Liora stirred in the hush of deep night.
The fire had settled low in the hearth, reduced to a quiet shimmer of coals that bathed the stone walls in soft, pulsing amber. The stillness had a weight to it—neither morning nor midnight, but the quiet hour where time seemed to stretch thin and everything felt suspended.
She pushed herself up from the cot's edge, the room's faint warmth clinging to her skin. Her muscles ached in a tired, familiar way, but something was off—something tugged at her mind, a quiet pull prodding her to wakefulness.
And then she saw her.
Veyra was slumped on the bench by the fire, her back curved against the wall, one arm tucked beneath her head like a soldier too tired to care where she fell. Her cloak had slipped to the floor, half-crumpled beneath one boot. The flickering light picked out the angles of her face, casting her in bronze and shadow.
Liora blinked slowly, taking in the scene.
She obviously hadn't meant to fall asleep there.
Carefully, she rose and crossed the room, feet bare against the flagstone. She hesitated only a moment before crouching beside her, voice low.
"Veyra," she whispered. "You'll ruin your spine like this."
A soft sound answered her—barely more than breath. The Alpha stirred faintly, but did not wake. Her brow twitched, and she exhaled through her nose, long and slow.
Liora knelt beside her and reached for her shoulder. "Veyra."
A faint groan, no real response. She shifted under Liora's hand but didn't wake. Her body sagged again, weary and heavy with sleep.
Liora frowned. "Stubborn," she whispered, then sighed and reached for her shoulder. "Come on. The bed's right there."
She slipped her arm around Veyra's back and tried to lift her upright.
The effort nearly toppled them both.
"You're heavier than you look," Liora muttered under her breath, face straining with effort.
Veyra made a sleepy grunt—and then shifted.
"I'm helping," she murmured, barely audible.
Still dazed with exhaustion, Veyra braced her weight, pushing up from the bench as Liora helped guide her. Together, half stumbling and leaning into each other, they reached the bed. Liora lowered her with care, adjusting the blankets out of long-ingrained habit.
She turned to leave—only to be caught.
Veyra's hand closed loosely around her wrist.
Liora froze.
"You should sleep," she said softly, but the Alpha didn't answer.
Instead, her fingers tugged—slow, insistently.
"Veyra…" she tried.
Veyra didn't look at her. Her eyes were already closing again, her breath steadying. But her fingers held firm, and when Liora tried to step away—
A tug.
"Wait—Veyra—"
But the pull didn't relent. Liora hesitated, heart thudding. She let herself be drawn downward until her knees touched the mattress. Then Veyra gave one final, decisive tug—and Liora landed gently beside her.
One of Veyra's arms curled around her waist.
Her face pressed into the space just beneath Liora's collarbone.
And in that drowsy, vulnerable quiet, Veyra's breathing deepened. The tension she always held, even in rest, eased slightly—as though the world outside the room had been forgotten.
Liora stared at the ceiling.
"Gods," she breathed. "You really are impossible."
Veyra didn't reply. She'd already fallen asleep again, her arm draped across Liora's waist in a half-conscious, protective curl. Her face was peaceful now, slackened in sleep, one brow twitching faintly as she nuzzled closer.
And that was when she caught her scent.
Not sharply. Not like before. But the slow, warm curl of it beneath the suppressant's weakening hold was enough to soften Veyra's jaw, enough to pull her closer as her breath slowed.
Liora stayed very still.
She could've tried to move again. Could've squirmed free. But something in the quiet pressed against her like a weight. Not from fear—but from knowing. From the sinking, dawning certainty that this moment—this accidental closeness—meant something.
Veyra didn't wake.
But her arm tightened.
Liora's breath caught.
She lay still, unmoving, unsure if the Alpha was truly asleep or simply unwilling to let go.
"Instinct," she told herself, barely more than a breath. "Just instinct."
And yet… she stayed.
She didn't sleep.
How could she?
Liora stared up at the ceiling beams, each one painted by the slow rhythm of the hearth's dying light. Veyra's arm still lay across her waist, her breath steady and warm against the side of her throat. It wasn't uncomfortable—no, that was the problem.
It was… dizzying.
At first it had been the silence that held her still. The rare peace of a moment where no one demanded she lie, or hide, or run. But then the haze began—so subtle she hadn't noticed it until it slipped beneath her ribs and pressed, featherlight, into her lungs.
Veyra's scent.
Faint, but unmistakable.
It curled like smoke—clean and dark and warm like sunlight over iron. And with each breath, it grew harder to ignore. Her fingers curled tight in the blanket, jaw clenched against the rising flutter in her chest.
Suppressant dulled an Omega's instincts—it didn't erase them.
Not entirely.
And here, this close, with an Alpha who bore the blood of kings and the scent of the wild—and the arrogance to sleep so freely beside her—Liora felt her pulse kick.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
She was supposed to be careful. To keep her distance. Even when dressing Veyra's wounds, she'd taken care not to look too long, not to breathe too deeply. Yet now… now she was wrapped in warmth and the haze of something ancient, buried, and unmistakable.
The thought struck her with the weight of a stone.
She'll know.
Not now, perhaps. But soon.
If the suppressant failed entirely—if just once her scent broke through the layers she'd spent years carefully building around herself—then Veyra would know what she was. Who she was.
And that would be the end of this quiet.
The end of this room. This safety. This sliver of closeness she hadn't meant to want.
She hadn't meant to fall into this. All she'd wanted was to get Veyra off the floor and into a proper place to sleep, but… That had been the end of it.
Liora hadn't dared to struggle. Not out of fear—though fear had its place—but because she wasn't sure she could handle what it might stir in either of them. The wrong move, a shift of breath, a single misplaced word…
The thought made her stomach knot and twist. Gods, what would she do if the woman noticed?
She swallowed hard and turned her head slightly, enough to glimpse the tangle of black hair brushing against her shoulder. Veyra looked peaceful now. Untroubled. But even in sleep, her fingers remained curled tight at Liora's side—possessive in the way only an Alpha could be when instincts took hold.
Liora's gaze lingered on her face a moment longer than she meant it to. Even now, half-buried in sleep and shadow, Veyra carried a kind of quiet authority that didn't fade with injury or exhaustion. Her brow was furrowed just enough to betray the worries still simmering beneath the surface.
And her scent…
Subtle but there. An echo of pinewood smoke and winter storm, of worn leather and steel polish. Something uniquely hers, threaded through the wool and linens of the bed, through the fibers of the practice tunic Liora still wore. It had caught at her thoughts more than once since arriving in the fort, sharpening at odd moments when she least expected it.
She shut her eyes. Tried not to breathe so deep.
But it was too late. The pull had begun.
Her body, ever rebellious, recognized the truth her mind denied. Even dulled as it was by suppressant, her instincts whispered warnings—and something else. Hunger.
Liora clenched her jaw and turned onto her side, facing away. Veyra shifted slightly behind her, arm tightening just enough to make retreat impossible.
There would be no sleeping tonight, she thought. Not like this.
And yet… somehow… the darkness came for her too.
Not suddenly, and not with ease. It crept in slow, like mist over the mountains at daybreak—quiet, unwelcome, and thick with the weight of things unsaid.
She didn't remember when her eyes closed. Only that they had, at some point, despite her insistence otherwise. Despite her mind refusing to calm, her heartbeat fluttering a touch too fast, her body tense beneath the dull warmth of Veyra's arm.
But sleep had a way of claiming even the most unwilling.
It was the smell, perhaps—that strange comfort that curled in from the bedclothes and the worn tunic she wore. That fading scent of old sparring fields and fresh pine, smoke and salt, something wild and almost forgotten. It held her like a tether, something animal and impossible and dangerously kind. She'd told herself she'd never be foolish enough to find safety near an Alpha.
And yet here she was.
Drifting off against one.
The fortress beyond the chamber held its breath. No guards came knocking, no councilmen burst in with demands. No fresh blood was spilled in the dark hours between one day and the next.
Just the slow and steady rhythm of sleep, and two bodies drawn into uneasy gravity by something neither yet named aloud.
Liora didn't dream. Or if she did, she would not remember it come morning.
Only the warmth.
And the quiet pull of something much deeper.
—
The light had changed.
Soft, pale gold crept through the narrow slats of the shutters, spilling across the wooden floor in thin beams. The fire had burned low, little more than a cradle of glowing coals now, and a hush lay over the room—morning, just beginning its slow stretch across Fort Dalen.
Veyra stirred first.
A sharp ache pulsed through her shoulder and back—residue from a night spent slouched against the bench's rigid frame—but it wasn't the discomfort that woke her. It was warmth. A presence, steady and close, curled into her side.
Liora.
The first thought came unbidden, stunned.
The girl was tucked beside her—her rose-colored hair a soft spill against Veyra's shoulder, one hand resting lightly near her chest. She looked far younger in sleep, lashes long against her cheek, the usual furrow of wariness absent from her brow. Her breathing was even. Gentle. For the first time since they met, she wasn't moving away from something.
Veyra's lips parted, unsure if it was from surprise or something quieter. She inhaled.
Honey and lavender.
The scent hit like a whisper, familiar now. Fainter than it should've been—but undeniably hers. It wasn't the full pull of an Omega's heat, not yet, but even muted, it curled around Veyra's senses like smoke. Her body responded before she meant it to. A stir in her blood. A quiet, ancestral awareness.
She stilled. Eyes narrowing faintly.
It had been there at the checkpoint, hadn't it? That strange flicker of tension in Liora. Not fear of the guards—no, it had been something more primal. Her instinct to hide. To not be seen. And now, this scent, buried beneath layers of suppressants and time.
Veyra's mind spun—if it was true… if Liora wasn't Beta—
She swallowed it back. The thought, the urge to know. To ask. Instead, she reached out and touched Liora's shoulder, gently.
"Liora," she murmured, voice rough with sleep and the edge of something else.
Liora shifted with a faint sound. Her brows twitched before her copper eyes blinked open, hazy with dreams and slow to focus.
And then—realization.
She sat up fast, instinct pulling her away. The warmth vanished. She blinked once, then twice, drawing her knees close and putting space between them. Her expression was unreadable—walls snapping back into place, though a pink flush crept up her neck.
"I didn't mean to—" she began, voice rasping from disuse.
"You fell asleep?" Veyra said simply, watching her.
Liora didn't meet her gaze. She looked toward the hearth, toward the closed shutters, anywhere but at her. Her hand tugged lightly at the hem of the old training tunic she wore—too large, sliding off one shoulder.
"You were asleep too," she muttered.
Veyra allowed a brief smile. "That's true."
The quiet returned. But it wasn't heavy, not this time. It lingered between them like the low warmth of the morning fire—unspoken, but not unwelcome.
"I should get dressed," Liora said after a long moment, finally rising from the edge of the bed.
"Yes. And I should send for food. You look like you haven't eaten properly since—" Veyra trailed off. Since she found me bleeding in the dirt, she almost said.
Liora gave a faint nod.
And still… as she turned away, Veyra watched the gentle sway of her movements, the quiet grace in them. The sweet, subtle scent clung to the air even now. Faint, but unmistakable.
The most beautiful Beta she'd ever seen.
Or not a Beta at all.
Veyra's jaw tensed, her gaze narrowing slightly.
If she was right… she would need to be very careful.
Veyra leaned back slightly against the bedframe, propping herself up on one elbow as she watched Liora shift toward the firelight, the oversized tunic sliding again off one shoulder. Despite her previous statement, Liora had made no move to try to go change. The silence lingered—companionable now, but taut at the edges.
Her voice, when it came, was quiet.
"How did you end up here?"
Liora paused, fingers resting on the fabric of the tunic where it hung loose against her collarbone. She didn't turn around. The light caught the pale strands in her hair, gold and rose like sun-touched glass.
"I… woke up," she murmured, barely above a whisper. "Saw you sleeping on the bench like some half-dead horse."
A beat passed.
"I tried to move you," she added, rubbing the back of her neck, "but you're heavier than you look."
Veyra gave a soft huff of amusement.
Liora glanced at her then—just briefly—and the edges of her mouth pulled upward, sheepish.
"You helped me," Veyra said, not teasing.
"And you dragged me," Liora countered.
"Semantics," Veyra murmured. She let her gaze linger, studying the way Liora's shoulders drew in, not with shame—but with a wariness that never quite left her. As though even here, even now, she wasn't allowed comfort.
And still, she had tried.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep," Liora added after a breath. Her voice was softer now, eyes flickering down. "It just… happened."
Veyra nodded, and though she wanted to say more, she didn't push. There were questions to be asked, truths to unravel—but they would not be torn loose in the fragile hush of morning.
Instead, she simply said, "Thank you."
Liora didn't answer, but she didn't leave either.
And in the quiet that followed, the warmth between them slowly began to build again—flickering, uncertain, but real.
—
By midday, the sun filtered weakly through the high, narrow windows, casting a diluted gold across the stone floor. Liora sat cross-legged near the modest hearth, fingers curled around a shallow clay bowl. The stew was warm and thick, seasoned more than she expected from a soldier's kitchen, but her stomach still churned with the lingering ache of fatigue and tension. Across from her, Veyra leaned back in a cushioned chair, one leg draped over the other, her own bowl nearly finished.
The heir had shed her bandages for lighter wrappings beneath a black high-collared tunic—simple, but fitted and clean. Her dark hair was still damp from the earlier wash, and a fresh dressing peaked out just beneath her sleeve. Even resting, she exuded a calm authority, though her usual sharpness had softened into something quieter today.
"They brought breakfast before first bell," Veyra said mildly, setting her spoon aside. "Lunch came early to follow. The kitchens assume I eat on a warlord's rhythm."
Liora gave a faint breath of amusement, nodding. "You don't?"
"I don't sleep in my boots, if that's what you mean."
Her mouth twitched with a reluctant smile, then fell silent again. A moment later, Veyra gestured with her chin toward the tall wooden shelf beside the desk. "There are books there, if you'd like. A few from the royal library, but most are personal copies. The ones with worn spines are the better ones."
Liora hesitated, then stood slowly and padded over. Her new clothes fit better than the ones she'd arrived in: a set of comfortable cut trousers and a tunic without the insignia of any rank, though clearly made for one of Veyra's officers. She traced the edges of the book spines with cautious fingers before drawing one down, the leather cover warm from the sun.
Veyra, already seated at her writing desk, opened her journal. The pages were crisp, her handwriting fine and angular. She dipped her quill and paused, gaze drawn out the window.
The council's words lingered like the dust motes in the light—still, but ever present.
Tareth. She could not yet name him aloud, not without cause. But her gut coiled with a familiar tightness whenever she recalled the delayed runners, the shifting glances exchanged during the Circle's inquiry, the quiet way he'd folded his hands while the others debated blame and banditry.
He knew something. Or worse, had given the order.
But what could she prove?
She would need records of the patrol routes, reports on the day of the attack—without drawing suspicion. And time. More than she was likely to be given.
Veyra leaned forward slightly, pressing the ink-heavy quill to the paper, beginning a slow line of notes under the day's date. Pain no longer lanced sharp beneath her ribs as it had before—thanks to rest, and to the healer's salves. Quick healing was a gift of their bloodlines, so long as foolish pride didn't tear the wounds back open again.
From the hearth, the soft rustle of a page turning reached her ears.
She glanced toward Liora.
The girl's rose-colored hair had dried, curling slightly at the edges, and her profile was half-lit by the amber of the fire. Despite her clear effort to remain small in the space, something about her seemed to fill it.
Honey and lavender, barely touched with apprehension now.
Veyra looked away again and resumed writing. She doubted Liora was aware that whatever was being used to obscure her presence was beginning to fade.
Whatever truth Liora hid, she would not press. Not yet.
But she would be ready, when the time came. Whatever happened, she damn well wouldn't let anyone in this fort touch her. She owed her after all.