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ALOR: Chapter 28

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Chapter: "Home" Word Count: 20 K+ Warnings: 18+, Violence and Blood, Psychological Cruelty, Explicit Sexual Content, NON-CON and Coercion, Power Imbalance, captivity/confinement, surveillance and loss of privacy, Abuse/manipulation, Slavery themes, Mentions of Suicide, Death

Additional Note: Just because something is 'agreed', it does not entail consent. Consent is not bargaining, so take extra care before reading this chapter. This is not a reflection of a healthy relationship.

This story is not a commendation of slavery, cruelty, sexual assault, and violence. It’s also held together with tape and war crimes. Read responsibly. 18+

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The cabin was steeped in night by the time Garling returned.

Moonlight spilled in through the narrow windows in pale bands, silvering the edges of the room and turning the dark wood almost blue. Outside, the sea whispered against the hull in a slow, steady rhythm. Inside, the air still carried the faint sting of iron.

True to his word, Garling had made certain the worst of the blood never crossed the threshold of his quarters. A marine had been dispatched to scrub the deck, and the rest he had handled himself. By the time he entered, he was already shrugging out of his uniform, movements unhurried but heavy with fatigue.

You had bathed while you waited. Your hair was still damp, clinging softly to your neck, and your clothes changed for something lighter. You paced the length of the cabin once, then again, unable to settle. Every creak of the ship made your attention snap toward the door.

When it finally opened, you looked up at once.

He closed it behind him quietly. The cloak was gone, his shirt unfastened at the buttons, darkened where sweat and blood had soaked through earlier. The low lantern light caught the lines of his face and softened them, drawing shadows beneath his eyes that made him look older.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he crossed the room and reached for you, his hands settling around your wrists as if grounding himself. His touch was warm and steady.

“Come,” he said quietly.

He guided you toward the wash basin, and you followed without resistance. The lantern flickered as he sat, bracing himself against the wall, and you stepped between his knees as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

You began to help him out of the rest of his uniform. The fabric was stiff, salt-crusted, and marked with what the ocean had not yet washed away. Your movements slowed as you worked, careful not to jar him. He let you, head tipping back against the wall, eyes closing as if the effort of holding himself together had finally caught up with him.

“How is Varian?” You asked quietly.

“Alive,” Garling sighed, “but the broken leg will make him useless for the rest of the trip. Better news is the cook is fine, and keeping him company.”

You dipped the cloth into the basin and wrung it out before lifting it to his skin. The water darkened almost immediately.

“When we dock, we should find the town doctor. Varian is probably in more pain than he’s letting on.”

You moved gently, cleaning what you could, your touch slow and deliberate.

Garling sighed.

“You are making my staff fall in love with you. Even Varian. He told me how you helped him instead of hiding.”

When you reached his hair, tangled and damp with sweat, he bowed his head without being asked.

“How could I hide? Alder has been waiting a long time for his chance.”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, rinsing and smoothing, working the soap out with slow, careful motions. The water ran dark into the basin. His breath stuttered once beneath your touch, a sharp, involuntary catch, before evening out again.

“I had hoped he would strike at Ohara,” he said at last. “I did not want you to be involved.” His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion and something heavier beneath it. “I did not want you to…”

You paused, hands still resting at the nape of his neck, but you did not pull away. “To witness an old friend's death and watch you be the one doing it?”

“Yes.”

A quiet breath left you, more weary than surprised. “Was it not your plan?” you asked softly. “To use me?”

He opened his eyes.

For a moment, the man before you did not look like the one who had stood arrogant and immovable on deck earlier. There was something in his gaze that you had rarely seen turned inward. Something almost like shame. He seemed poised to argue, to justify, to reach for the certainty he wielded so easily in all other matters.

Instead, he exhaled.

His shoulders sagged, just slightly, as he leaned forward until his forehead hovered near your shoulder, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

You rinsed the cloth again and resumed, gentler now. The motions were slower, more deliberate, as if you were smoothing not only blood and salt from his skin but the memory of the moment itself. Beneath your hands, the tension in him began to loosen, inch by inch, the way a tightly wound cord slowly uncoils when the strain is finally released.

“I need you to understand that I did not—” he said quietly. “I did not want you to hear what he had done. Didn’t wish to risk—“

Did not want to risk the baby.

The lantern flickered, its light wavering across the cabin walls. Outside, the sea rolled on, indifferent and eternal, uncaring of names or loyalties or the bodies it had already claimed.

“You did not wish for me to hear him tell me the truth.” You said curtly.

As you shifted to step back, he caught your wrist.

His grip was firm but gentle, anchoring, as though he feared that if he let go too quickly, something irretrievable would slip through his fingers.

His thumb brushed your pulse, steady and deliberate. “He may not have seen your value, but every day when I wake, I thank whatever cruel god led you to me.” His voice softened further. “I only wish that same being had been kinder to you. That you never again needed to suffer.”

You let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle in the tight confines of the cabin, as though it might shatter if it lingered too long. “You make me furious with conflict,” you said quietly. “And yet I cannot help being more angry at Alder. Over what he did to me. My parents. To the others, he sold out. I cannot now even cry for him, as he did such heinous things.”

Your gaze dropped to his hand around your wrist. That same hand, steady and unyielding, that had ended an old friend’s life without hesitation. Now it clung to you as if you were the only solid thing left in a world that had shifted beneath both your feet.

If the revolutionaries had taken out your parents, were they really any better than the Celestial Dragons?

The contradiction made your chest ache.

How many wasted years had you been lied to, tucked away, and groomed? You had found it strange that Seraphina had been the primary mentor for you, but looking back, wasn’t it perfect? A whore training a future whore. Alder needed to train an innocent harlot. Had they all known then? Had Seraphina known everything? She must have known something, but hadn’t stopped anything.

How much time had been wasted, hiding and afraid of Xebec? Dreams of sailing with your uncle on his crew, to find a treasure beyond compare and seek a new dawn, were lost to this darkness of lies.

Why did everyone always lie?

And why did you always believe them?

Wasn’t it sad that the people who had been the most honest were the Celestial Dragons? They were so secure in their superiority that they hadn’t needed to. Except Garling. The one who loved you. Who claimed to worship you. He lied.

Perhaps it was you who had been the sole cause of those lies, because you were so naïve it was pitiful.

“Aren’t I the most laughable creature to exist?” you murmured, the words edged with weary self-mockery rather than humor. “Married to my own captor, and still he is preferable.”

Garling pulled you back before the words could sink any deeper, his hand firm at your waist as he tilted your chin up until you had no choice but to look at him. The lantern light caught in his garnet eyes, sharp and intent, but there was no anger there, only something painfully earnest.

“The problem was never you, my love,” he said, his voice low. “Five more years. A little more guidance. You would have been flawless.” His thumb pressed lightly beneath your jaw, a steadying touch. “Your comrades were impatient. They chose urgency and played their hand too early. Their intentions from the start were undeserving of your earnest desire to make a change.”

His gaze did not waver from yours.

“If Alder had waited,” he continued, quieter now, each word measured, “if he had sent you to me deliberately, armed with the knowledge of how to entangle a man like me…” His breath caught, just barely. “I would have folded like a feather.”

You seized back, agonized.

“Do not—” Your voice broke despite you, the word collapsing into a breath as you turned your face aside. “Do not speak like that.” You swallowed, the weight in your chest pressing harder. “Like I am something desirable. I cannot…” Your hands curled uselessly at your sides. “I cannot fathom your interest in me.”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing.

Then his hold softened. His hand slid from your chin to your cheek, cupping it with a care that felt almost reverent. He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven where it brushed your skin.

He did not answer you at once.

For a moment, he only stayed there, close enough that your foreheads nearly touched, his hand still warm against your cheek. The lantern light wavered, throwing slow shadows across his face, softening lines that had been carved there.

“You do not see yourself,” he said again, more gently this time, as though repeating it might finally make it true. “Not as you are.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away nothing at all, the motion unconscious. “You look back on every choice as though it were a failure. As though you should have known better. Been stronger. Been colder.”

His voice dropped, the edge of control thinning. “You were never a tool that broke,” he continued. “You were a young woman placed into a war with ill intent and no true armor. They asked you to survive by becoming something you were not.”

You drew in a shaky breath, your chest tightening as you struggled to keep it steady. His words pressed in from all sides, heavy and unfamiliar, threatening to unravel something you had been holding together through nothing but stubborn will.

“Then…” Your voice faltered. You swallowed. “Then what am I?” The question came out smaller than you meant it to.

Your gaze drifted away from him, unable to withstand the quiet certainty in his eyes. It felt too exposed, too earnest, like standing in open water with nothing to anchor you.

Garling did not let the silence stretch.

His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your head, steady and protective, drawing you closer without forcing you to lift your gaze.

“You are,” he said softly, with a certainty that left no room for doubt, “my only wife—the jewel of Mary Geoise. The dazzling ruby they whisper about in drawing rooms and corridors alike. All my servants adore you, and all my fellows are jealous of me, for having you.” His thumb shifted, grounding you. “You are the reigning mistress of House Figarland, whose portrait will hang in my hall until the title is passed to our child.”

He leaned in and brushed a kiss against you, catching the tear you had not realized had fallen.

“You are the woman who softened the heart of a man who had none,” he continued, his voice roughening despite himself. “You offer kindness where cruelty is expected.” His forehead came to rest against your hair, his breath warm and unsteady. “You are the only woman I will ever love, because you are goodness itself.”

He lingered there, as though trying to commit the moment to your memory.

“Wherever worry plagues you,” he whispered, the words almost a prayer, “is foolish. Not because you were spared hardship, but because you were never broken by it. You were forged for greatness.”

The sincerity of it tightened your throat, aching in a way that felt dangerously close to breaking.

The moment the words settled, something in you gave way. You wrapped your arms around him, pressing close, as if holding him there might anchor the world in place. His arms came around you in return.

Why did he have to be the most perfect husband? Everything he should be, except in the most important aspects of being a human. Why must he be so cruel to everything but you, and leave you in a situation impossible to convey?

“Would you stay here with me in God Valley, if I begged?” you asked softly, the words slipping out before you could gather the sense to stop them.

He stilled at once, as though the air itself had gone taut between you.

For a heartbeat, he did not answer. His hands loosened, not releasing you, but no longer holding you quite so close. Slowly, he drew back just enough to look at you, his brow knitting as the meaning of your question settled into place.

“God Valley,” he repeated quietly.

You swallowed. “Yes,” you said, almost a whisper.

His jaw tightened. “You mean,” he said at last, choosing each word with care, “leave Mary Geoise. Permanently.”

You nodded, barely. Hope and dread twisted together in your chest, inseparable.

“No,” he said softly. “It is impossible.”

The word landed heavier than you expected.

You stepped away before you could think better of it, the movement instinctive, desperate. Your fingers hovered just short of his chest, of the place you had felt his heart beating only moments before. “Why not?” you asked quietly. “When you return, the Five Elders will expect you to take more women, to—”

Your voice caught. You could not make yourself finish the thought.

For a long moment, he only looked at you. Not with anger. Not even with sorrow. With something closer to resignation.

Then his hand dropped from your waist as be reached for the collar of his shirt.

The movement was slow, deliberate, as though he were bracing himself. First, the stiff yellow silk came loose, sliding from his shoulders. Then the pale lavender beneath it, folded back and removed with equal care. The lantern light caught bare skin, smooth save for the faint marks of age and old battles long healed.

And then you saw it.

Along his shoulder and upper arm, etched into his flesh in dark, unnatural lines, lay the mark you had noticed before and never questioned. A symbol you had dismissed as a tradition, something ceremonial belonging to the Holy Knights.

You stared at it, a chill creeping through you. “The tattoo?” you whispered, alarmed despite yourself.

Your breath stilled. He glanced back at you then, eyes sharp with a pain he rarely allowed himself to show.

“The Mark of the Abyss,” he said quietly. His jaw tightened. “It is not mere ink. It is a covenant.”

He turned slightly, enough for you to see how the lines disappeared beneath his shoulder, how they seemed to pulse faintly in the low light, as though alive.

“This is what grants Holy knights their immunity,” he continued. “Their authority. Their longevity.” His voice lowered. “And their leash.”

Your hand lifted again, stopping just short of touching it. “A leash,” you repeated.

“Yes.” His gaze met yours, unflinching now. “It binds me to the Great One. Not in loyalty. In obedience.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “At times, even my thoughts are not entirely my own.”

The weight of it pressed down on your chest.

“And if you tried to leave?” you asked.

A humorless breath left him. “Then the mark would remind me why I cannot.”

Silence fell between you, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant creak of the ship and the low murmur of the sea.

Your voice trembled when you spoke again. “Is this what you want for your children? To be subject to this?”

The answer was without hesitation.

“No.”

The word was sharp. Then, more quietly, almost as if confessing something he had never meant to say aloud, “But I do not do this for them.”

He turned back to you fully, his hands coming to rest at your arms, steady and certain, as though anchoring himself as much as you.

“I live for you.”

His hand curled slowly at his side, fingers tightening as something darker crept into his expression. “And to keep you,” he said, more quietly now, “I must do my duty. The duty of all Holy Knights is permanent obedience.” He drew a breath, controlled, measured. “Even if… even if I wished to leave, I could not. Not even for another.”

The words struck with the force of a physical blow.

Your breath left you in a shudder, and before you could stop yourself, tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and uncontained. You did not bother to wipe them away.

“If we return,” you whispered, voice breaking, “they will take any children we have. Our baby.”

For a fraction of a second, something in him faltered.

Then his expression hardened, resolve sharpening into something colder, more dangerous. Whatever tenderness had been laid bare a moment ago did not vanish, but it was overlaid by a fierce, possessive clarity. He reached for you again, hands firm at your arms, grounding you as if the world itself were trying to pull you apart.

“We will speak with them when we return,” he said. His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. “We tell them you had a change of heart. That you helped me finish the revolutionaries. You have faithfully done your duty to me. Varian will recount the same.”

His gaze dropped to your stomach, then lifted again, burning.

“If you go before the elders,” he continued, lowering his voice, “and beg forgiveness, they may show restraint.” The word was chosen carefully. “Perhaps they will only take one child.”

Your breath caught sharply.

“And the rest,” he finished, without hesitation, “will remain ours.”

The compromise lingered between you, stark and terrible in its honesty.

In that moment, you understood the unspoken lengths between you, the distance that could not be crossed, no matter how tightly you held one another. It felt wider than the Grand Line itself.

And yet, something loosened in your chest. The weight you had been bracing against for so long shifted, not gone, but no longer crushing.

You smiled, small and sad and strangely gentle.

“Perhaps,” you said quietly.

For a heartbeat, he only watched you. Then, slowly, he smiled in return.

He straightened, the weight of command settling back into his posture as though it had never left him. “Go wait for me in bed, my rose,” he said, his voice warm again, almost tender. “I will be quick.”

You obeyed without protest.

You moved through the cabin quietly, the lantern light dimmer here, softer. The bed was still warm from the day, the linens carrying the faint scent of salt and him. You slipped beneath the covers and turned onto your side, staring up at the darkened ceiling as the ship creaked gently around you, every sound familiar now in a way that felt almost intimate.

Pain settled in, your thoughts hitting like bricks.

Alder was dead.

You had not known he had been watching you long before God Valley. That he had traced your steps with patient intent, lingering just out of sight, cataloguing your routines, Garling’s affection, the predictability of your path. His revelations replayed now more slowly, no longer drowned out by blood and fear. In the quiet, you could finally see the seams you had missed.

Of course, you had been easy to manipulate.

You believed too readily. Trusted intentions instead of actions. You had wanted to help, to belong to something larger than yourself, and Alder had known exactly how to shape that desire into a collar. One he had passed neatly to Garling.

The thought twisted your stomach. You pressed a palm against it, breathing carefully until the tightness eased. Naïve. Virelle’s word, half-mocking and half-bitter, rang uncomfortably true.

Garling had seen it immediately. The day you met him, you had thought yourself cautious, clever enough to survive Mary Geoise. But he had looked at you once and understood. You had been an open book pretending to be a cipher. An offering laid out, too tempting to ignore.

That realization cut deeper than any accusation Virelle had ever hurled at you. That a man who had once felt like a kind uncle had been willing to send you into prostitution so casually, to offer you up as bait. Lost. Used. Discarded. Had the plan failed, you would have vanished into those gilded halls without even the dignity of being remembered.

If Alder had come to you honestly, if he had spoken instead of schemed, he would still be alive. You were certain of that. His death would haunt you regardless, though you would not mourn it. Blood left stains deeper than memory, and his face in those final moments would follow you for years.

What you would mourn was the movement he had hollowed out. A revolution once rooted in belief and shared sacrifice, rotted by obsession. The people who had trusted him completely, who had laid everything on the line at his word, only to be cut down by the consequences of his vendetta. Their faith had deserved better than to be spent so cheaply.

Alder had not merely failed you. He had failed the entire revolution. He had chosen control over trust, bitterness over mercy, and named it necessity, as though that word could bleach the blood from his hands. Nothing clean could ever grow from rot.

You closed your eyes and let the names surface, one by one. You would mourn them properly when mourning was safe, when it would not cost anyone else their life. You whispered a silent prayer that Maria and Seraphina remained hidden, that the world never learned where they had gone to ground. They deserved to live. To disappear. To be spared the consequences of choices that had never truly been theirs.

Your plan had never relied on them saving you. It had focused on rescuing the children left behind in Mary Geoise. You had used Ginny to reach Seraphina, to find a way to free her and Ivankov.

Not yourself.

There was little doubt Garling Figarland would hunt you across the seas if you ran. No matter where you hid, he would find you. Somewhere along the way, quietly and without ceremony, you had already reached the only conclusion that remained.

You were going to end yourself at God Valley.

The thought settled with a terrible calm, not despair but resolution. If you were gone, the damage would be contained. No servant blamed. No secret exposed. No innocent punished as an example. It would force even Garling to look directly at the cruelty of Mary Geoise, stripped of duty and language that made it palatable. It would confront him with what he was part of, with what had been done to you in the name of order.

You did not know what the world would look like afterward. You did not know what would become of him, or of the children, or of the rot threaded through everything the Celestial Dragons touched.

But better for there to be no child than for one to be handed over to the monster ruling Mary Geoise.

And if your ending could carve even the smallest hollow in his certainty, if it could engrain a sliver of understanding in a man taught never to question the structure he upheld, then it would be worth it.

The truth arrived cleanly, without panic. At this point, there was little use in mourning. Tonight, it would serve no one. Grief would only slow you, and you could not afford to be slowed, not when you needed Garling unsuspecting. He had not realized this entire journey had been a countdown.

You rested a hand against your stomach, fingers splayed protectively, breath slow and measured.

It would be okay.

Everything would be over soon.

The day was beautiful when you finally arrived at God Valley.

Summer had claimed the island, turning it into a sweep of lush green, forest thick as a living carpet wrapped around the two colossal mesas that split the land at its heart. Pale blue stretched overhead, clouds scattered thinly as if something brushed them aside. Sunlight warmed your skin. Wind moved through your hair. The air smelled of earth, spice, salt, and something older. Memory.

The dock settlement of Lowtide was modest, clean, and well-lived-in. Children ran past without fear. Vendors argued loudly over prices, laughter threading through the noise as naturally as breath. Ships filled the harbor and commerce flowed steadily, but it remained local to the archipelago. Plain adobe homes lined the roads, and even the king's residence was nothing more than a whitewashed house set slightly apart.

Deeper on the island lay a few more small towns and the king’s residence, though they weren’t visible from your vantage point.

Heads lifted as the schooner docked. Curiosity stirred at once in the small port village. Merchant ships came and went often enough, but a vessel like Garling’s drew attention without effort. Its presence was unmistakable. Varian, still nursing the aftermath of the earlier tussle, remained aboard as instructed, lifting a casual hand in farewell from the rail. There was only a single marine accompanying you now, more formality than necessity. You doubted Garling needed even that.

With Alder gone, and with the call you made to redirect Seraphina and Maria, there’d be no revolutionaries on this island.

You stepped down the gangplank and back into your hometown with your shoulders straight, your husband’s hand resting firm and steady at your shoulders.

The ground beneath your feet felt solid and achingly familiar. The breeze carried the hum of Lowtide, the creak of ropes, distant voices, and the soft rustle of leaves climbing the hills beyond.

You felt entirely at ease. Garling did not. The moment his boots touched the cobblestone, something in him tightened. Without his uniform, he looked far less conspicuous, but there was no disguising the refinement of his features, nor the quality of the clothes you wore together. He’d mostly kept to the white shirt and linen pants, but today he added an overcoat of sorts, as well as a bag containing whatever he deemed needed.

And, thank goodness, he wore his hair in a ponytail.

People watched as you passed, curious and unaccustomed to the sight.

Garling did not bother to hide his suspicion, even as he allowed you to guide him toward the main street. His gaze tracked movement, measured distances, counted exits. You doubted a single Marine vessel had ever docked here. Certainly not a Holy Knight.

You glanced at him, a teasing smile on your lips.

“What do you think?”

He frowned, then exhaled slowly.

“It’s quaint,” he admitted. “But hardly worthy of the title God Valley, my dear. The only thing godly here is you.”

You huffed softly, warmth blooming in your cheeks despite yourself. “Flattery aside, the island earns its name honestly,” you said, lifting a hand toward the twin mesas rising beyond the rooftops, their stone faces catching the afternoon sun. “The land is rich in resources, yes, but the name comes from an old tale that predates the village itself.”

You turned towards the light.

“They say the sun god came here long before there were docks or homes, when the island was still wild,” you continued. “He split the stone in two with his own hands and opened the valley between them. Not in anger, but in devotion. He fell in love here and chose to stay.”

Your voice softened. “That is why so many of the natives have red hair. According to the story, they are descended from him.”

Garling’s gaze drifted back to you, lingering on your hair. “Yours is the reddest of them all,” he noted, mild humor threading his tone. He lifted a hand to brush back a curl.

She smiled faintly. “My father had the same,” you said. “Though after he was more or less adopted into the D family, he dyed it. Striped it, actually. Said it matched better.”

Garling paused at that.

“The D family?” he asked, suddenly. “That is your father's family name?”

You glanced up, brow lifting at his interest. “Yes. And if you're about insult my family, I will never speak to you again. “

Garling laughed, squeezing your shoulder.

“It is not that, it is—” he paused, thoughtfully, “They are fortunate that you are my wife. That is all.”

You pursed your lips, unable to quite grasp his meaning. He didn’t clarify; rather, he pushed the conversation along.

“Are there many of them?”

You shrugged, easy and unbothered. “I would hardly know. My uncle is still at sea, last I heard. That leaves mostly the older folk, and maybe a few cousins. Farmers, fishermen, traders. They might remember my hair, but I doubt they remember me.”

Garling studied you a moment longer, as if weighing something he could not quite name. The curiosity lingered in his eyes. You turned away first, steering him deeper into the market before he could ask more.

Lowtide opened around you as you walked. Sun-warmed stone beneath your feet. The calls of vendors hawking fruit, fish, and bolts of cloth. Salt and citrus in the air. You pointed out familiar stalls, the baker who always burned the first batch, the old woman who sold charms made of driftwood and bone. Garling listened, reserved but attentive, his gaze sweeping the street even as he allowed himself to be guided.

“You look like you belong here,” he murmured.

That was when a voice cut through the hum of the market.

“Well, I will be damned. Is that you, Red?” A woman called out.

You turned just in time to see her staring at you in open disbelief. She had hair much like yours, a shade of copper red pulled back in a loose braid, sun-kissed skin, and the same sharp eyes you remembered from childhood.

“By the tides,” she breathed, then laughed. “It really is you.”

“Aoife,” you said, the name leaving you on a soft laugh of your own.

A familiar face emerged from the crowd, a friend close to your own age, her copper hair catching the light. You beamed before you could stop yourself.

She crossed the space between you in three quick steps and caught your shoulders, turning you this way and that as if to confirm you were solid. “Little lost Red,” she said brightly. “I thought you were a ghost story by now.”

You grinned. “Your fondness for gossip is going to be the end of you, Aoife.”

“The kind of stories being told would have fooled nearly half the island,” Aoife shot back, laughing. Then she finally spared Garling a glance. Just one. Her gaze flicked over him, assessing, appreciative, and cataloged him just as quickly as she turned back to you. “You vanish for years and come back dressed like this. So,” she added, jerking her chin toward him, “who’s the noble?”

You smiled, all innocence and mischief. “His name is Garling. And back off. He is not for you. I am giving him a tour.”

Aoife’s brows shot up. “Oh?”

“I am also,” you added gravely, “his guard.”

Garling blinked. Once. “Guard?”

“Yes,” you said solemnly. “I protect him from poor financial decisions, bad seafood, and anyone who thinks they can flirt their way into his pockets.”

Aoife laughed so hard she had to brace a hand against her hip. “A shame,” she said, giving Garling a second look now that she was actually paying attention. “He is rather cute.”

Garling stiffened at once. His expression cooled, displeasure settling in sharp and unmistakable lines. It was not the appraisal itself that bothered him, nor even the casual flirt. It was what you had failed to clarify.

He did not correct it. He refused to look petty over something so obvious. Still, his posture straightened, broad shoulders squaring as his presence pressed subtly into the space between you and Aoife, his attention fixing on her with thinly veiled offense.

He made a short, offended sound in the back of his throat, then inclined his head with stiff, impeccable courtesy. “I am standing right here.”

“And doing a fine job of it,” Aoife shot back cheerfully.

His eyes slid to you, sharp with meaning and unmistakably affronted. Not a single word of ownership spoken. He said nothing, jaw tightening just enough to be noticeable, choosing dignity over correction.

You, of course, ignored it.

“Be grateful,” you told Aoife lightly. “He only scowls like that when he is pleased.”

Garling’s gaze snapped back to you. “That is demonstrably untrue.”

Aoife grinned, delighted. “Oh, I like him. Are you keeping him?”

Garling inhaled slowly through his nose, the sound sharp and deliberate.

You smiled sweetly. “Do not even think about it. He has a sweetheart who paid me extra to guard his virtue.”

Aoife’s face fell. She crossed her arms with a dramatic huff. “Damn. Finally, see a decent-looking fellow, and he is already taken. Figures.”

Garling’s mouth opened despite himself. He shot you a sharp sideways look, irritation flashing bright in his eyes. “How diligent of you, guard.”

“Part of the strategy,” you replied lightly.

His lips pressed together as he looked forward again, composure settling back into place, though the faintest hint of a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth. He stood at your side with the look of a man enduring something strange and unexpectedly annoying.

“So, Red,” Aoife said, tilting her head, eyes sharp with curiosity. “Where have you been? Last I heard, you went off with your uncle to Hach—”

You cut her off smoothly, as if redirecting a well worn path. “Not anymore. I have been sailing around the world,” you said lightly. “Giving tours to nobles and disrupting them as needed.”

Aoife did not even blink. She nodded once, decisive. “That tracks. You always did like the water.”

Then she twisted at the waist and raised her voice without warning. “Balon, come look at this!”

A man near the docks froze mid-knot, the net slipping through his fingers as he stared. Further down the street, two women you vaguely recognized by their matching blonde hair and familiar smiles slowed, then turned fully toward you. Surprise flashed across their faces, followed quickly by warmth as recognition settled in. More heads turned, curiosity rippling outward. Several lingered openly on Garling, on the sword at his belt, on the way he stood like he owned the ground without meaning to.

“Red!”

You brightened at the sound, lifting a hand. More voices followed, laughter breaking out as recognition spread.

Names were called. Questions overlapped. Someone squeezed your arm. Another touched your shoulder, as if to reassure themselves you were real.

Garling was quickly absorbed into conversation with a couple of men, interested in his vessel. He spoke easily about his ship and the routes he had sailed, relaxed in a way you rarely saw with others. Aoife watched him for a moment too long before tugging you aside.

“So,” she murmured, eyes glittering as she leaned in close, “are you alright?” Her gaze flicked back to him again, openly appreciative. “And who is that, really?”

You smiled, unbothered. “As I said, he is a traveling noble. One I am contracted to guide.”

Aoife hummed. “A dangerous competent one, I imagine.”

“Very,” you said lightly. “And engaged. Best you stay well out of his way. He is a troublemaker.”

Aoife sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Tragic. Truly tragic.” She cast one last look over her shoulder. “All that face, all that sword, and not for the taking.”

You laughed under your breath.

“All right,” she relented, holding up two fingers. “I promise. I will behave. Mostly. Though the way he looks at you sometimes…” She trailed off, clearly deciding not to finish the thought.

She straightened and looped her arm through yours, her tone shifting to something more earnest. “So tell me, how long are you staying on God Valley?”

You shrugged, gaze dropping. “Not long.”

Her grip tightened at once. “You cannot just say that and expect me to accept it,” she said, pouting. “It has been years. You have to stay. And drop that strange accent you have now.”

“Accent?” you asked, genuinely surprised.

“Yes. You and your friend sound like ministers or royalty,” she said, giving you a pointed look.

You laughed softly. “We do?”

“Yes,” Aoife insisted. “So drop the act and go visit the D’s. They have been worried sick about you.”

Your smile softened, touched with something quieter. “They have?”

“Of course they have,” she said at once. Then her expression shifted, turning sly as she leaned closer. “And you know who else is worried.”

You glanced at her as her voice dropped.

She tipped her chin subtly toward you, lowering her voice further. “His mum said he has been trying to find you. Went to the Grand Line searching.”

Had Xebec been searching?

The words landed heavier than she seemed to realize, and you straightened at the information. You turned away just as Garling glanced in your direction, his attention snagging for a moment longer than it should have.

Your brows drew together. The sorrow rose fast and unbidden, tight in your chest, sharp enough that you had to clear your throat and sniff, forcing it back before it could spill over. You pressed your lips together, steadying yourself, and took a breath that felt far too thin.

“That is kind of him,” you said at last, quieter than before. “If he comes again, let him know I am fine. I will leave a note.”

Aoife did not answer right away. She studied you instead, the humor fading as a trace of wariness crept into her eyes. “Red,” she said gently, “is everything all right?”

You nodded quickly and turned, the motion practiced.

“I am worried for one of the sailors aboard our ship. Is the O’Connor Family still offering medical services?”

She nodded. “Yes, though it’s Barry instead of his father. He even left for a couple of years to study medicine properly. I can send him over when I get back to my bar in an hour.”

“That would be wonderful! I cannot believe how much I have missed! What about Liam, Aisling, Sorcha, and Callum?”

“All well, and all in the same trade as their parents. Most single and mingling.”

“How is Cormac?” you asked. “Still an acceptable ruler?” The question was light enough to pass as casual.

The shift worked. Aoife’s face brightened at once. “Oh, he retired,” she said, laughing softly. “Big change in politics. The island decided to rotate the crown every five years after the last mess.”

She waved a hand as if dismissing the whole ordeal. “Rían is ruling now.”

“The baker?” You laughed despite yourself.

“The very same,” Aoife said, pleased. Then her smile shifted into something coaxing and familiar. “You should stay. Run next time. Everyone still loves your parents. And if you are even half as sharp as I remember…”

She let the thought trail off, her eyes bright with expectation, as if leaving the words unfinished might make them easier to accept.

The look she gave you was the same one she had always worn when trouble was near. Hopeful. Persuasive. The kind that made big decisions feel small and inevitable, as though all you had to do was stay and everything would quietly fall back into place. It tugged at something old in your chest, a life you had once believed was behind you for good.

A hand landed suddenly on your shoulder.

You startled, breath catching, only to find Garling beside you, expression carefully neutral. He inclined his head toward Aoife with polite composure, then looked back to you.

“I find myself suddenly starving,” he said gravely. “An alarming development. We should address it immediately.”

Aoife blinked, then laughed. “Of course. Go to Potria’s, round the bend, she’s got an incredible sandwich!”

You took the excuse gratefully. “Thank you, Aoife,” you said, squeezing her hand once before stepping away.

As you and Garling walked on, the noise of the market softened behind you, voices and laughter fading into a distant hum. He kept his pace measured, close enough that his presence felt deliberate, as though he were anchoring himself to you.

“The people here,” he said thoughtfully, “I have never gone out of my way to converse with those of the lower world, but they seem… respectable.”

You nodded. “Friends is the word you are searching for, Garling. They are good people. And given the chance, they would probably like to be your friend too.”

He gave a short laugh. “They tolerate me for your sake,” he said. Then his tone shifted, quieter. “You have been gone for years, yet they remember you. They still care for you.”

You looked away at that, masking the ache it stirred as you returned greetings from passersby who stopped just long enough to confirm you were real. Each smile felt like a small weight added to your chest.

After a moment, Garling spoke again, his voice low. “I am sorry,” he said. “For bringing you here. I did not realize how difficult it would be for you to see them.”

You shook your head, unwilling to open that door. The ache was still too close to the surface.

“It is never a mistake to see one’s friends, or to help them,” you said gently. “I am glad we came. It let me appreciate my home properly. One last time.”

He considered that in silence as you walked.

“I did not expect your friends to be so… young,” he said at last. “That Aoife woman looked barely past girlhood.”

You smirked, catching the opening to change the subject.

“Does it ever embarrass you,” you asked sweetly, “that you are an old man who married a woman far too young for him? How perverted of you.”

He stopped short.

Then he turned to you, scandalized and affronted in equal measure, as if the very suggestion were a direct assault on both his dignity and his pride.

You did not give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, you turned to a nearby stand and ordered two steamed buns, perfectly calm, leaving him behind you to stew in the injury while the vendor wrapped them in paper.

Garling did recover from the jibe, but he refused, point-blank, to eat the bun.

He accepted it only long enough to hold it between two fingers, regarding the soft steam rising from it as if it were a personal affront. “I will not be bribed into forgiveness with street food,” he said stiffly, setting it aside the moment you were not looking.

You laughed and bit into yours instead, the warmth grounding you as you tugged him along once more. Together you wove through the streets of Lowtide, past stalls you remembered by scent rather than sight, past familiar corners that felt smaller than you recalled and yet achingly the same. The town breathed around you, unbothered by titles or histories, content simply to exist.

Gradually, the edge of Garling’s offense dulled. He stopped bristling at every glance. His shoulders eased. He even allowed himself to comment, dryly, on the inefficiency of the market layout and the reckless optimism of fishermen who trusted weather more than log poses. It was progress.

Still, he could not quite let it go.

“I am not old,” he informed you at last, for what had to be the third time. “Nor am I perverted. That particular distinction belongs far more appropriately to Sommers.”

You hummed noncommittally, entirely too pleased with yourself.

“And I object,” he continued, clearly warming to the argument, “to the implication that I married beneath myself in age or sensibility. I married you because you are exceptional. That is not perversion. That is discernment.”

You glanced at him, amused. “You're sounding defensive. Old.”

“I sound correct,” he snapped, then paused, catching the glint in your eye. His tone softened despite himself. “And for the record, I have never once behaved improperly towards an underage girl. The idea is vile.”

“Yes, how proper of a man who kidnapped me,” you said mildly.

He huffed, clearly offended on principle, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He turned his head away as if inspecting a storefront, dignity intact, though you were almost certain you heard him mutter, “And I would do it again.”

You smiled to yourself.

By the time you reached the quieter streets near the edge of town, the slight had been waved away entirely, folded up and tucked somewhere he would no doubt revisit later in private indignation. His stride had relaxed again, his attention returning to you rather than his wounded pride.

At the edge of Lowtide, you did not slow.

The cobblestone thinned and gave way to packed earth, to a narrow, worn trail cutting through trampled grass and low brush. It was not marked. It was simply there, familiar.

Garling hesitated when you stepped onto it, then followed, confusion knitting his brow.

“What is this?” he asked.

You glanced back at him over your shoulder. “The path to my old home.”

He looked from you to the narrow trail ahead, then back to you, a slow grin tugging at his mouth. “Do not stop on my account.”

You led him onward.

The path wound along the cliffs, narrow and uneven, the grass pressed flat by generations of passing feet. The air here was heavy with salt, stronger than in town, sharp enough to taste.

On one side of the cliffs, the water lay calm, almost gentle. Waves rolled in slow, patient rhythms, polishing the beaches smooth over time. Pale sand curved in quiet arcs, dotted with shells and driftwood bleached by the sun. It was the sort of shoreline that invited bare feet and long afternoons.

On the other side, the sea was something else entirely.

Jagged stone jutted upward like broken teeth, and the water churned violently around them. Currents twisted and collided, dragging everything downward into dark, restless spirals. The sound there was louder, angrier. Water struck rock with relentless force, foam flashing white before being swallowed again.

Garling slowed, eyes narrowing as he took it in.

You followed his gaze. “My parents said anything caught in that pull is never seen again,” you said quietly. “Boats, animals, debris. It does not matter how strong it is. The sea takes it.”

He studied the violent water for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “And you grew up beside this.”

You nodded. “My father used to say I never needed to fear a danger I knew how to avoid,” you said quietly. “He said I was smart, and that the most dangerous thing about me was myself.” You let out a soft breath, the sound thin in the salt air.

Garling did not answer at once. His gaze remained fixed on the water below, on the way it tore at the rocks with tireless patience. Then his hand closed around yours, firm and certain, and he drew you closer, placing himself between you and the churning waves as if by instinct alone.

“The sea itself is dangerous,” he said at last, “but a fisherman still needs to fish. Everyone must take some risk at some point.”

You glanced at him as he continued to look outward, eyes following the violent pull of the current.

“If you had never left this place, you might be comfortable,” he went on, his voice low and thoughtful. “But would you have ever truly lived? Some risks are worth the danger.”

The wind tugged at your clothes. The sea roared on below, white and furious, and you found yourself staring down into it without blinking, as if daring it to answer him.

Then he turned, giving your hand a gentle tug. “Come,” he said. “I wish to see your house.”

You blinked and looked back at him, then nodded, turning with him once more.

The path curved onward, hugging the cliff’s edge, and you continued together, the calm sea stretching peacefully along one side while the hungry water raged below the other, as though the land itself had been split cleanly between mercy and something far less forgiving.

After a few more minutes, the ground leveled and the wind softened, the roar of the sea fading into something distant and dull. The path thinned, then opened into a small clearing set back from the cliffs, sheltered just enough to feel deliberate. There, waiting as if it had never quite accepted being left behind, stood a house half swallowed by vines and wildflowers.

The roof sagged under the weight of years, its beams bowed and uneven. Whatever paint had once coated the walls had long since peeled away, leaving bare wood bleached pale by sun and salt, smoothed by wind until it looked almost soft. The windows were dark, glass clouded with age, their frames tangled with creeping ivy that pressed close as though trying to climb inside.

The garden, however, had refused to die.

It spilled outward in every direction, untamed and vivid. Bright blossoms crowded the narrow paths, wildflowers blooming where careful rows once must have been. Lavender tangled with thorned roses, herbs gone feral filled the air with familiar scents, and tall grasses swayed lazily, alive with insects and birdsong. It was chaos, but the kind born of care long remembered rather than neglect.

You slowed to a stop at the edge of the clearing, your hand tightening briefly around Garling’s before easing.

“Home,” you said simply.

You glanced at the sagging roof, the riot of color pressing in around it, the place caught somewhere between ruin and remembrance. “Not exactly a grand estate,” you added, a faint smile touching your lips, “but a beloved home nonetheless.”

You looked up at Garling. His expression had settled into careful neutrality, the kind he wore when he was thinking far more than he wished to reveal.

“And what do you think?” you asked.

He did not answer right away.

His gaze moved slowly over the house, the bowed roofline, the walls stripped bare by weather and years. He studied the garden next, the way it had overtaken the paths and windows, how life had insisted on staying even after the people had gone. His brow knit faintly.

At last, he spoke.

“I think this is a good place to tell you a secret,” he said.

You turned in surprise. “A secret?”

“A place like this has a bit of magic to it,” he replied calmly, as though stating something obvious. “Do you not agree?”

Before you could answer, he shrugged the bag from his shoulder and set it carefully on the ground, as if the earth itself deserved consideration. Next came his jacket. He folded it with deliberate care and laid it out over the grass, smoothing it once with his palm. Without the heavy layers, he looked almost disarmingly ordinary in his white shirt, sleeves rolled back, the breeze catching the fabric lightly.

“Sit.”

You hesitated. “Here?”

“Sit, my love.”

Something in his voice brooked no argument, but it was gentle rather than commanding. You lowered yourself onto the jacket, the grass cool beneath you, the wildflowers brushing your skirts. He watched you for a moment, expression unreadable, then knelt and opened the bag.

From within, he drew out the familiar book, worn at the edges, its cover softened by handling. He held it carefully, almost reverently, before offering it to you.

You stared at the book, then up at him, searching his face for explanation, for some hint that this was a jest.

“Eyre-Jane? Did you?”

“I finished it,” he said quietly. “Last night.”

He settled across from you, close enough that the warmth of him reached you despite the wind combing through the grass. For a moment, he said nothing more, simply holding the book between his hands as if it were something fragile. Then his gaze flicked briefly toward the house behind you, the sagging roof and riot of flowers reclaiming it.

“I think it is fitting to give it to you here,” he continued.

You swallowed, fingers brushing the worn edge of the cover as if to reassure yourself it was real. “Did you like it?” you asked softly.

He exhaled, slow and thoughtful, his gaze dropping to the book before lifting to meet yours again. “Yes,” he said. “More than I expected. The author is very good, though I struggled to understand certain decisions.”

You tilted your head, watching him closely. “Go on.”

He paused, choosing his words with care. His mouth twitched faintly. “I was accustomed to stories where desire is something to be conquered, not mutually found. Love stories and romance baffled me. Before we met, I had little notions of why anyone believed in them, but subsequently have repented.”

He looked at you meaningfully.

“I found that notion irritating at first,” he admitted. “Then unsettling. And then,” he said, quieter now, “difficult to dismiss.”

The wind stirred the grass around you, petals shifting softly in the garden’s wild embrace, and for a moment the ruined house behind you felt less like a relic and more like a witness.

“But I dislike how Eyre-Jane left Rochest,” Garling said first, eyes still on the horizon. “And only reunites after his fortune and power are gone and hers is secured. I find the wasted time unbearably tragic.”

You had the distinct sense that the conversation had slipped sideways into something else entirely. Not about the book anymore.

You turned toward him.

“Tragic? It was inevitable,” you asked. “Rochest was too afraid to tell the truth. Because of that, he humiliated her. He hurt her. Even so, she eventually returned to him.”

“Eventually,” Garling said darkly. “An entire life wasted for what? If her goal was autonomy, dignity, and respect—” He paused, as if selecting each word with care. “None of those are required a departure. They require negotiation. Time. A willingness to endure discomfort while change takes place.”

You considered that.

“So you think her leaving was an excuse?”

“I think it was a last resort employed prematurely,” he replied. “She abandoned him. Failed to trust him, have faith in him.”

You watched his profile as he spoke. How carefully he avoided your eyes.

“Rochest did love her,” you said. “But he believed that love gave him the right to decide for her. To manage her life so she would never have to suffer.”

Garling’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“He thought he was protecting her,” you went on. “From hardship. From danger. From the world as it is. And in doing so, he stopped seeing her as a person with her own will.”

“That is an interpretation,” Garling said after a moment. “Not an objective truth.”

You looked at him then.

“I think you’ve asked the wrong question.”

His throat bobbed.

“The wrong question?”

You tilted your head, considering, and caught your lower lip briefly between your teeth.

“What if Rochest was being asked to do something impossible?” you said. “To admit that he was the one who needed to change and could not. What then?”

Garling's shoulders went still.

You smiled, faint and sad, answering what he already knew.

“She did not believe he would change, and she had to protect herself.”

“I believe he would have,” he said at once. “He already was. Slowly, perhaps. Imperfectly. But love compels growth.”

“Love does not guarantee it,” you said. “And it does not obligate her to stay and wait while he decides whether her autonomy is convenient.”

He frowned, a crease forming between his brows.

“If every flawed expression of care justifies abandonment,” he said, “then intimacy becomes impossible. People are not corrected in isolation.”

“And yet,” you replied, “people are not obligated to remain in situations where their agency is treated as negotiable.”

“That assumes malice,” Garling said. “Or arrogance. When it may simply be fear.”

“Fear still causes harm,” you said. “Intent does not undo consequence.”

The wind stirred the leaves around you, carrying the moment forward whether either of you wished it to or not.

“She chose despair over endurance,” he said quietly.

“No,” you said, just as quietly. “She chose herself over staying somewhere she had to constantly justify her right to be true to herself.”

Silence stretched.

“She did not believe he would ever fully release control,” you added. “And she may have been right.”

Garling exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.

“Love,” he said at last, “is not proven by walking away at the first irreconcilable difference. It is proven by enduring discomfort for the sake of growth.”

“And love,” you answered, “is not proven by asking someone to shrink so you do not have to confront your own fear of losing them.”

That landed.

You could feel it in the way his shoulders stilled.

“She left because staying required her to surrender something essential,” you said gently.

The silence that followed your last words drew taut between you, thin as wire.

Garling did not look at you. His gaze stayed fixed on the distance, jaw set, as though the horizon might offer an answer he refused to ask aloud. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before.

“Is that what you felt she was doing?” He asked quietly. You turned only slightly. He drew a slow breath through his nose.

“Leaving,” he said. “Convinced it was the reasonable thing?”

You regarded him for a moment.

“You’re arguing with a fictional woman’s decision,” you said mildly.

The pause that followed told you enough.

“I ask,” he said at last, “because I would like to know whether this conversation is academic… or preparatory. Fictional, or applicable.”

You lifted a brow.

“It is a story,” you replied lightly. He leaned in then, catching your hand before you could withdraw it, his grip firm.

“Is it?” he asked. His garnet eyes narrowed, intent sharpening. “Or are you being deliberately vague about my concerns?”

He exhaled, slow and measured.

“I’m asking you plainly whether you intend to leave.”

There was no mistake left in the question now. Only his fear laid carefully bare. You studied him long enough that he visibly braced himself.

Then you lifted your hand and set it lightly against his chest, directly over his heart.

“If I were,” you asked quietly, “would I bother with a book review and ruin the surprise?”

A breath escaped him, half a huff, half a laugh. He covered your hand with his own, fingers tightening just slightly.

“You are the cleverest woman I know,” he said, his voice low and strained. “And the way you twist my thoughts like this drives me mad. I never know what you’re thinking.” His grip tightened slightly. “I want to believe—truly—that my love is enough. But if I cannot be what you need—”

His voice faltered. You let the silence stretch before answering.

“And if that were true?” you asked quietly.

His breath caught.

You leaned in, close enough that your foreheads nearly touched. The moment settled between you, like tar. Before he could answer, before he could decide whether he wanted to, you closed the distance and kissed him. When you pulled back, his eyes were dark, searching.

“Do you not love me?” he asked.

You smiled faintly. “I do. But that isn’t the right question, is it?”

He didn’t have time to ask before you took his hand and drew him with you, into the tall grass, into the quiet of the meadow. The air was warm and green, the world hushed in a way it had not been in a long time.

He hovered over you for a breath, uncertain, and you reached up, fingers winding into his ponytail, drawing him down. When your lips met his again, it was unhurried romance.

He stiffened at first, caught by surprise, then softened, yielding into the kiss. His hands found you as though he had been waiting for permission all along, as though the simple certainty of the moment had finally answered something in him. They curled around you, grounding, almost reverent, as if reminding himself you were still there—still his.

You broke away just long enough to breathe.

“All my heart is yours, sir,” you said softly, “it belongs to you; and with you it would remain, were fate to exile the rest of me from your presence forev—” You were cut off as he nudged in, connecting to kiss again.

For a while, you kissed, and it was only when you yanked on his shirt that he finally paused.

His broad shoulders lifted as he slipped out of the loose white shirt, letting it fall into the grass behind him. The tension in him eased as the fabric left his frame, as though shedding more than just clothing. He paused there for a moment, bare to the air, watching you as though grounding himself in the sight.

Then he knelt over you, his movements unhurried. His hands went to his belt, loosening it with practiced ease before letting it fall slack. One by one, he worked the fastenings of his trousers, the motion unforced, almost thoughtful, until the fabric relaxed and followed suit.

You made a small sound without meaning to.

He stilled at that, glancing up at you, something warmer flickering across his expression. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at you, taking you in. Then, with the faintest hint of a smile, he straightened slightly, muscles flexing, as if asking for permission instead of assuming.

Your answering smile came easily, bright and unguarded. At the sight of it, something in him finally relaxed.

Soon enough, his trousers were half undone, the motion unhurried, followed by the soft rustle of your dress as it was pulled up over your shoulders. Everything else fell away with it.

You met each other in the space between breaths, instinct drawing you together as naturally as puzzle pieces finding their correct place.

“Garling—Please!”

He found you ready for him, though there was always that tug of resistance where your body protested against his size, catching against your softness. But where at the beginning of your marriage he’d have moved to force himself in, now he knew better. His hand moved to a pretty breast, carefully twisting a nipple, and he lowered his mouth to the other to give and almost mean suck.

You cried out and—-perfect, he tilted his hips and slid in.

He gave a few exploratory thrusts to ensure you were not in discomfort or pain, but when you wiggled and sighed, he grunted and pushed forward. Then he could pick up the pace, but kept vigilant, watching your reactions for the ones he knew marked your enjoyment, as he had since the night he had mindlessly hurt you. He guided your hips, caressed familiar flesh, and angled in that way he knew had you seeing stars.

“Almost—there—” he said, a bead of sweat curling down his face.

It was so hard for him to be patient; all the ability he had built to enjoy a long climax slowly had been lost over the months of separation. He could barely stop from coming just from feeling your velveteen walls, the heat of your perfect body wrapped around him. He wanted to live inside these moments,

You wrapped your arms around his neck and closed your eyes, rocking against him as he found the rhythm that made you gasp, that drew the sound from you before you could stop it. The one that pushed every other thought aside until there was only him and the way he held you there.

He wanted to remember this. The way you moved against him. The way your breath caught. The way you clung to him as though nothing else mattered. He wanted to fix it in his mind so completely that doubt would have no place to return to.

He wanted you to remember, too, the way he made you feel complete.

He wanted to engrain the memory of how thoroughly he pleased you, so that any discomfort would be overwritten. So that when you thought back to this old home, to God Valley itself, you would never be able to separate it from the pleasure he orchestrated into your system. He needed to engrave in you the same sentiment you’d sparked in him that first moment you sassed him in Pangaea. To share that vexing, thrilling wildfire of love that surpassed any emotion on this planet.

And so you continued to carefully explore you, worshiping all flesh within reach, his fingers darting down to circle where you were most sensitive.

He didn’t close his eyes, held back his desire to pound you into the dirt, the selfish need to see his seed spill out of you. All for a few more moments of letting you chase that boundless ecstasy till it rewired your brain. He watched for tears and enjoyed your tightness as best he could while refraining from giving in.

And when you arched and made that soft, broken sound, when your body trembled and held him close, he answered with a helpless sound of his own and followed, collapsing down to his elbows above you, catching himself just in time. His weight pressed close, warm and real, as his breath slowly steadied.

You both stayed like that for a long time, tangled in grass and sunlight, wrapped in the visage of peace. He touched you as though this moment might seal his claim. As though love, if held tightly enough, could be enough to keep everything else at bay.

And you let him believe it, if just for the moment.

You returned to Garling’s ship afterward, just as evening approached, to clean up.

When you stepped back onto the deck from the cabin, skin faintly scented with soap and salt, you saw that Varian had come out as well. He was seated near the gangplank, posture far straighter than his injuries warranted. One leg was bound tight in a splint, his weight carefully balanced on crutches that looked far too flimsy to be trusted. He inclined his head when he noticed you, polite as ever, but there was a softness in his expression that had not been there before.

Beside him stood a familiar shock of ginger-blonde hair, now threaded heavily with white.

“Red, well, I’ll be a chicken,” the man said, giving you a crooked grin as he finished packing away his tools. “Aoife said it was you, girly, but I wasn’t about to take her word for it. How are you, lass?”

“Rorry!” You smiled brightly, relief and fondness breaking through at once. “I did not think you were still working. I am well. How is your family?”

“Barry’s too shy to come see ya,” he said frankly, snapping his kit shut. “But you know he always said if you ever came back, he’d marry you on the spot.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, even as Varian visibly blanched beside him.

“Do this man a kindness,” Rorry added cheerfully. “Marry my poor lad.”

“Poor Barry,” you said gently, shaking your head. “He will have to find another. I am already spoken for, I am afraid.”

Varian looked visibly relieved.

Rorry hummed, accepting that easily enough. “Aye, well. I’ll go break his heart clean, then.” His expression softened, gaze searching your face. “At least tell an old man you’re being treated right. After Hachinosu… we all thought you were gone for good.”

Your smile lingered, but it dimmed at the edges, sadness settling quietly beneath it.

“Enough of me,” you said gently. “How is Varian?”

You stepped closer as you spoke, damp scarlet hair slipping over your shoulders while your gaze traced the splint along his leg.

“The man is fine, if a bit jittery,” Rorry said with a grin. “I thought sailors were meant to be tough as iron, but this one didn’t even cry out when I set the bone. Not a drop of alcohol to dull it either.” He shook his head, impressed. “Said it wasn’t a sin to take a few painkillers, at least.”

You looked to Varian, brows knitting slightly. “You should take the medicine,” you told him. “Do not punish yourself any further.”

“My lady,” he said, voice steady despite the flush creeping into his cheeks. “I… thank you. For bringing the doctor. I admit, I was unsure I would receive proper treatment until we returned.”

You smiled and dipped your head in return. “Of course, I would help you. You have been a faithful servant this entire time.”

He let out a quiet huff, something between a laugh and a weary exhale. “The man was thorough to an irritating degree,” he said, then sobered. “Still. I am grateful. Truly. For your kindness. You did not have to trouble yourself.”

“I did,” you said simply. “You work too hard. Do not sell what you do short. I would never allow you to be punished over an injury, especially one you received protecting me.”

Color rose more fully in his face at that, and he bowed more sharply than before, careful of his balance.

“Thank you, my lady,” Varian said, careful and earnest. “I will… I will find a way to repay this generosity.”

“Get better soon,” you replied softly. “That will be enough.”

For a heartbeat, the moment lingered, and the Rorry broke it with a bark of laughter.

“Listen to the pair of ya,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Soundin’ like you’re at court instead of a dock. ‘My lady,’ ‘your generosity’—you’d think I’d stitched him back together with gold thread.”

You laughed despite yourself, and even Varian’s mouth twitched, betraying him.

“Aye,” Rorry went on, wagging a finger between you. “Careful, Red. Keep talking like that and folk will start bowing every time you sneeze.”

He pressed a small bundle into Varian’s hands, the leather pouch heavy with glass vials and folded paper. “Medicine,” he said firmly. “Painkillers. Something to keep the swelling down. Instructions are inside. Follow them.”

Varian nodded, solemn. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Rorry said, already turning away. “And don’t be creative about it.”

With that, he slung his kit over his shoulder and headed down the gangplank, boots thudding, whistling as though he hadn’t just scolded a grown man like a stubborn child. He raised a hand in farewell without looking back, and then he was gone.

Varian shifted, gaze dropping to the pouch in his hands. “My lady,” he said, lowering his voice, “I should tell you… Servants of the Holy Land do not take medicine. It is considered above our station. Pain is… expected.”

You frowned, already reaching for him. “That is ridiculous.”

“It is the rule,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes.

You took the pouch from his hands and tucked it neatly into the pocket of his coat, fingers lingering just long enough to make your point. “Then it will be our secret,” you said lightly. “Between you and me. I will not have you suffering.”

He inhaled sharply, startled, then nodded once. “As you wish,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

The cabin door opened behind you then, and Garling stepped out onto the deck, already scanning for you. His expression eased the moment he saw you, relief flickering across his face before he looked to Varian and took in the splint.

“Good,” he said. “You were patched properly?”

“Yes, sir,” Varian replied.

Garling’s hand settled on your back. “We are heading into the village,” he continued. “We will eat there. Likely to stay the night at that inn and bar.”

Varian inclined his head. “Understood.”

Garling gave him a final assessing look, satisfied, then guided you toward the gangplank without another word, already eager to be moving, to have you close and fed and safely away from the sea air.

“Safe travels, then,” Varian said after you. “Both of you.”

You turned back long enough to smile at him, a small, sincere thing, and then followed Garling down, the ship creaking softly behind you as if watching you go.

The walk back to the village was slower than before, the path lit by lanterns that spilled soft gold across the packed earth. Garling stayed close at your side, his hand warm and possessive at the small of your back, guiding you more than you truly needed.

“You look far too pleased,” he said at last. “What thought has you grinning so mischievously?”

You glanced up at him, feigning innocence. “Am I?”

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “And Varian looked as though you’d struck him.”

You laughed. “I did nothing of the sort.”

“You make him uncomfortable,” he said mildly. “Being kind. Giving him medicine.” His tone turned faintly amused. “Do not be so generous. I will grow jealous.”

“That sounds disastrous,” you said. “How ever will you recover?”

“I will endure,” he replied solemnly. “With much complaining.”

Then your stomach betrayed you, a soft but unmistakable sound breaking the banter.

He stopped, gaze dropping at once, the teasing in his expression easing into something warmer.

“That,” he said gently, “is our sign. You have been walking all day without a proper meal. And you are eating for two.”

His hand tightened just slightly at your back, already guiding you forward again, as though the matter had been decided long before you could argue it.

“I did eat,” you protested.

“You picked at your bun,” he corrected. “You steal bites and call it a meal. Tonight, you will sit, and you will be fed.” His mouth curved faintly. “Otherwise, I will be forced to inform your friends that you are my lady wife, are carrying my heir, and just rode on my noble cock, moaning like a whore.”

You gasped, scandalized, spinning toward him. “You would not.”

“I absolutely would,” he replied, utterly unrepentant. “They would never let you hear the end of it. Dangerous things, lies are.”

Heat rushed to your face as you opened your mouth to protest, already knowing you had lost. He only smiled, satisfied, steering you onward toward the glow of the village lights and the promise of food you would not be permitted to escape.

Aoife’s bar was already glowing when you arrived, light spilling out into the street along with music and laughter. The door swung open to a cheer that startled you despite yourself. It was not raucous, not quite, but it was warm. Familiar. Nearly everyone in town had gathered, faces flushed, mugs raised, bodies pressed close in celebration that pretended to be casual and failed charmingly at it.

“Welcome home, Red!” someone called.

Aoife herself swept forward and pulled you into a brief, fierce embrace that smelled of ale and herbs. “Sit,” she commanded. “Eat. Drink. You look thin.”

Garling snorted quietly at your side.

You became aware, then, of the others. The way a few figures lingered at the edges, hands never far from their coats. The marine was there, blending poorly into the crowd despite his efforts, watching without watching.

It was a welcome home, yes.

Garling guided you to a seat, pressed a plate into your hands before you could object, and watched until you took the first bite. Only then did he relax, just a fraction, lifting his own mug in acknowledgment of the room.

Laughter rose around you as the tavern filled, music swelling warm and bright, the air thick with smoke and spice and familiarity. For a little while, the world narrowed to clinking cups, friendly shouts, and the comforting press of people who knew you well enough to welcome you back without questions.

Aoife appeared at your elbow with a grin and two cups already in hand. “Drinks,” she announced brightly. “You both look like you’ve earned them.”

Garling barely spared the cups a glance before shaking his head. “No.”

Aoife blinked. “For both of you?”

“For both of us,” he confirmed, tone even.

She planted a hand on her hip. “Well. Aren’t you a delight?”

You laughed softly. “He’s right,” you said, lifting your hands in mild surrender. “I shouldn’t. I am his companion, after all. His guide.”

Aoife snorted, unimpressed.

Garling looked quietly pleased with himself—right up until you added, sweet as honey, “But he absolutely should.”

He turned toward you, brows lifting. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” you said lightly. “You’re the one who dragged me here. The least you could do is be nice to my friends.”

A ripple of amusement passed through the nearby tables. Aoife’s grin sharpened, the way it always did when she scented blood in the water.

“Careful, noble,” she said, already reaching for the bottles. “You’re starting to sound too good for us.”

That did it.

Garling straightened a fraction, the faintest tension touching his shoulders. Not anger, but pride, pricked just enough to be foolish. He glanced around, taking in the watching faces, the barely concealed smiles.

“I did not mean—” he began, then hesitated, clearly realizing how it sounded.

“Mm,” Aoife hummed, pouring. “Of course not. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking the great nobleman couldn’t handle a local drink.”

A few chuckles followed. Nothing cruel. Just enough.

You saw it then, the trap closing gently around him. He didn’t know how to refuse without sounding dismissive. Didn’t know how to deflect without seeming to look down on them. And the room knew it.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“…Very well,” he said at last, with the air of someone accepting a challenge he absolutely did not need to accept. “One.”

Aoife’s eyes gleamed.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, sliding the cups forward. “We’ll be gentle.”

“That is hardly the issue,” Garling replied coolly, “I fear my guide will give me the slip if I look away for even half a second.”

That only earned him laughter from half the room.

“Oh?” someone called. “Too scared for our liquor now?”

You tilted your head, studying him with open curiosity. “Can you even get drunk?”

He hesitated just long enough to be telling. “Yes,” he admitted. “It simply takes… effort. And I avoid it in Mary Geoise.”

“And elsewhere?” you pressed.

His mouth twitched. “Elsewhere, I am told I become… affectionate.”

Aoife snorted. “He’s a flirty drunk? God save me.”

He lifted his chin slightly, confidence slipping into his tone. “In any case, it is impossible to outdrink me.”

That was all the invitation Aoife needed.

She slid two cups onto the table with a wicked glint in her eye. One was clear. The other smelled sharp enough to sting.

“Prove it,” she said brightly.

Garling lifted his cup and drank—then froze.

The silence that followed was brief but telling. You watched realization dawn in his eyes, slow and incredulous. The color drained from his face in a way that was deeply satisfying.

“…That,” he said carefully, “is stronger than anticipated.”

Laughter burst from the tables around you.

Aoife leaned closer to you, stage-whispering, “God Valley special. Thought it’d suit him.”

Garling cleared his throat and set the cup down with exaggerated care, as if nothing at all had happened.

You smiled immediately. You knew that look.

“Is it bad?” you asked lightly. “You do not like my hometown’s wine?”

A couple of people nearby snorted. Someone muttered something about “rich assholes.”

Garling straightened just a bit, pride pricked. “I did not say that.”

“Mm,” you said. “You hesitated.”

That did it.

He lifted the cup again and took another drink, longer this time. A cheer went up around the table.

“There we go!”

“See, he’s fine!”

Garling lowered the cup, blinked once, then twice. “Perfectly fine,” he said, a touch too earnestly.

You tilted your head. “You’re standing a little closer.”

“Am I?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

He was. His shoulder brushed yours. Then his arm settled around your waist, casual and unthinking, as if it had always been there.

Someone laughed behind you. “That didn’t take long.”

Garling turned his head toward you, expression softer now, eyes warmer. “You are very pretty,” he said, as if this were a simple observation. “Have you always been this distracting?”

“You tell me,” you replied, casually.

He huffed a laugh—an actual laugh, not the restrained sort—and took another sip when someone nudged the cup back into his hand.

“You know,” he added, leaning in a little too close, “I was told this place was dangerous.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said seriously. “But I assumed they meant the cliffs. Or the boats.”

His gaze drifted back to your face, lingering. “Not you.”

You raised a brow. “You certainly weren’t lying. How bold of you.”

“You are so pretty,” he said, immediately contradicting himself by tightening his arm around you. “I need to marry you again.”

The room howled with laughter.

“Don’t let Barry hear?”

“Good on you! Hey, Red, do it! Take his money and his heart!”

Someone clapped him on the back. “That’s the drink talking, noble.”

He glanced at his cup, then at you. “It is talking quite a lot.”

Another drink appeared in his hand. He accepted it without question. You kept smiling, pushing the drink back into his hand despite his protest.

“Don’t worry, Garling. I am here.”

And he’d drink again.

By the time he finished a bottle, his words had gone soft around the edges, his posture loose, his focus entirely on you.

“If I fall over,” he said softly, in your ear, “I expect you to catch me.”

You smiled. “Of course.”

“Good,” he said, pleased. “Are we married again yet?”

You laughed softly, placing a steadying hand against his chest. “Careful,” you murmured. “You’re supposed to be playing along.”

“Am I failing?” he asked, eyes dark with amusement, voice already a little too warm.

“Terribly,” you said, smiling. “But if you behave, I might reward you.”

His brows lifted, interest sharpening instantly. “Is that so?”

You leaned in just enough for him to feel the shift, your voice dropping as your hand slid lower, lingering with intent rather than pressure. “Remember,” you whispered, “I’m your guard tonight. Drink, behave, and let me take care of you. If you manage that… I might be very generous later.”

His breath hitched, shoulders squaring as he fought to regain composure.

Aoife wandered past just then, eyeing him with open amusement. “Saints preserve us,” she muttered. “Your friend must be made of iron. That bottle would’ve flattened half the dock by now.”

Garling swallowed, visibly collecting himself, and gave a solemn nod as if accepting a sacred duty.

“I’m not drunk,” he said seriously. “I will… endeavor to behave.”

The way he said it—earnest, a little unsteady, with far too much concentration behind the words—made it painfully obvious to everyone watching that he was absolutely sloshed.

By the time you and Aoife managed to get him up the stairs and into one of the quieter rooms at the inn, his steps had gone careful and overthought, like someone trying very hard not to sway. He accepted help only after considerable negotiation, insisting he was perfectly capable while leaning entirely into your shoulder.

Aoife shut the door behind you and folded her arms, studying him with open amusement.

“So,” she said, glancing between the two of you. “What now? Do you finally get to drink?”

You adjusted your grip on Garling, who had immediately latched on again as if you were the only solid thing in the room. “I was thinking of going for a walk,” you said lightly. “Go visit my old home. Clear my head. Could you check on him in a bit?”

Aoife raised a brow. “You sure?”

You nodded. “He just needs to sleep it off. I should check on the sailor from his ship—he broke his leg and could probably use a hand.”

Aoife studied you for a moment, then smirked knowingly. “All right,” she said. “I’ll make sure he hasn’t picked a fight with the furniture.”

With that, she slipped out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

The sound seemed to echo.

Garling turned toward you at once, hands tightening in the fabric of your sleeves as if he’d only just realized how close you’d been to leaving.

“Do not go,” he said quietly.

You paused, guiding him to the bed. “I’m only stepping out for a moment. You need to sleep.”

He shook his head, hair falling loose across his brow. “No. You won’t.” His voice faltered, stripped of its usual certainty. “You won’t come back. I know it.”

The words weren’t sharp or angry. They were afraid.

“Please,” he added, barely above a breath.

It was not a command. Only the fragile honesty of someone who, for once, had lost his footing. Perhaps some part of him finally understood what he had done by giving in to pride, by loosening his grip even for an hour.

His hands tightened, almost desperate, as though the thought of being left alone here, like this, was suddenly unbearable.

And now he was afraid of what might slip through his fingers.

You wondered, distantly, if whatever power lingered in his blood was already burning the alcohol away, leaving a sense of awareness but no control.

You sat him on the bed, but he didn’t let go.

“You said you’d stay,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours, the alcohol thick on his breath. “You said you’d watch me. I was good. I was being so good.”

Something in your chest gave way at that. Not all at once. Slowly. Like a fault line finally shifting after crushing pressure.

“Do you remember,” you asked softly, “what I asked you that night? When we spoke of Eyre-Jane?”

He nodded, eyes still closed, breath uneven, as though opening them might undo him.

“You said… I did not ask the right question.”

His hands slid to your waist, not possessive now, not demanding. Just searching. As if he were afraid you might vanish if he did not keep some part of you anchored to him.

“What is the right question?” you asked, holding him close.

He shook his head weakly. “I do not want to ask,” he whispered. “I cannot.”

The words fractured before they could finish. His breath hitched, once, twice, and then he was crying in earnest, the sound pulled from somewhere deep and long denied.

“Ask it,” you said quietly.

He folded into you.

“If I truly loved you,” he broke, voice tearing apart, “wouldn’t I let you go even if it destroyed me?”

You wrapped your arms around him as he came undone, his face buried against your chest, his sobs shaking through you both. Tears soaked into your clothes, warm and helpless. He clutched at you like a man drowning, like someone who had finally understood the depth of the water only after it had closed over his head.

“That’s right,” you whispered. “Do you love me?”

He nodded against you, small and broken, ruined by the weight of the truth he had finally allowed himself to feel.

“Yes,” he said again, hoarse. “With everything. With every part of me.”

You closed your eyes.

Then you said it. Quietly. Gently. With the same mercy that had always been your undoing.

“Then you need to let me go.”

The words settled between you, soft as breath, heavy as stone.

For a long moment, he did not move.

He stood there with his forehead pressed to you, breathing unevenly, as if his body had forgotten how to exist without you holding him upright. His hands remained twisted in the fabric of your shirt, knuckles pale, fingers curled tight enough to ache. You could feel the tremor in them, the way his grip tightened reflexively, as though his body were arguing with the truth even as his mind understood it.

His breath hitched once. Then again.

You felt it before you saw it, the smallest surrender.

Perhaps it was the liquor, dulling the instinct to fight. Or maybe it was some deeper, crueler clarity, the part of him that had always known this was where love like his would lead. That there was no version of this where holding on did not eventually destroy you both.

His fingers loosened.

Only a little at first. A single finger slipping free, then another, as if each one required its own decision. The fabric slid from his grasp inch by inch, leaving behind the ghost of his touch, still warm, still aching.

He made a sound then. Not a sob. Not a word. Just a quiet, broken breath that seemed to tear loose from somewhere deep in his chest.

Slowly, reluctantly, his hands fell away.

Not all at once. One finger loosened, then another, until the fabric slipped free of his grasp and his arms dropped to his sides, heavy and useless. He twitched slightly where he lay, breath still uneven, as if his body had not yet accepted what his heart had been forced to do.

He looked at you then.

His eyes were red, unfocused, glassy with exhaustion and grief, as though he had just set down something precious and irreplaceable without understanding how he was meant to go on without it. There was no anger there. No accusation. Only a hollow, stunned loss that made your chest ache just to witness.

For a moment, you thought he might say something. Call your name. Reach for you again.

Instead, his eyes fluttered closed.

His breathing slowed, deepened. The tension drained from his posture in stages, shoulders sagging, head tilting slightly. Within moments, the fight had left him entirely. The liquor and the emotional collapse finally claimed their due.

He was asleep.

You stood there staring at him. The man who loved you so completely, it had undone both of you. At the man whose world you were quietly stepping out of, leaving pain for others. Your hands hovered uselessly at your sides, aching with the instinct to touch him, to smooth his hair back, to stay.

If you stayed, you knew what would happen.

You would soften. You would convince yourself there was time, that he would find a way. That love might be enough to bend a world as cruel as Mary Geoise.

And your child would be born into it.

You swallowed hard, forcing your feet to move. Every step away from the bed felt like tearing something loose inside your chest. You did not look back again. You could not afford to.

This was the only chance you would get.

If you failed now, you were not just choosing him. You would be condemning your child to Mary Geoise, and that was a choice you could not live with.

If you did not leave now, then you were condemning your child to Mary Geoise.

The thought settled with terrible clarity. Not as fear, not as panic, but as certainty. If you hesitated, if you softened, if you turned back even once, the door would close behind you forever. Love would become a cage. Promises would become excuses. And your child would be born into a world that would never let them be innocent.

So you left.

You slipped out through the back of the inn with only a small bundle in hand, grateful that your body remembered what your heart could not afford to dwell on. The narrow passages. The half-forgotten steps between buildings. The ways through town that avoided lantern light and curious eyes. This place had raised you, and it still knew how to hide you.

Your feet carried you onward without pause, down familiar paths and up toward the cliffs above home, as if your body understood the destination even while your mind drifted somewhere distant and quiet. Everything felt muffled, as though the world had wrapped itself in wool. Sounds came late. Thoughts arrived dulled at the edges.

The night air was sharp, biting through the fabric you wore, but at first, you barely felt it. Cold registered only as information, not sensation. You moved as if inside a dream you could not quite wake from.

Stone gave way to open ground. Grass thinned beneath your steps. The wind grew louder, more insistent.

When you reached the edge of the cliffs, you stopped.

The sea roared far below, dark and endless, its sound rising up the stone face like a low, ceaseless breath. Behind you, the town distantly glowed faintly in the distance, lantern light warm and familiar, alive with voices you could no longer hear. It already felt far away. Something remembered rather than experienced.

You stood between them, breath unsteady, heart pounding, the full weight of the choice you had made finally settling into your bones.

You set your shoes aside first. Then you folded your fine dress with careful hands and placed it beside them, smoothing the fabric as though it mattered. As though order could still be maintained here. What remained was only your undergarments, thin and pale against your skin, offering no protection at all.

The wind found you then.

It cut sharply and suddenly, stealing the breath from your lungs. You shook, arms wrapping around yourself, teeth chattering as the cold bit deep and fast. Your skin burned with it, the shock of freezing air against blood still racing too quickly beneath it.

The world narrowed.

There was nothing left but the edge in front of you and the ground beneath your feet. No past. No future. Just this moment, stripped down to something unbearably simple.

One step.

That was all it would take.

You moved closer.

For a moment, there was nothing but the pull. Not even thought now. Just a deep, bone-tired certainty. The knowledge that you had walked every path offered to you and found that none of them led anywhere you could survive.

You leaned forward. Closed your eyes. Let the world narrow to that single, final motion.

And then—

Something moved.

Your eyes flew open.

But it was not another person. Not a sound behind you. Not the wind shifting its grip.

It was smaller than that. Quieter. A warm, unfamiliar flutter low in your own body that did not belong to the cold, or the night, or the furious beat of your heart.

It came again, soft but insistent, as if to remind you.

Your breath caught sharply, the sound torn from you before you could stop it, as though your body had recognized the truth a heartbeat before your mind could bear it.

Your hand rose to your stomach without thought, fingers pressing there as if to hold yourself to something solid. Real. The cold sharpened instantly into realization, sudden and overwhelming.

You were not alone in your body.

You had pushed the memories away. Folded them neatly and sealed them off. The pain of the miscarriage. The loss. You had refused to linger on this pregnancy, refused to let yourself believe in it, in case believing meant breaking again.

But now there was no room left for denial.

Another flutter came, softer this time. Not a warning. Not a question.

A presence.

It was the baby.

Your baby.

Your and Garling’s baby.

The notion landed with crushing clarity.

You staggered back a step, toes scraping against stone, the sound too loud in the open night. Your heart raced so violently that it left you dizzy, breath coming fast and shallow, fogging the air in front of your face. The numbness you had wrapped yourself in fractured all at once, splintering under the sudden, undeniable presence of something living inside you.

The thought of ending that life, of choosing it because you could not find the right path for yourself, tore through you like glass.

This child was not abstract. It was not distant. It was here. It was you.

Your hand pressed harder against your stomach, fingers trembling as though you could shield it by force alone. Your knees threatened to give, your footing weak beneath you, the certainty that had carried you to the cliff unraveling completely.

Whatever resolve you had carried with you was shattered in that instant.

It did not explode or tear itself apart. It simply gave way, collapsing inward like something that had only ever been held together by habit and exhaustion. The certainty that had brought you to the cliff drained out of you all at once, leaving your limbs weak and your chest tight with the effort of drawing breath.

No.

The word surfaced slowly, deliberately, as if it had been waiting beneath everything else.

You would not give up.

You would not give in.

The thought did not come gently. It arrived sharp and insistent, cutting through the lingering numbness with something that felt dangerously close to hope. A refusal. A refusal to accept that this was the only ending left to you.

Your hand remained pressed to your stomach, fingers curled protectively, trembling now not with cold but with the force of what you understood. The world had not narrowed after all. You had simply been looking in the wrong direction.

Garling’s voice rose in your memory, unbidden and unmistakable. Low. Fierce. Spoken with a certainty that had never once wavered, even when everything else had.

You turned away from the edge.

The movement was slow, careful, as though you feared the ground itself might shift beneath you. Each step back felt like reclaiming something you had nearly surrendered. The cliff loomed behind you, dark and silent, indifferent to your change of heart, offering no judgment and no mercy.

Ahead lay the long walk down. The fear you had tried to outrun. The choices you had been too tired to face. The life you would now have to fight for, not just for yourself, but for the small, unseen presence you carried with you.

The wind still cut cold against your skin. Your knees still shook. Nothing had become easier.

But you were still standing.

And this time, when you drew breath, it was not to let go.

It was to endure.

And that was when the shot rang out.

The sound split the night open, sharp and unmistakable, echoing off stone and sea alike. It did not feel real at first. Just noise. Just impact. As if the world had cracked somewhere nearby and you were only an afterthought to it.

Then pain bloomed.

Sudden. Blinding. A hot, violent shock that tore the breath from your lungs and twisted you sideways before you could understand what had happened. Your footing faltered, body reacting on instinct alone, and you stumbled as something warm struck the rocks beside you.

Blood.

It splattered bright and unreal against the dark stone, vivid in the moonlight, impossible in its color. For a heartbeat, you could only stare at it, your mind struggling to connect cause to effect.

Your body shook, pain radiating outward in waves that left you dizzy and hollow all at once. The clarity you had fought so hard to reclaim shattered again, replaced by shock, by disbelief, by the terrible realization that even choosing to live did not mean you were allowed to walk away.

The sea roared on below, the wind kept howling, uncaring, and from out of the trees came a familiar figure.

Aoife circled back to the room not much later, more out of habit than intent.

The inn had quieted by then, the music softened to a low murmur below, laughter fading into scattered voices and the creak of old wood settling for the night. She carried a cup of water with her, head swimming just enough from drink to make her movements a little unsteady, her thoughts loose.

She knocked once, lightly.

No answer.

With a shrug, she pushed the door open.

The room was dim, lit only by the guttering lantern near the bed. Garling sat where you had left him, slumped forward slightly, hair fallen loose from its careful ties. He stirred at the sound, lifting his head slowly.

And when he saw her, something in his face changed.

Relief washed over him first. Then warmth. Then something softer, brighter, almost disbelieving.

“You came back,” he said, voice thick with exhaustion and drink. A smile tugged at his mouth, undone and terribly earnest. “I hoped you would.”

Aoife paused.

He sat, unsteady but determined, looking at her with a care that didn’t match his coordination. His gaze never left her face, and there was something achingly sinful in it, something that made her chest bloom with warmth.

Sun God Nika, he was a handsome man, she thought appreciatively. What had been the reason she couldn’t flirt with him? It slipped away into the haziness of the alcohol.

“I didn’t know you were interested,” Aoife said softly, her words slurring a bit, “You’re kind of an ass, to be honest.”

He shifted closer, hands lifting as if drawn by instinct, stopping just short of leaving the bed. His blond hair framed his face as his voice dropped.

“But I was good tonight,” he said, earnest and a little breathless. “I tried to be. Just like you asked.” His gaze drifted, unfocused but intent, catching on her hair. “Your hair is so beautiful.”

Aoife laughed, heat creeping up her neck, head spinning. “All right, slow down there,” she said, swaying a little herself. “Don’t you have a fiancée?”

He smiled, easy and warm, and pulled her closer without hesitation, as if the question itself had amused him.

“Don’t tease me, you know I don’t have a fiancée,” he said lightly. “Just a desire to grab your hair, bend you over, and fuck you silly.”

Aoife blinked, then laughed again, louder this time. “Well,” she said, half-flattered, half-aroused, “that’s a dangerous thing to admit in my inn.”

He leaned in, still smiling, still impossibly gentle, his attention fixed on her as though nothing else existed. There was no arrogance in it. No sharp edge. Just a soft, disarming confidence that felt almost boyish.

“I’m good for my word.” He muttered, and she shivered.

“You’re trouble,” she told him, wagging a finger. “You know that?”

“Only when you are near,” he replied, without missing a beat.

Aoife shook her head, grinning despite herself. “Saints help me,” she muttered, dizzily. “You really are a flirt when you drink.”

He grinned back, slow and unguarded, and then shifted forward on the bed. The movement was unsteady, careless, but purposeful. His hands went to the hem of his shirt, tugging it free as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

“I am yours to ride.” He unbuckled his pants, letting her view his impressive bulge, “I’ll make you come on my cock so many times, you’ll be pregnant again by the end of it.”

Aoife blinked.

Pregnant again?

What a funny thing to say, but she was too drunk to think it over.

“Well,” she said, laughter catching in her throat, “you don’t waste time, do you?”

He didn’t answer. He only looked at her, eyes warm and bright in a way that made her chest tighten. There was no calculation in it. No game. Just an open, almost boyish certainty that she was meant to be there.

He reached for her, gentle, familiar, as though this was something they had done a thousand times before.

“I want you so much,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

Aoife hesitated, just for a heartbeat. The words didn’t quite land right, but the way he said them made it hard to pull away.

Had she been less drunk, she might have.

Instead, she stepped closer, letting herself be drawn in, laughter still on her breath as the moment tipped into something warmer and far more dangerous than she meant it to be.

“What a pretty sight,” she said lightly, trying to keep the moment from tipping too far. “I suppose I can indulge you for a bit, Garling.”

He smiled at that, slow and unfocused, as though she had said something beautiful. His hands found her waist, steadying her as he shifted, guiding her closer with careless confidence born of drink and certainty alike.

For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression. A hesitation. A shadow of recognition, as if some distant part of him sensed that something was wrong.

Then Aoife leaned in and kissed him, and the thought dissolved before it could take shape.

He responded immediately, relief softening his posture, the tension easing from his shoulders as though a weight had finally been lifted. Whatever doubt had surfaced vanished beneath the warmth of the moment, replaced by the simple, mistaken comfort of believing his wife had returned.

The lantern guttered.

And whatever line should have stopped them blurred beyond recognition, carried away by drink, by loneliness, and by a love that had been aimed at the wrong person entirely.

Garling woke to the wrong ceiling.

That was the first thing he registered. Not pain, not confusion, but the simple, jarring wrongness of the room. The lamp light was different. The air smelled faintly of smoke and spilled drink instead of salt and linen. His head throbbed, heavy and dull, and when he shifted, the movement sent a slow wave of nausea rolling through him.

Then he realized he was not alone.

Warmth at his side. Another body. Another breath.

For a moment, he smiled, still half lost in the fog of sleep. He turned instinctively, reaching for you, ready to bury his face in your hair, to breathe you in and ground himself in the comfort he had fallen asleep believing in.

He froze.

The hair beneath his fingers wasn’t right.

Too coarse. Too short. The color wrong. The scent wrong. Everything not you.

His breath hitched sharply as his eyes snapped open.

Memory came in fragments. Laughter. Lanternlight. A voice that had sounded like yours but hadn’t quite been. A red blur in the dark. Relief so sharp it had hurt.

His stomach dropped.

He sat up too fast, the world tilting violently, and looked down.

It was her. That supposed friend of yours. The one whose name started with an A. The one who had been too familiar, too comfortable in your space. She lay beside him now, asleep, hair loose around her face, one arm flung carelessly across the place where he had been.

For a long moment, he could not breathe.

“No,” he whispered.

The word came out hoarse, ripped from him as the truth crashed into place. Not confusion. Not embarrassment.

Horror.

He scrambled backward, nearly tumbling from the bed as he stared at her, at the unfamiliar room, at his own bare skin. His hands shook as he dragged a blanket around his waist, pulse roaring in his ears. The weight of what had happened descended all at once, sickening and inescapable, pressing so hard on his chest it felt like it might crush him outright.

He had thought—

He had believed—

He had thought it was you.

The realization hit like a physical blow, knocking the breath from his lungs. There was no softening it. No excuse. No version of this where it could be undone.

He lurched to his feet, the room pitching sickeningly as he dragged at his clothes with shaking hands. Buckles slipped through his fingers. Ties tangled. Panic climbed higher with every wasted second, hot and suffocating. He did not look at her again. He could not bear it.

The door banged open as he stumbled into the hall, barefoot and half-dressed, eyes wild, heart hammering like it was trying to escape his chest.

You.

Where were you?

The thought tore through him with vicious clarity. He had to find you. Had to. Had to get to you before you saw her, before you knew, before the truth shattered whatever fragile thread still bound you to him.

He could not let you come back to this.

Could not let you see this.

Could not let this be the thing that finally broke you beyond repair.

He surged down the hallway, dread hollowing him out, the certainty settling in his gut with sickening force that this would almost certainly cost you the child.

The thought clawed at him, sharp and merciless. Stress. Shock. Betrayal. He had seen it happen before. He knew what fear did to the body. To a woman already walking a razor’s edge. The idea that his failure, his weakness, his drunken stupidity might have done this to you made his vision blur.

The common room below lay hushed in the pale wash of fading night. A few patrons slept slumped over tables, mouths open, oblivious. The hearth had burned down to embers, smoke curling faintly in the still air. It felt obscene, how ordinary everything looked.

She emerged moments later, shrugging into her coat, hair mussed, confusion flickering into concern as she took in his face.

“Garling?” she called. “What’s wrong?”

He turned on her so fast it startled her, eyes wide and bloodshot, voice stripped raw. “Where is she?”

Aoife blinked. “Who?”

“You,” he snapped, then shook his head violently, the words tangling as panic took hold. “No. Her. Red was here. She—” His breath hitched hard. “She left. Where did she go?”

Understanding dawned too late. The color drained from Aoife’s face, her expression paling into something closer to confusion than alarm. She had misread the fear entirely.

“She… she said she was going for a walk,” she said slowly. “To see her home. Last night. Said she’d be back.” Then, uncertain, almost defensive, “She didn’t ditch you, did she? We can find you a new boat—”

The world tilted.

“Home,” he repeated, the word barely more than breath.

Clarity struck with brutal force.

He saw it all at once. The baiting. The pride. The way they had pushed and laughed and poured, knowing exactly what they were doing. Knowing exactly what you would do with the space they carved open. He had let himself be used. Let himself be distracted. Let himself be drunk, while you slipped away.

He was already moving, shoving past Aoife before she could say another word, heart hammering so violently it hurt. Dread coiled tighter with every step, dragging his thoughts inexorably upward, toward the cliffs that loomed above the town.

Toward the place called home.

And suddenly, with awful clarity, he understood.

You had never meant to come back.

Not to the inn. Not to the ship. Not to him. The way you had looked at him last night, the way you had spoken, the mercy in your voice when you told him to let you go. It all snapped into place at once, cruel and undeniable.

You had been saying goodbye. Forever.

The realization hit hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. He had played a gamble, and you had used his arrogance to get enough space to do whatever it was you believed you had to do.

“Gods,” he breathed. “No, god, no–”

The dread that followed was not sharp. It was heavy. Flooding. It pressed down on his chest until every breath felt like work, until his heart began to race in a way that bordered on painful.

But there was still a glimmer of hope. The marine, the one assigned to watch you—

Then the shouting started.

It rose suddenly from outside the inn, voices overlapping, sharp with alarm. A chair scraped. Someone screamed. Boots pounded against the street. Garling spun toward the sound just as the door flew open and a rush of cold air swept in.

“He’s dead!”

“There’s blood everywhere!”

“A man—someone must have shot him!”

The words barely registered at first. They slid past him, meaningless noise against the single, screaming thought in his head.

A gun.

His blood ran cold.

He pushed toward the door as people surged inside, faces pale, eyes wide with panic. Snatches of conversation crashed into him all at once. An undercover marine. Found near the trailhead. Shot. No one knew who did it. No one knew when it happened.

The marine who had been ordered to watch you.

His last hope vanquished.

The ground tilted violently.

“No,” he whispered, the sound lost beneath the chaos.

His panic spiked, sharp and consuming now, fear turning feral in his chest.

He shoved past the crowd, past shouted questions, past hands reaching to grab his arm. Someone called his name. He did not hear it. All he could see was you, barefoot on cold stone. All he could hear was the echo of a gunshot he had not been there to stop.

He broke into a run.

For the first time in his life, Saint Garling Figarland did not think about rank, or dignity, or consequence. He did not think about the body behind him, or the panic tearing through the town. He did not think about what it would look like if he failed.

He thought only of the cliffs.

Of home.

Of the unbearable possibility that he had already lost you.

The path narrowed as it rose, gravel biting into his bare feet, breath tearing from his chest in ragged pulls. The wind came hard off the sea, whipping his coat behind him, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood. His heart thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else.

Then he rounded the bend—

And the world exploded.

The shot cracked through the air at close range. Pain slammed into him, hot and concussive, spinning him sideways as something tore through flesh and sent him staggering. He hit the ground hard, breath ripped from his lungs, vision flashing white.

But he did not die.

He forced himself up on shaking arms, blood soaking through his sleeve, the wound already knitting with unnatural speed even as agony roared through him. His vision swam, but he dragged it into focus, teeth bared in something feral and wordless.

“You really can’t be killed. Fuck.”

And that was when he saw her.

Seraphina sat a short distance away, weapon lowered now, her posture tense as she stood above the edge of the cliff, just before your home. It was still darkish, but he could see that her clothes were spattered dark.

And beside her lay a body.

Garling’s heart stuttered violently as he pushed himself upright, sweat dripping to the stone beneath him.

“No,” he breathed, the word torn raw from his chest.

Seraphina moved in front of you, forcing him to look at her.

“I’ve been waiting,” she said. Her gaze flicked over him, taking in the disappearing wounds, the wildness, the way he was barely holding himself upright. Her mouth curved, not quite a smile.

“Had a nice fuck before you came?” she added lightly. “Nika, men really are the worst.”

The words landed like a slap.

Garling staggered forward a step, fury and horror colliding in his chest so violently it stole the breath from his lungs. “What?” he demanded, voice tearing raw from his throat. “What did you do?”

Seraphina glared at him, moving her leg just a bit to nudge the body at her feet.

It rolled just enough for him to see—Your face.

It was still, gray, ashen, and without any color. Turned toward the sky as if caught in the middle of a breath. And there, at your temple, unmistakable even in the dim light, the dark mark where the bullet had struck.

The world did not shatter.

It went very, very quiet.

Garling straightened, rising to his full height, spine locking into place. Every muscle in his body went utterly still, as though something ancient and deliberate had taken control of him. Not anger. Not yet. Something colder. Emptier.

When he spoke again, his voice was painfully thin.

“How could you?”

Seraphina watched him closely now, the last of her flippancy thinning beneath the weight of his stillness. “No,” she said lightly. “How could you? When I appeared, Red was already planning to jump. I only spared her the pain of the fall.” Her gaze sharpened, cruel with intent. “Can you finally see what you have done?”

Something hardened in Garling’s chest, and he was unable to tear his eyes away.

He stared at your face, still and impossibly peaceful. To the mouth that would never curve into a knowing smile again. To the eyes that would never narrow in sharp, witty retort. To your hair, already beginning to dull in the night air, its luster fading in ways he could not yet understand. The body that brought so much comfort and pleasure, that held his child, his future—

The world felt distant, as though he were viewing it through glass.

His hands clenched at his sides, fingers curling so hard his nails bit into his palms. He did not react beyond that single, contained motion. Pain was irrelevant. Sensation barely registered at all.

He needed you. To hold you. To be near you. To touch you. As if proximity alone might make this untrue.

He took a step toward you without thinking.

Seraphina’s response was immediate.

The shot cracked through the air, sharp and precise. The impact snapped through him, carrying something unnatural with it, something that burned deeper than flesh. The force drove him back a half step, static screaming through his nerves. He barely registered it. Haki, he assumed mindlessly.

“Don’t,” she snarled.

The calm was gone now. Her voice shook with fury, raw and vicious, like something she had been holding back for far too long.

“Don’t you dare even think about touching her.”

Garling turned his head slowly toward her, eyes hollow. “She’s my wife. I am her—”

Seraphina laughed, sharp and ugly. “You don’t get to use that word.” She stepped closer, weapon still trained on him, hands trembling with rage. “You're her rapist.”

He opened his mouth. No sound came out. He took another step, slower this time.

“Stay where you are,” she barked, finger tightening on the trigger. “You don’t get comfort. You don’t get goodbye. You don’t get to stand there and pretend this is not the consequence of your actions.”

His gaze flicked to you.

That was enough.

Seraphina stepped back to send your body over the edge with a quick, decisive shove.

Garling charged.

The distance between them vanished in a blink. One instant, Seraphina was scrambling backward, weapon half-raised, breath coming sharp with disbelief. Next, he was on her.

He hit her with enough force to drive the air from her lungs in a single, violent sound. Stone cracked beneath her back as she was slammed down, the impact rattling teeth and bone alike. Her hands clawed at him, frantic, useless. Whatever advantage she had believed the gun gave her meant nothing now.

He caught her wrist and twisted. There was a sharp, involuntary cry as her grip failed and the weapon skidded away across the stone, lost to the sea. His knee drove into her center, pinning her there, stealing breath, stealing strength, stealing time.

She tried to scream.

His hand shot up and closed around her throat, driving her back against the rock with enough force to rattle her teeth and steal the breath from her lungs. Her vision swam, the world pitching violently as stone dug into her skull.

Not to kill.

Not yet. No doubt he would kill her. Slowly, painfully, with relish.

But he wanted a few more answers.

She tried to spit at him, but he hit her head against the stone, her blood splashing on his face.

“You,” he said quietly, his voice stripped of all warmth, flat and merciless. “Will answer me.”

His grip tightened just long enough to make the point land.

Seraphina lifted her head slowly, eyes blazing, her voice raw and thick with fury and something dangerously close to tears. She twisted away from his blood-soaked grip, teeth missing, but pride alive.

“Fuck you,” she spat, covering him with more blood. “You can kill me, but you can’t die. You can be as mad as you want, but you’ll never be able to follow her.”

She forced herself to smile, sharp and triumphant.

“Live a long life, miserable, without even the slightest bit of her.”

Her gaze slid past him.

To the cliff.

Her broken smile widened.

Garling turned.

The space where you had been was empty.

And in that moment, standing with the wind screaming around him and nothing left to hold onto, Garling understood.

Seraphina had planned this. She had wanted him to move, to strike, to waste precious seconds reaching for her instead of realizing you were already falling. She had arranged it so that your body would be lost with the slightest push. Not simply to kill you, but to ensure there would be nothing left to reach for. Nothing to recover. Nothing to mourn properly.

Blankly, he realized it was exactly the sort of move he would have made himself, had their roles been reversed.

Garling sank to his hands without realizing he had moved, one arm still half raised, fingers curled around nothing. He stared at the edge, at the absence, at the place where his world had simply… ended.

Something inside him finished breaking.

When he rose again, the rage that took him was no longer loud or frantic. It did not burn or scream. It settled.

The world seemed to narrow around him, sound dulling as though the wind itself had drawn back to watch. His breathing slowed, each inhale measured, each exhale steady, as if some older instinct had reached up through his bones and taken hold. There was no room left for shock or disbelief. No space for grief yet. Only action.

He bent and reached for the ground.

The stone he chose was ugly and irregular, jagged where it had split from the cliff face long ago, its edges sharp enough to bite into his palm. It was heavy with salt and age, stained pale by years of wind and spray. He turned it once in his hand, feeling its weight, its balance.

Seraphina's breath caught hard in her chest, the sound sharp and involuntary. The triumph on her face faltered, cracking into something closer to alarm. She tried to scramble backward, boots slipping on the stone slick with blood and sea mist. Her mouth opened as if to curse him, to spit something venomous and defiant, to turn her fury into words one last time.

She did not get the chance.

Garling struck.

The sound was dull and final, rock meeting bone with a force that traveled up his arm and settled deep in his shoulder. He did not stop. He did not hesitate. He brought the stone down again and again, each blow delivered with the same terrible restraint, as if he were finishing a task rather than giving in to emotion. Blood spattered across the pale rock, dark and vivid against the stone. The body beneath his hands went slack, resistance dissolving into nothing.

When it was over, he slowly rose.

The wind rushed back in, howling across the cliff as though it had been holding its breath. The sea roared below, swallowing sound and consequence alike. The smell of iron hung thick in the air, mingling with salt and crushed stone.

His hand hung uselessly at his side, the stone slipping from his grasp to clatter against the rock and tumble out of sight. He did not follow it with his eyes. His gaze was fixed on the edge of the cliff, on the empty space beyond it, on the place where the world had taken everything from him and offered nothing in return.

Blood darkened the cliff face where it pooled and ran, seeping into cracks worn smooth by centuries of tide and storm. What remained of Seraphina lay broken and still, already half claimed by the pull of gravity and water, already destined to vanish beneath the waves just as you had.

Garling Figarland stood alone.

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