Morning came quietly.
Freya had already decided.
When Clara entered, Freya was seated by the window, her posture just slightly slouched, her expression subdued.
"My lady?" Clara asked gently.
Freya didn't turn right away.
"…I'm not feeling well today," she said.
Clara paused.
"Your ankle?"
"Still sore," Freya replied.
"I think I'd rather rest. Alone."
Clara studied her for a moment longer than usual.
Then nodded.
"Of course, my lady."
By midday—
Freya stood before the mirror.
Not as herself.
The training clothes fit well enough—looser, heavier, meant to obscure shape rather than define it.
That part worked.
But—
Freya frowned slightly.
"…No," she murmured.
Because she still stood out.
Too much.
Her gaze lingered on her reflection.
Her hair.
Light gold—too bright, too soft. It caught light even in shadow.
Impossible to miss.
And her eyes—
She leaned closer to the mirror.
Light green.
Clear.
Sharp.
Unmistakable.
"…That's a problem."
She couldn't change her eyes.
But her hair—
That, at least, she could attempt.
It took longer than she expected.
Digging through what she could find.
Cloth first.
Too obvious.
Too loose.
Then—
something better.
A dark, rough wig—likely used for training drills or disguise exercises. It wasn't perfect, but it dulled everything that made her noticeable.
She adjusted it carefully, tucking every strand of gold beneath it.
Then stepped back.
Better.
Not invisible.
But no longer striking.
Freya studied herself one last time.
Her posture shifted.
Her expression hardened.
Less… her.
"…Good enough."
By midday—
she was gone.
The training grounds were louder than she remembered.
Steel striking steel.
Voices calling out.
Movement everywhere.
Controlled chaos.
Freya kept her head down as she moved through the outer edge of the grounds.
No one stopped her.
No one questioned her.
They barely looked at her.
She exhaled slowly.
For the first time—
she wasn't seen.
Then—
"Move!"
The shout came too fast.
Freya turned—
too late.
A body collided into her from behind.
Hard.
The impact knocked the breath from her lungs as she stumbled forward, pain flashing sharply across her back.
"Watch it!" the other trainee snapped, already moving past her.
Freya froze.
Breath caught.
The sting spread quickly—sharp, burning.
Freya straightened slowly.
It hurt.
Then—
"Hey."
Freya's steps faltered—barely.
She turned.
A young cadet stood a few paces away, a wooden practice sword resting loosely against his shoulder. His expression wasn't suspicious.
Just curious.
"You're new," he said.
Freya's pulse ticked once—sharp and quick.
But she didn't let it show.
"…Recently assigned," she replied, lowering her voice slightly. Rougher. Less refined.
The cadet nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
"Figured," he said.
"Haven't seen you around before."
Freya shifted her weight subtly, keeping her posture loose—less composed than usual.
"What unit?" he asked.
Freya forced a small shrug.
"Rotating," she said. "Still getting placed."
That seemed to satisfy him.
"Ah," he said. "Makes sense."
Then he straightened slightly, adjusting his grip on the wooden sword as if remembering something important.
"Right—I'm Joren," he added casually. "Third-year trainee."
Freya nodded once.
"…Ren," she said.
The name settled between them.
Joren grinned slightly, clearly unbothered by her lack of enthusiasm.
"Well, Ren," he said, "try not to get knocked over on your first day. The outer drills get a little rough."
"I'll manage," Freya replied evenly.
He chuckled.
"We'll see."
Then he tipped his head toward the training field.
"Drills rotate in a few minutes. Stick near the outer ring unless you want someone to break your ribs by accident."
"Noted."
"Good luck then," Joren said, already starting to turn away.
Then, almost as an afterthought—
"Welcome in."
That made Freya pause for half a second.
Not because of suspicion.
But because it was simple.
"…Thank you," she said quietly.
Joren waved once without looking back.
"Don't mention it."
And just like that—
he was gone.
Freya stood there for a moment longer.
Still.
Processing.
Her heart was beating faster now.
Just another face in the crowd.
Freya exhaled slowly.
Her fingers curled slightly at her side.
"…Good," she murmured under her breath.
Because that meant—
she could come back.
And next time—
she would go further.
Freya turned and walked away.
***
Freya headed to the infirmary, she didnt need anything to hinder her escape and needed to make sure her back was not going to cause any problems.
The knock was soft at the door.
Lucan noticed immediately.
"Enter."
The door opened.
Freya stepped inside.
Alone.
He stilled.
"My lady."
"…I need you to look at something," she said.
Quiet.
Lucan's attention sharpened.
"Injured?"
"…Not badly."
She turned slightly, fingers moving to the back of her dress.
"Before you say anything," she added, glancing at him briefly,
"you're not telling anyone."
Lucan held her gaze for a moment.
Then—
"Let me see it first."
Freya loosened the back of her dress, pulling the fabric down to expose her upper back.
Lucan's breath caught.
Her golden hair slightly pushed to the side. Her skin was soft and smooth and had the faintest blush.
The way the light caressed her spine, the delicate curve of her shoulder—every detail was a silent invitation, a promise of something he knew he shouldn't want but desperately did. A wave of heat washed over him, sharp and undeniable.
His control, so carefully cultivated, was beginning to fray. He fought the urge to reach out, to trace the line of her spine with his fingers, to feel the warmth of her skin against his. His gaze lingered, a silent caress he knew he should not allow himself. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with her injury and everything to do with the raw, unwanted desire coiling in his gut. He was her physician. He should not be looking at her this way, but he couldn't look away.
But it wasn't just that.
It was the quiet vulnerability.
The trust.
The way she didn't hesitate.
"…Is it bad?" she asked.
Lucan stepped closer.
"It's minor," he said.
"But it will worsen before it improves."
His fingers hovered—
then settled gently against the bruise.
He forced himself to focus.
"You'll need the salve tonight," he said.
Freya hesitated.
"…Can you do it?"
Lucan paused.
Not expecting that.
She shifted slightly, still turned away.
"I can't reach it," she added.
"And I don't want anyone else to know."
Then quieter—
"Please."
That—
was different.
Lucan exhaled slowly.
"…Very well."
He reached for the salve.
Measured a small amount.
Then stepped closer again.
His hand touched her back.
This time—
not just examination.
The warmth of her skin beneath his hand was immediate.
Distracting.
Lucan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Because he was aware—
of everything.
The curve of her spine.
The way she held still for him.
The trust in it.
Freya didn't react.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't realize.
"…You'll need to keep it covered afterward," he said quietly, focusing on the task.
Freya nodded slightly.
"…Thank you."
He finished.
Stepped back immediately.
Creating distance.
Too quickly.
Freya pulled the fabric back into place, adjusting it with ease.
Then turned toward him.
"…And you won't tell anyone?" she asked again.
Lucan met her gaze.
"I won't," he said.
Freya studied him briefly.
Then nodded.
She turned and left.
The door closed softly behind her.
Lucan didn't move.
Because this time—
he knew.
This wasn't just observation anymore.
He had crossed something.
And worse—
he hadn't wanted to stop.
***
Freya returned just before dusk.
Not late enough to raise questions.
Not early enough to look suspicious.
Her body still ached faintly from the earlier collision at the training grounds, but she kept her posture steady.
Not enough for most to notice.
Except—
someone always noticed.
Soren was already there.
Waiting.
Just standing near the center of the room as if he had been there the entire time.
Freya paused slightly at the sight of him.
"…You're home early," she said.
"I finished what I needed to," he replied.
His gaze moved over her slowly.
Freya held still under it.
She hated that she had to think about holding still.
"You're tired," Soren said.
"I'm fine," Freya replied quickly.
His eyes didn't leave her.
"…You were gone longer than usual."
Freya's pulse ticked once.
But her expression didn't change.
"I rested," she said. "Like I said I would."
Soren studied her a moment longer.
Then—
he stepped closer.
Not enough to corner her.
But enough that the air between them shifted.
"You didn't rest here," he said quietly.
Freya forced a small exhale.
"…I needed quiet."
Something flickered across his expression.
Then—
he nodded once.
"…Alright."
Freya blinked slightly.
That wasn't what she expected.
Soren reached out, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve where it had shifted.
But his hand lingered just slightly longer than usual.
"…Next time," he said,
"tell me before you disappear."
Freya's throat tightened faintly.
"I didn't disappear."
His gaze lifted to hers.
And there it was again—
that steady, unreadable focus.
"No," he agreed softly.
"You just weren't where I expected you to be."
And then
A slow, deliberate shift in energy that made the air between them feel suddenly charged.
His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist.
"You look flushed,"
he murmured, his crimson eyes darkening with a look that was far too knowing.
Freya's breath hitched.
"…It's warm in here," she managed.
Soren leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur that was pure sin.
"Is it?"
His gaze dropped to her lips.
"Or is it something else?"
Freya's pulse hammered against her skin.
She tried to step back, but he shifted with her, closing the distance again until she was backed against the wall, caged by his arms.
"Did you have fun today, Freya?"
he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
A shiver traced down her spine, a betraying response to the dark promise in his tone. This was not a question; it was a statement of fact, a challenge wrapped in velvet danger. She could feel the heat radiating from him, the subtle, possessive grip he had on her wrist a silent assertion of control. The logical part of her mind screamed to push him away, to deny everything, but her body, traitor that it was, remained frozen, caught in the snare of his intensity. He was not asking for the truth; he was daring her to lie, and they both knew he would see right through it.
"I don't know what you're talking about,"
she whispered, the words weak even to her own ears. She tried to inject defiance into her tone, but it came out as a breathy murmur, a surrender to the charged atmosphere he had so expertly crafted.
He smiled, a slow, curve of his lips. He knew he had her. He could see the conflict in her eyes, the war between her will to resist and the undeniable pull he exerted on her.
"Oh, I think you do,"
he murmured, his other hand coming up to trace the line of her jaw.
Freya panicked she did not want him to see the bruise on her back, if he touched her back she would be found out.
So she had to take lead.
She leaned up and kissed him.
It was a move born of pure desperation.
Her lips crashed against his, clumsy and forceful, a frantic attempt to seize control of the narrative he was so skillfully rewriting. For a heartbeat, she was the aggressor, her actions a silent scream: Look here, not there. Touch this, not that. Soren was still, a statue of warm, solid muscle, completely unyielding against her frantic assault. She could feel the surprise in him, but he didnt not like it.
"Let me do something for you."
She managed out. Her pale green eyes looking at him. Her hands shaking, but she was determined.
She lowered herself onto her knees in front of him, the fabric of her dress pooling around her.
Her fingers trembled as they found the fastenings of his trousers.
Soren watched her, his crimson eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire. He didn't stop her. Instead, he reached down, his fingers tangling in her hair, guiding her, encouraging her.