his face in his hands. "It's not what it looks like!"
The girls only laughed harder.