(Eri-Pov)
The return to the palace came to me in fragments—sound before sight, movement before thought, my body already too weak to follow either as I was carried through familiar halls that felt distant and strangely quiet. I had expected Lourice to step forward the moment we arrived, to take control as she always did, to restore order without needing to be asked. But before anything could settle, another voice moved ahead of it.
Elara.
Even through the weight pressing against my senses, I heard the steadiness in her tone as she faced Sato and Haru without hesitation, as if she had always belonged in that space. Interesting. The word lingered faintly as Dyion carried me the rest of the way, his hold firm and unyielding, until the softness of my bed finally met me and the last of my strength slipped through my grasp. It should have ended there. Once within these walls, everything should have returned to its place.
Instead, I heard her again.
Not close this time—a step away, controlled, deliberate, drawing a line without raising her voice. She thanked him—brief, proper—and then, with quiet certainty, made her decision clear. Dyion would not remain. "Lady Lourice, please guide our guest to his room." I did not open my eyes, did not move, but something unfamiliar settled beneath the exhaustion—something I chose not to name.
Interesting.
The thought lingered longer than it should have, not because of what she said, but because of what it revealed—how easily she stepped forward, how naturally she claimed space that had never been hers to command. And without meaning to, my mind returned to the moment I should have left her behind.
Everything had slowed then.
The noise of the ambush dulled into something distant, as if the world had stepped back just enough to leave one thing clear.
Elara.
I saw her fall—the horse collapsing beneath her, her body thrown against the ground with a force that should have ended in stillness. Acer's voice reached me, sharp and certain, ordering retreat, reminding me of protocol, of what must be protected above all else. I heard him. I understood him. I turned to leave.
And I stopped.
Not because I hesitated.
Because something refused to let me.
My gaze dropped—to her hand.
The ring.
Gold, steady even in the chaos.
My mother's ring.
I had given it to her.
Not as sentiment.
As decision.
It was meant to seal an alliance—nothing more.
And yet—
it rested on her as if it had always belonged there.
Not loose.
Not forced.
Perfect.
I had worn it once.
It never fit.
Not like it belonged.
My father had said it passed through blood, but not all who carried it were meant to keep it. Only one had worn it as it should have been worn.
My mother.
And now—
her.
Something in me tightened, quiet and unfamiliar, settling deeper than it should have.
Why does it fit her… when it never fit me?
The question lingered.
I did not answer it.
There was no time.
Only one thing remained clear.
I could not leave her.
Not like that.
I turned back before the thought could fully form, already moving, already closing the distance between us as if there had never been another choice. Steel met flesh in passing, quick and clean, my hand finding hers before she could fall again, pulling her forward without pause.
We ran.
I do not remember when the arrow struck me. I do not remember the pain. I remember only the weight of her hand in mine, the way her steps faltered and how I adjusted without thinking, keeping her moving, keeping her upright, as if letting go was no longer something I was capable of doing. The forest blurred around us, the ground uneven, the air thick with pursuit, but none of it settled—not enough to matter.
Only one thing did.
I would not let her fall.