The door creaked open again, but this time it wasn't the usual guard with the iron keys and dead eyes. The steps were different. Lighter. Quicker. Alert.
Saphira didn't lift her head. Her back ached against the cold stone wall, and the chains binding her wrists and ankles scraped with every shallow breath. Her skin was torn in places, dried blood streaked across her arms, and her vision blurred in waves. But her spirit, fractured as it was, still flared quietly inside her chest.
Then, a sharp intake of breath echoed through the dungeon.
"Saphira?"
Her eyes fluttered open. It wasn't a hallucination.
Standing just beyond the iron bars was a familiar figure—tall, dark-haired, and wide-eyed with disbelief. His scout cloak was soaked from the rain, his face paler than usual.
"Soren."
He stepped closer, gripping the bars. "What the hell… What happened to you?"
Her throat was dry, but she still smirked faintly. "Don't look so surprised. I wear rock-chains well."
He didn't smile. He was staring at the dried blood, the bruises, the metal cuffs biting into her skin. "Who did this?"
Saphira lets out a dry laugh. "Long story. Let's say your king is more complicated than he looks."
Soren doesn't laugh. He glances around, voice low. "He did this!"
"I don't understand," he said finally. "The way he looked at you, back at the outpost. He… he would've fought a war to protect you."
"He did," she whispered. "Before a priest whispered poison to him and he was chosen for something darker."
Soren stared at her.
Saphira lifted her head, jaw tight. "You deserve the truth, Soren. And if you're going to help me, then you need to know what he's carrying."
He didn't stop her.
So she told him. Everything.
The mark. The death countdown. The truth about the kill quotas. That she and Killian were each other's final targets. That they had seven days—or perhaps less—to kill or be killed.
She told him about the scar on Killian's chest, the pain that wracked him at night. The dreams. The fire. The slow unraveling of the man behind the steel mask.
And she told him how she couldn't do it. How, even when she had the chance, she couldn't finish her mission.
When she finished, the silence between them wasn't empty. It was thick. Heavy with understanding. And something close to grief.
Soren was shocked
"Gods," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I knew there were rumors about the Mark of Fate resurfacing, but… I never thought…"
"He didn't choose it," she said.
Soren stared at the ground for a moment, then looked back up. "And you?"
She blinked. "What about me?"
"You said you couldn't kill him."
She didn't respond.
He smiled sadly. "You care about him."
She scoffed. "I want to strangle him half the time."
"But you don't want to lose him."
"…No."
Without another word, Soren pulled a thin ring of keys from his belt. "Move back."
She blinked. "What are you—"
"Helping you. Obviously." He slid the key into the cell door and pushed it open.
The groan of rusted iron echoed down the corridor, but Soren didn't pause. He stepped inside and crouched beside her, eyes narrowing as he assessed the wounds.
"I'm going to unchain you. Slowly. The cuffs might've cut too deep."
"Why are you doing this?" she asked.
Soren met her gaze, his expression softening. "Because I trust you, Saphira."
He took a deep breath before continuing, his voice quiet but earnest. "I know what Killian did was wrong. But he's not the monster. I'm asking one thing from you—can you forgive him?
He hesitated, eyes lowering briefly before lifting to meet hers again. "And because… I know him well, and this isn't the first time he's made a terrible decision."
Saphira didn't move. Didn't blink. But he could see it—the tension in her shoulders, the ache she was trying to hide beneath all that fire.
"He's made mistakes before," Soren went on, voice quiet. "Some worse than this. But he always regrets them. Always too late, always after he's burned the bridge. It's just…" He exhaled. "It's how he's built."
She scoffed softly, bitter. "That's supposed to make me feel better?"
"No." Soren gave a faint, wry smile. "But maybe it explains why he left you like that. Why did he lock you down here, He doesn't trust himself when emotions get too close. So he pushes away. Hurts people first before they can hurt him."
Her eyes flickered. Something unreadable passed through them.
"I'm not saying it was right," Soren said, his tone firm now. "It wasn't. He hurt you. And maybe you don't owe him anything after that. But…"
He paused, voice softening again.
"…if there's even the smallest part of you that still believes in him, give him time. He'll come back. He'll realize what he did. And he'll hate himself for it."
Saphira looked away, jaw tight.
Soren took a step closer, quieter now. "I'm just asking… don't give up on him yet. Not completely."
He unlocked the ankle cuffs first. They clattered to the floor with a metallic thud. Then her wrists. When the last shackle fell, her body slumped, and he caught her.
"You're burning up," he muttered. "You need water. And your stomach—gods, it's infected."
She hissed through her teeth. "It's fine."
"It's not. Sit still."
He dug into his satchel and pulled out a small roll of bandages, a flask, and a tiny vial of antiseptic oil.
"This'll sting."
"Do your worst."
He raised a brow. "Are you always this stubborn?"
"Of course."
Soren shook his head but smiled as he cleaned the wound. Her skin twitched under the sting of the liquid, but she bit her lip and bore it.
He wrapped her shoulder with quiet precision, then handed her the flask. "Drink. Slowly."
She sipped. The water tasted sharp but necessary.
They sat in silence for a while—her back still to the cold stone wall, him kneeling before her like something had shifted between them. No orders. No threats. Just two people in a moment that didn't quite make sense.
Her shoulder still throbbed, her body still heavy with ache—but her heart? That felt heavier.
It sounded ridiculous even in her own head.
Forgive him?
Seriously?
After the whole betrayal, the melodramatic sentencing, the part where he literally chained her like some villain from a bedtime horror story?
Her lips twitched. A short, sharp laugh slipped out.
"I used to threaten to slit his throat just to see him flinch," she muttered.
Soren raised a brow. "Not exactly a healthy relationship, huh?"
"And every time," she went on, ignoring him, "he'd flash that idiotic grin—like some smug little fox who thought flirting was a valid defense mechanism."
"He wasn't wrong," Soren murmured.
She shot him a look. "He was very wrong. And very annoying. I mean, I'd be inches away with a dagger, and he'd be like, 'You looked hot even when I was about to stab him'"
Soren chuckled. "To be honest, that does sound like him."
She let out a dramatic sigh, then looked up at the ceiling like it had the answers. "He used to be scared of me. In a fun way. Now he just looks at me like I'm a sentient bomb he needs to disarm."
There was a pause.
"You know what really made me mad?" Saphira said, throwing her hands up like she was telling a wild story. "It wasn't the chains. Not even the betrayal. Not the part where he looked at me like I was a bug he stepped on."
Soren raised an eyebrow, staying quiet.
"It was the fact that one priest—just one old, wrinkly priest with a giant beard and dramatic voice—told Killian I was dangerous, and boom! He believed it."
Soren shrugged. "Well… you are dangerous."
She gave him a look. "Not because some religious nut told him I am!"
"Fair enough."
She rolled her eyes so hard it looked like they'd pop out. "Killian's still acting like a little kid. If someone walks in with a scroll and a deep voice, he's like, 'Ooooh, must be true!' Like—'Oh no, the priest says Saphira is evil! Quick! Tie her up before she coughs too loud!'"
Soren laughed. "Okay, yeah, that sounds like him."
"I swear," she continued, crossing her arms, "give him a sparkle, a thunder sound, and a guy wearing a hood—and suddenly he's ready to throw me in jail like I'm some ancient curse!"
She sighed dramatically. "He's built like a warrior but thinks like a 10-year-old at a magic show. One spooky story, and he believes I'm the monster under his bed."
Soren laughed under his breath.
She stared at the flask in her hand like it personally offended her. "Gods, he's such a moron."
Then, after a beat:
"Fine," she said, gritting her teeth like it physically hurt. "I'll forgive him."
Soren blinked. "Wait—really?"
She jabbed a finger at him. "Not because he asked. Because you did. You and your annoyingly loyal little face."
His brow furrowed. "My face is loyal?"
"Don't question it. I'm in pain, and I might rescind the forgiveness at any moment."
Soren smiled faintly. "Noted."
She sighed and leaned her head back against the cold wall. "He better regret it one day," she muttered. "Because if he doesn't, I'm going to find him, unforgive him, and probably stab him with a dagger"
Soren chuckled. "I'll bring the dagger."
She smirked. "Make sure it's extra dusty. And dramatic."
They sat in silence again, comfortable, if a little chaotic. Not a prisoner and a guard anymore. Maybe not quite friends. But definitely two exhausted people trying not to fall apart in the dumbest timeline imaginable.
And somewhere, deep under the sarcasm and sass, something stirred.
Not hope.
Not quite.
But maybe… the tiniest spark of not wanting to stab Killian anymore.
For now.