Elena was knee-deep in a pile of stolen—borrowed—herbal texts when it happened.
Eris sat nearby with the expression of a man who both admired and feared the creature he'd been assigned to protect. Elena had surrounded herself with stacks of tomes, crushed leaves, scribbled notes, and an accidental miniature fire made from a spilled candle that Eris had very gently stomped out.
"I don't understand," she muttered, flipping pages with increasing violence. "How does one differentiate winterroot from false winterroot? They look identical!"
"They are identical," Eris said.
"What?!"
"Yes. One kills you."
She dropped the book.
"Fantastic. Love that for me."
Eris offered a very unhelpful, very polite smile.
She scrubbed her hands through her hair. "I'm learning this. I have to learn this. If something happens again—if I get hurt again—I need to know what to do. I can't rely on someone else every time. I'm not a decorative vase."
"My lady," Eris said carefully, "you are very much not a vase."
She pointed dramatically at her book pile. "Exactly."
And that was the scene Soren walked in on.
The door swung open, and the temperature in the room dropped exactly ten degrees.
Eris snapped to attention.
Elena froze mid-rant, hands covered in ink and crushed leaves, hair a disaster, books scattered around her like an overwhelmed gremlin.
Soren stood in the doorway, dripping from travel, cloak still dusted with snow—and looking at her as though she had somehow become more chaotic in his absence.
"Elena," he said slowly, "what are you doing?"
She straightened like a guilty teenager. "Learning."
His gaze swept the room.
The books. The notes. The crushed herbs. The candle scorch. Eris mouthing I tried behind her.
Soren stepped forward with that silent, terrifying grace that made her pulse do unethical things.
"I was away for eight hours," he said. "Eight. Hours."
"Yes?" she said defensively. "Plenty of time to acquire knowledge."
"Plenty of time," he repeated, voice flat, "for you to set yourself on fire."
"One time," she snapped, "and the fire was small!"
"It was on a table."
"It was contained!"
Soren exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled, the way people do when choosing between patience and homicide.
"Elena," he said finally, "put the books down."
"No."
His eyes narrowed. "No?"
"Correct," she said, crossing her arms. "I am learning healing whether you like it or not."
"I like it," he said, "when it does not end in your death."
She marched right up to him. "Well? What happens if you get injured? What am I supposed to do—make aggressive eye contact until the problem resolves?"
His jaw tightened. "Elena, please. Don't insult me. I do not get injured, it's matter of skill"
"Not the point!"
Soren stared at her like she had personally invented the concept of infuriating behavior.
"Elena," he said carefully, "you have barely recovered. You should not exhaust yourself."
"I'm not exhausted," she lied, wobbling slightly.
Soren caught her elbow. His fingers tightened.
"Elena," he said softly, "you're shaking."
"I'm shaking with knowledge."
"You are shaking," he repeated, "because you do not rest."
"Because I don't want to be helpless!"
His expression changed.
Subtly. Sharply. Like a blade turning toward light.
"Elena," he said quietly, "you were never helpless."
She faltered.
Heat crept up her neck.
But she lifted her chin. "Well, I felt helpless."
Something flickered behind his eyes—guilt, anger, something darker.
She pulled her arm free (bad idea; she swayed), and continued her mission.
"I'm learning herbs, and everything I do not know from this world. If something happens to you—"
"It won't."
"If something happens to you," she pressed, "what am I supposed to do? Tap dance? Sing aggressively? If you couldn't murder people anymore—what then?"
Behind her, Eris choked.
Soren blinked. Once.
"Elena," he said, voice dangerously calm, "did you just ask what would happen if I could no longer murder people?"
"Yes!" she snapped. "It's a legitimate medical question!"
"…It is not."
"Well, what would you do?"
He stared at her for a long, unreadable moment.
Then—
Slowly—
His lips curved. Not kindly. Not softly.
A dark, wicked smirk that made her knees turn into decorative jelly.
"Elena," he murmured, stepping closer, "if I ever lose the ability to kill someone…"
Her breath caught.
"…I assure you, it will not be because I am weakened."
He leaned down. Close. Far too close.
"If I ever stop," he said, "it will be because you asked me to."
Her brain exploded.
Eris made a faint squeaking sound.
Soren straightened again, mask of control falling back over him. "Now," he said calmly, "put the books down."
She paced, agitated energy shaking through her limbs.
"In my world," she said sharply, "I spent YEARS learning to help people. Six years in medical school. Nights without sleep. Working myself raw. Saving lives. Fixing things. Being useful."
Soren's brows drew together—not dismissive, not angry. Simply lost.
"And here?" she continued, voice trembling with frustration. "Here I'm just a hostage that needs to be locked in a room with a babysitter because I can't even identify the plants outside without poisoning myself!"
Soren stiffened at that. "Exactly."
"EXACTLY WHAT?" she demanded.
"That is precisely why you are not learning healing," he said firmly. "You are exhausted. You are still injured. And you reach for things before thinking." His jaw clenched. "You could hurt yourself."
She stared at him, stunned.
"You think I'm incapable."
"I think," he said slowly, carefully, as if choosing each word with utmost precision, "you are too important to risk."
That should have soothed her. It did not.
"Important? How? As what—your fragile little responsibility? Something you drag around behind you?"
His eyes snapped to hers—sharp, stormy, wounded.
"Elena," he warned softly, "do not put words in my mouth."
"Someone has to," she shot back, "because you refuse to listen to me!"
He took a step forward. She stepped back.
His jaw tightened at that—barely, but enough.
He had seen fear in her eyes before.
But not fear of him.
"Elena," he said more quietly now, "you are still healing. Your mind is fogged. Your body isn't steady. I cannot let you experiment with herbs or potions in this state. You could poison yourself, or burn yourself, or—"
"I'm a doctor," she hissed. "I'm not stupid."
"That is not what I said."
"That's what it feels like!"
Soren inhaled, slow and frustrated and pained.
"I am not calling you stupid. I am calling you tired."
She looked away, chest tight, throat burning.
Tired. She hated how much that word landed.
"I just…" her voice softened, cracked, "…I just want to be more than the girl you have to rescue."
Something in Soren's expression broke—not dramatically, not visibly to anyone else. But she saw it.
His hands curled at his sides, tense and helpless.
"Elena," he murmured, and for once he sounded unsure, "you are not a damsel."
She laughed—harsh, bitter, unsteady. "Then stop treating me like one."
He flinched. Actually flinched.
"I'm trying," he said quietly. "But the thought of you hurt again—" His voice dropped. "—it is not something I can endure."
Silence fell between them—thick, aching, full of everything neither could say.
Then Soren straightened—mask sliding back into place.
"Until you are fully recovered," he said formally, "your training—any training—will wait."
Her eyes widened. "Soren—"
"This," he said firmly, "is not negotiable."
She stared at him—furious, aching, humiliated.
Then she turned sharply on her heel and walked away before he could see the tears gathering in her eyes.
Eris stood nervously nearby, shifting his weight.
When she passed him, he whispered, "Are you… alright, my lady?"
"No," she said flatly. "But thank you for asking."