Light returned slowly.
Not as warmth.
Not as comfort.
But as a thin, pale blade sliding across her closed eyelids.
Reina stirred.
Her body felt heavy—like she had slept beneath water.
Breathing in felt normal.
Breathing out felt slower.
There was a faint tightness at her neck.
Then memory returned.
The dagger.
The sting.
The cold spreading beneath her skin.
Her fingers twitched slightly against the blanket.
She did not open her eyes immediately.
She listened.
The healer's clinic had its own soundscape—soft clinks of glass bottles, distant footsteps on wood, faint grinding of herbs.
Morning had come.
She could tell by the angle of light.
She opened her eyes slowly.
The ceiling above her was plain wood—familiar from the previous nights of recovery. The bandage at her neck brushed lightly against her collarbone when she shifted.
The poison had left weakness in her limbs. Even lifting her arm felt deliberate.
She turned her head slightly.
And noticed it.
On the small wooden table beside her bed—
Fruit.
Fresh.
Red-skinned and golden-fleshed.
Still carrying faint dew.
Placed neatly.
Beside them—
A folded parchment.
Her gaze lingered on the fruit first.
It was not healer-provided.
The healer's supplies were medicinal and plain.
These were deliberate.
Chosen.
She slowly pushed herself up against the pillow, ignoring the dull ache in her body.
Her hand reached toward the table.
The fruit was cool.
Recently placed.
Her fingers brushed the parchment.
She paused for a moment before unfolding it.
Her heart did not race.
It steadied.
Because she already knew.
She opened the letter.
The handwriting was controlled.
Clear.
Minimal.
Rest and do not attempt to leave the bed until fully recovered.I am busy handling my work.
No name.
No signature.
No closing.
No reassurance.
Just instruction.
She stared at the words for a long time.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the parchment.
A small breath escaped her lips.
It was him.
There was no doubt.
He would not sign it.
He did not need to.
The tone was unmistakable.
Direct.
Measured.
Practical.
Not affectionate.
Not distant.
Just… him.
Her eyes softened faintly.
He had come.
While she slept.
She glanced toward the door instinctively, as if expecting to see him standing there now.
But the room was empty.
He had left before she woke.
She leaned back slightly against the pillow, holding the letter loosely in her hand.
"Busy handling my work…"
Her voice was barely a whisper.
What work?
Her brows knit faintly.
She knew he would not remain idle after the attack.
She knew him too well.
But why had he not waited to see her awake?
Why leave like this?
Why avoid her?
Her fingers brushed the bandage at her neck gently.
The memory of the ambush flickered again.
The dagger.
The poison.
The way her aura had failed to respond.
She remembered his voice calling her name.
And then darkness.
She exhaled slowly.
He blames himself.
The realization came not as surprise—
But certainty.
She knew that tone.
Even in absence.
The letter was not just instruction.
It was restraint.
He did not want her moving.
He did not want her involved.
He did not want her worrying.
That meant—
He was doing something dangerous.
Her chest tightened slightly at that thought.
What work could be so urgent that he did not even spare time to sit beside her bed?
Unless—
He chose not to.
She closed her eyes briefly.
If she had been in his position—
If he had been injured—
Would she have remained away?
No.
She would have stayed.
She would have watched.
She would have refused to leave.
But he was different.
He protected through distance.
Even if that distance cut.
Her gaze returned to the fruit.
He must have placed them carefully.
Not hurriedly.
He must have stood here.
Looked at her.
Maybe.
She imagined him in this room—silent, watching her sleep.
The thought brought a faint warmth to her otherwise weak body.
He came.
Even if he did not wake her.
Even if he did not speak.
He came.
That was enough.
She lifted one of the fruits slowly and held it in her hand.
Its skin gleamed faintly under morning light.
Fresh.
As if picked not long ago.
He must have chosen them himself.
That detail mattered more than she expected.
Her lips curved faintly.
"He didn't want me to worry."
She knew that instinctively.
If he had written more—
If he had explained—
She would have questioned.
Pressed.
Attempted to rise.
Attempted to follow.
He knew her well.
So he gave her only command.
Rest.
The simplicity of it stung slightly.
But also comforted.
She traced the edges of the parchment again.
He did not mention identity.
He did not mention plans.
He did not mention revenge.
Which meant—
He was shielding her.
Again.
Her eyes drifted toward the window.
Sunlight filtered softly through thin curtains.
The world outside continued moving.
And he was somewhere within it.
Handling work.
Alone.
Her fingers tightened faintly around the letter.
A part of her wanted to stand.
To demand answers.
To walk into whatever shadow he stepped into.
But the weakness in her limbs reminded her sharply—
She was not ready.
The healer had warned her of full recovery taking time.
If she forced movement now—
She would only become burden.
And that—
She would never allow.
She exhaled slowly.
He came.
He left fruit.
He left instruction.
He left without signature.
Because he trusted she would understand.
And she did.
She folded the letter carefully and placed it beneath her pillow.
Close.
Not as keepsake.
As reminder.
She picked up the fruit again.
Took a small bite.
Sweet.
Fresh.
The taste lingered longer than expected.
Her gaze softened.
"Next time," she whispered faintly.
"Don't leave without meeting me."
But there was no anger in her voice.
Only quiet resolve.
She leaned back fully against the pillow and closed her eyes briefly.
He thought she would worry.
But she did not.
Not entirely.
Because she knew him.
If he said he was handling his work—
He would.
Thoroughly.
Coldly.
And without mercy.
The thought brought both comfort and unease.
Because if he was handling something alone—
It meant someone had crossed a line.
And when lines were crossed around him—
Consequences followed.
She touched the bandage at her neck once more.
The scar would likely remain faint.
A reminder.
Of vulnerability.
Of poison.
Of that morning.
Her eyes opened again slowly.
Determination flickered within them.
She would recover fully.
She would not slow him by weakness.
And when she stood again—
She would walk beside him once more.
Not behind.
Not distant.
Beside.
For now—
She would obey.
Rest.
Heal.
Wait.
And hold onto the quiet certainty that even if he changed masks—
Even if he walked in shadows—
He still came back to this room.
Even if only in silence.
And that—
Was enough.