"Do not lie to me," Alistair rasped, his eyes flashing with a sudden, predatory intensity. "I watched you in the cave. I felt the impact when the shelf collapsed. You hit the stone with enough force to crack a shield. And today, when you thought no one was looking, you were favoring your right side even while sitting on the couch."
Elissa looked at her boots, her heart thudding a traitorous storm of humiliation and dread. "I....I didn't want you to think,... I was weak." she confessed, voice fracturing. "I didn't want the lessons to stop."
"Strength is not found in hiding a wound until it festers," Alistair said, his voice dropping to a low, fierce rumble laced with something raw and unguarded. He stepped closer, invading her space until she was backed against the cold stone frame of the window, his presence a storm of heat and frost. "It is found in knowing your limits, so you can break them. If you had trained today, you would have torn the muscle. You would have been useless to me for a month." The word useless hung heavy, almost a plea beneath the command.
Elissa's breath caught, her grey eyes lifting to meet the incandescent blue blaze of his—storm-lit glaciers cracking under pressure. "Is that all .. I am to you?" she whispered, voice trembling with hurt and defiance. "Just... usage?"
Alistair fell silent. He didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with the things he refused to say. His hand rose again, hesitating only a heartbeat, and this time, he didn't pull away. His thumb traced the delicate curve beneath her jaw—feather-light, achingly tender from a man made of ice.
Elissa's pulse thundered, a chaotic storm raging inside her: He sees me—truly sees the fracture I hide—yet his care feels like chains wrapped in silk. Was this possession or something perilously softer? Her breath hitched, torn between pulling away and leaning into the chill of his skin.
"Go to bed, Elissa," he murmured, the words a ragged whisper, his breath ghosting cool and electric across her skin. "There is a fresh jar of willow-bark salve on your nightstand. I had the physician prepare it this evening. Use it. That's an order."
Elissa blinked, realization crashing over her like a frozen wave. The salve. Martha had said nothing of a fresh jar. He'd orchestrated it himself—alone in the devouring dark, weaving mercy into his solitude.
A fragile "Thank you, Alistair," escaped her lips, barely a breath, laced with wonder and unspoken ache.
He turned away from her then, returning to the shadows of the library as if the conversation had never happened. "Don't thank me," he rasped, voice edged with frost again. Just be ready at dawn. The equipment is... repaired."
Elissa walked back to her room, thoughts a tempest of revelation: He had been watching her. He had known about the injury all along, and instead of shaming her or calling her weak, he had given her the gift of time and medicine under the guise of "logistics." What is this hold he has on me?
As she closed her door and saw the new silver jar sitting by her bed, the pup let out a sleepy yawn and tucked its head under its paw. Elissa touched the bruise on her side, and for the first time, it didn't hurt quite as much.
She unscrewed the jar, the sharp, earthy tang of willow bark mingling with a faint, unnatural chill—like frost-kissed herbs from the North's hidden groves. Dipping her fingers in, she spread the cool ointment over the mottled purple bloom, wincing at first, then sighing as it seeped deep, numbing the firey pain.
But as the salve worked its quiet magic, so did her thoughts. He's not just the Prince of Ice, she realized, heart clenching with equal parts fear and pull. Beneath it, there's a man starving for connection, doling out care like stolen embers. Her witch's blood stirred faintly, a whisper of intuition brushing her mind: tomorrow's "repaired" equipment would test more than her body—it would forge or fracture whatever fragile thread bound them.
The pup nudged her hand, its warm fur a small anchor in the night. Elissa lay back, staring at the vaulted ceiling where moonlight fractured through ice-laced panes. Dawn loomed, merciless. But for tonight, in this stolen mercy, the North felt a fraction less unforgiving.
Dawn slipped through the frosted windows, dragging Elissa out of restless sleep and dreams filled with cold blue eyes and the ghost of his touch. Outside, the courtyard was already bathed in the hard, unforgiving light of the North, and the two‑hour training began again—same brutal rhythm as the last few weeks, but something in the air felt different now, like the ground had shifted under them.
Dante and Vane surrounded her in the middle of the yard, wooden blades clashing in a steady, punishing beat. Vane moved like smoke, light on his feet, needling her with jokes that made her laugh even when her muscles screamed. Dante stood like a wall, his voice gruff, his hands and boots guiding her stance with rough care whenever she slipped.
But above them, on the high stone walkway that overlooked the grounds, Alistair stood like a silent sentinel.
He didn't speak. He didn't offer a single word of encouragement or critique. He simply stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his black cloak pinned by a silver crest, watching. To Vane and Dante, he was just "the Prince" ensuring his assets were being properly maintained.
But Elissa could feel the weight of his luminous blue eyes every time she moved heavy and sharp. It wasn't just the training that made her stomach twist; it was the memory of his hand on her jaw, his breath on her face, the way he had caught her secret and still stayed close instead of turning away. Shame, heat, and something dangerously like wanting tangled inside her, and she had to fight to keep her breathing steady as the wooden blades kept falling.
Surprisingly, the session wasn't as grueling as she had feared. Usually, Dante pushed her until her lungs burned, but today, his strikes were measured, his pace deliberate. It was as if he had received a silent order to focus on technique rather than endurance.
When the two hours were up, Dante lowered his sword and wiped his brow. "Enough. You're getting faster, Elissa. Your balance is finally catching up to your spirit."
Alistair chose that moment to descend from the walkway. He didn't join them on the training floor, stopping instead at the edge of the stone stairs.
"Dante I need you to go check on armoury which reached yesterday. Vane—return to the barracks. There are reports from the eastern pass that require your attention," Alistair commanded, his voice a cool, level baritone.
"Back to the paperwork," Vane groaned, sheathing his blade. "I'd rather stay here and watch the pup try to fight the practice dummies, but duty calls."
As his brothers moved off, Alistair turned his gaze to Kestrel, who was leaning against a pillar, watching the interaction with narrowed eyes.