The fortress loomed like a wound in the earth—jagged stone walls wrapped in ironwood spikes, battlements lined with rune-forged lanterns that burned with unnatural light. It was not beautiful. It was not welcoming. It was designed to survive.
Reivo stared through the bars of the transport cage as they passed through the gate. The drawbridge creaked under the weight of the wheels, and soldiers in black-and-red armor watched from above, silent and grim.
Even in his half-delirious state, his instincts flared.
Each archer was positioned with precision. No wasted movement. No idle chatter. They didn't treat this place like home.
They treated it like a battlefield waiting to happen.
Good, Reivo thought. I understand battlefields.
The gate closed behind them with a hollow boom, and the world changed. No more wind. No more forest. Just stone, steel, and cold air.
The cart came to a stop in the inner courtyard. Alisanne dismounted without fanfare, speaking quietly to an officer who bowed and moved off. She didn't look at Reivo as she passed the cage—but again, that invisible tether pulled between them.
Two soldiers unlatched the door and waited. Reivo stepped out slowly, favoring his bad leg. They didn't touch him. Didn't need to. He could feel the sharp eyes of at least a dozen warriors on him. If he made a move, he'd be dead before he hit the ground.
Noted.
He limped forward, letting them guide him down a side path toward a long stone building with the scent of herbs, blood, and burning incense. A healer's hall. A pair of tall doors opened as they approached.
She was waiting inside.
The girl stood tall in the center of the hall, her golden hair braided tight, a staff across her back. She wore a white robe with pale green trim, marked with the sigil of the Reign's healing order. But what struck Reivo first wasn't her beauty or her grace.
It was the pressure in the air.
She was Awakened. Strong. Not like the village apothecary who crushed flowers into tea. This one had power in her blood.
"I'll handle him," she said. Her voice was soft, but it carried.
The guards hesitated. She gave them a look.
They left.
Reivo stood silent, unflinching, even as his legs trembled beneath him.
"You don't look like a threat," she murmured, stepping closer. "But you feel like one."
She gestured to a padded bench. "Sit before you fall."
He sat, more out of necessity than obedience.
"I'm Lira," she said, kneeling beside him. "I've been assigned to make sure you don't bleed out on the princess's floor."
"Convenient."
She raised an eyebrow. "You have a tongue. Good. Means I don't have to use mind-probes."
Reivo's expression didn't change, but a flicker of tension eased in his shoulders.
Lira began cutting away the remnants of his shirt with practiced hands. Her touch was firm but not cruel. Every now and then, she hummed—an odd tune that made the air around her thrum slightly with magic.
Healing aura. Subtle, but steady.
After she inspected him with some kind of magic, she paled, the extent of the wound was more than she anticipated, she never saw so many wounds on a single person, not even on the battlefield.
"You should be dead."
"I'm aware."
She met his gaze then—sharp, intelligent. "You want to be?"
"No." He didn't hesitate. "But I don't know what I am anymore."
Lira nodded, almost to herself. "That's... normal."
"Normal?" he scoffed.
"For survivors."
Her hands glowed with soft emerald light as she pressed them to his ribs. A wave of warmth flooded his chest—followed by a burst of agony.
He grunted, jaw clenched, refusing to cry out.
"You can scream," she said gently. "Doesn't make you weak."
"I'm not weak."
She didn't argue. "Just scarred."
She worked in silence for a few minutes, resetting his shoulder with a sickening pop, then wrapping his leg with a band of healing moss soaked in regeneration oil. Every movement was efficient, controlled. Reivo watched her with that same cold, assessing gaze.
"You're studying me," she said without looking up.
"I study everyone."
"Why?"
"Because I've seen what happens when you don't."
Lira looked at him again, and for a moment, something shifted in her expression. Sympathy? Pity? No. Respect.
"I think I see why she spared you," she said. "You're not stable, but you're not lost either. Not yet."
"I'm not something that needs saving."
"No," she agreed. "You're something that needs choosing."
Reivo tilted his head. "What does that mean?"
"You'll understand soon enough."
She stood and cleaned her hands, then motioned to the far side of the hall where a cot waited, set apart from the others.
"You can rest there. Tomorrow we will continue the treatment, though I can't promise it'll be painless."
Reivo didn't move right away. He was still processing everything—her words, her presence, the way the fortress seemed to pulse with a strange tension, like something just beneath the surface was waiting to erupt. But eventually, he pushed himself up and limped toward the cot, every step a negotiation with pain.
The mattress was thin, the blanket coarse, but compared to the cold metal floor of a prison cart, it was a throne. He lay down slowly, every wound complaining. Lira was already gathering her tools, humming again under her breath, the melody just strange enough to stick in his memory.
"Sleep," she said, without looking at him. "You'll need strength for what comes next."
He didn't ask what that meant. He didn't want to.