She watched his back—rigid, turned, and clearly trying not to fidget.
His voice had been clipped, awkward, his body nearly retreating before she'd even spoken. He looked like a boy caught where he shouldn't be, and trying very hard not to meet her eyes.
She could have let him go.
She really could have.
But maybe it was Mother, always bringing him up in conversation these past few days. Always speaking of fate and threads of destiny, always saying his path will cross yours in time. Always speaking as if he were not just a boy from the plains, but some figure carved by prophecy.
Serena didn't hold any strong feeling about it. She hadn't gone looking for him.
But now that she'd stumbled across him—awkward and blushing and trying desperately not to look at her—she supposed she might as well see for herself.
If the Goddess wanted him in her future, she figured it wouldn't hurt to give him a passing glance in the present.
Still, she hadn't bothered to sit up at first. Not because of modesty or shock—nothing like that—but because she simply hadn't felt the need.
But then… she noticed it.
The way he'd walked.
A slight lean. A guarded step on his right side. Favoring his ribs.
Ah.
So that's why.
Now she sat up—not out of decorum, but out of assessment.
"Come here." she said, her voice clear and measured.
Not a command, not exactly. But not quite a suggestion either.
He moved at the sound of her voice.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned to face her—and looked at her properly for the first time.
"Umm…" he mumbled, eyes uncertain, body still stiff with hesitation.
She didn't answer. Just extended a hand and pointed to the patch of grass beside where she sat.
He lowered his gaze, nodded once, and stepped forward. Then, without a word, knelt down beside her.
"Are you injured?" she asked softly.
His eyes flicked up to hers, wide and unsure. He nodded.
Without ceremony, she placed a hand against his side.
Alric froze.
His back straightened like a drawn bowstring, his breath caught in his chest, and his muscles locked beneath her palm.
She didn't seem to notice.
Or maybe she did—and didn't care.
It wasn't improper, not to her. She'd done this a thousand times. Healing was second nature, a reflex trained through long hours and long years. Her touch was clinical, steady, detached. Her fingers rested lightly over the fabric of his tunic, just above the bruised ribs he'd been guarding since morning.
Then, slowly, she let the holy power flow.
A soft warmth spread beneath her hand, like sunlight filtered through leaves. Her emerald eyes glowed faintly, the green deepening as she focused.
She could feel it—the way his body drank in the healing light, pulling energy like a sponge, drawn hungrily to the wound. More than she'd expected. He'd been pushing himself hard.
Too hard.
A breath later, the glow faded.
She withdrew her hand.
He looked at her, clearly puzzled, his brown eyes wide with unspoken questions.
"Does it hurt now?" she asked, almost casually.
His brows furrowed as realization finally dawned. He straightened slightly, testing the motion. No pain.
"You didn't have to—" he started.
"Take it easy," she said, cutting him off gently as she rose to her feet.
His gaze followed her on instinct—then dropped immediately the moment he realized what he was doing.
She smiled faintly at that. Not mockingly—just amused by the sheer earnestness of him.
"You don't have to fight or prove something every day," she said as she straightened her posture brushing the last of the grass from her robes. "What you're doing will burn you out. Everything happens in its time."
He nodded dumbly, still looking at the ground.
Her sandals waited just where she'd left them—placed neatly off the grass, beside a small patch of wild violets.
She stepped toward them, sliding one foot in, then the other, her movements quiet and unhurried, as natural as breath.
She didn't need to look to know he was watching.
Not like the stares she'd learned to ignore in crowded markets or from overconfident young knights with too much charm and too little grace.
No—his head was bowed, respectfully, awkwardly, but his gaze had drifted, following the soft shift of her feet.
The breeze picked up, tousling the unruly mess of hair on his head.
Then, without thinking, she stepped forward and ran a hand through his hair—lightly, absently, fingers trailing through the wild strands for a good moment.
Alric went perfectly still.
"Rest here," she said simply, as if she knew exactly what he needed—and left.
She didn't look back as she left the garden.
Instead of circling around the building again, she took the back entrance into the residential wing, her steps light on the stone as she ascended the spiraling staircase. At the landing, she entered her room without pause.
Inside, she unfastened her outer robes with practiced ease, folding them neatly and placing them atop the table. Left in only the soft white tunic, she crossed to the wooden cupboard, pulled out a fresh one, and stepped back into the hallway.
The washroom lay directly across from her door.
She entered, then emerged minutes later with her hair damp, the new tunic clinging lightly to her shoulders with the faint chill of post-bath air. She slipped into her room once more and shut the door behind her.
The bed welcomed her like ritual.
She lay down on her side, wet strands of hair spiraling out across the pillow and down the sheets like spilled ink. For a while, she stared at nothing. Then she shifted—rolling gently—and her eyes fell absently on the wooden jar atop the bedside table, beside the water jug.
Without thinking, her hand reached out.
She lifted the lid, dipped her fingers into the familiar cool interior, and retrieved a single, round dark chocolate ball.
The sweetness bloomed slowly, melting over her tongue.
With quiet satisfaction, she popped it into her mouth and closed her eyes.