When Reina woke the second time, the room smelled of medicine and dried herbs.
The first time she had woken, she remembered only pain.
The second time—
There was silence.
White curtains stirred faintly near the window of the clinic. Afternoon light filtered through, soft and distant. Her body felt lighter, but not whole. A dull ache lingered beneath her ribs where poison had once settled like cold fire.
She turned her head slowly.
On the small wooden table beside her bed—
A plate of fresh fruit.
And a letter.
She recognized the handwriting immediately.
Not ornate.
Not overly elegant.
But firm.
Measured.
I am handling my work. You rest.When you recover, rise. Until then, rest.
She stared at those words longer than necessary.
Handling my work.
The phrase was simple.
Too simple.
She closed her eyes again.
He was attacked because of me.
No.
That was not entirely true.
But the thought had rooted itself stubbornly in her chest.
The Two Weeks
She stayed.
Because he told her to.
The first few days, she could barely sit up without dizziness blurring the edges of her vision. The healer had warned her—poison like that did not leave quietly. It lingered in blood, in muscle memory.
But she endured.
She trained lightly within the clinic room once she could stand. Basic footwork. Controlled breathing. Slow mana circulation to rebuild stability.
Each evening—
She expected him.
At the end of the first week—
She told herself he must still be busy.
At the end of the second—
She waited until the sun dipped below the horizon.
He did not come.
The healer discharged her the next morning.
"Take care," the woman had said kindly.
Reina nodded.
She left with nothing but her blade and a quiet resolve.
she rented a small room above a modest inn in the southern district of Citadel.
It was simple.
Wooden bed.
Single window overlooking a narrow street.
A washbasin in the corner.
She paid for a week at a time with coin she had saved from missions.
Every morning—
She woke before sunrise.
Sat at the edge of the bed.
And stared at the letter again.
Handling my work.
What work?
Why alone?
Why not tell her?
She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her inner pocket.
Then she stepped outside.
She did not ask the people's directly.
That would be too obvious.
Too desperate.
Instead—
She followed traces.
Clues.
He had patterns.
Kel moved with intention.
He visited certain bookstores occasionally.
Preferred a particular tea stall in the east market.
Often stopped by the weapon maintenance quarter for observation rather than purchase.
She walked those routes.
Every day.
Morning until dusk.
She stood across from the bookstore window pretending to browse parchment maps.
She drank tea slowly at the stall where he once spoke quietly about strategic positioning.
She lingered near training grounds where young knights practiced.
Each time—
He was not there.
At night—
She returned to her room.
Removed her boots.
Sat by the window.
And replayed their last moments before she collapsed from poison.
His voice.
His eyes.
His anger.
She clenched her hands.
I need to grow stronger.
If I had reacted faster…
She refused to let fear define her.
So she trained.
In the early hours before the city fully woke, she practiced controlled strikes in empty alleys. Mana channeling grew steadier each day.
But her mind remained elsewhere.
Where are you?
She passed by the bakery three times in those weeks.
Never entering.
Never calling out.
Her mother worked tirelessly behind the counter, hands dusted in flour, hair tied back loosely.
Her younger brother sometimes stood at the side, learning quietly.
Reina watched from across the street.
Hidden in shadow.
She did not approach.
Not yet.
Not until she reclaimed her position.
Not until she became something worthy of standing beside them again.
The Asheville name still weighed heavily upon her.
She had not yet learned the truth of who ordered her death.
But something within her suspected—
Blood did not easily forgive ambition.
The Third Week
By the third week—
Doubt crept in.
Had he left Citadel?
Had something happened?
Was he injured?
She replayed his letter again.
Handling my work.
The words felt colder now.
One evening, she stood near the northern gate, watching merchants depart the city.
If he had left—
He would have passed here.
She searched faces.
None were his.
She clenched her jaw.
You told me to rest.
You did not tell me to wait.
So she moved.
She expanded her search radius.
Visited lesser-known districts.
Asked subtle questions—not about him directly, but about unusual activity. A vice guild master rising rapidly in the Alliance had been whispered about.
She heard the name Gavrilo Russell.
She did not connect it to him.
Not yet.
But she stored it away.
She stood outside the bakery again when he found her.
Watching her mother knead dough.
Listening to the faint laughter from inside.
She whispered to herself—
"One day."
Then—
His voice.
"Do you wish to meet her?"
Her heart leapt before her body turned.
And there he was.
Changed.
Not in face.
But in weight.
Something heavier rested behind his eyes.
He said his previous work was done.
Another awaited.
She asked to join him.
He said he needed her.
Those words echoed inside her chest long after they left the street.
The Peaceful Day
The markets.
The gown he insisted on buying.
The necklace she pretended to argue about.
The clasp she chose for him carefully.
The dance under lantern light.
His hand steady at her waist.
His rare smile.
She noticed his silence.
Felt the tension beneath his calm.
That was why she hugged him.
Not out of impulse.
But intuition.
He needed grounding.
He needed reminder.
That he was not alone.
When she said—
I am your sword, Kel.
She meant it.
She would stand in front of him if necessary.
Not behind.
The Letter
After dinner.
After moonlight.
After laughter softened.
She picked up the letter from the hallway floor.
She thought it had slipped accidentally.
Perhaps related to his new work.
She did not open it.
Not because she lacked curiosity.
But because she respected his space.
Yet the weight of it in her hand felt different.
Heavier.
As she walked toward his door—
Her thoughts swirled.
What are you carrying alone?
Why do your eyes look tired even when you smile?
Why do I feel like something is approaching?
She stopped outside his door.
Letter held gently between her fingers.
She hesitated.
If this is about his work… I should return it.
If this is something else…
Her heartbeat steadied.
She raised her hand.
Knocked softly.
Three times.
Inside, she sensed movement.
Silence.
Then footsteps.
She looked down at the letter once more.
The seal faintly marked by the Alliance crest.
She had not opened it.
But a strange chill brushed her spine.
As though fate stood quietly in the corridor with her.
Waiting.
Her inner voice whispered—
Whatever it is…
I will stand.
Not knowing that the parchment she held contained her own name.
Not knowing that blood had written her death.
Only knowing—
That she trusted the man behind the door.
And when it opened—
She would step forward.
As she always did.