Chapter 6- The Close Call-Part 3

The warmth hit like a spell.

After so many nights spent in the cold, it felt almost unreal - the kind of comfort that made the body remember what safety was supposed to feel like. Fire crackled in the great stone hearth, casting ribbons of gold and amber light across the walls. Shadows danced over the floorboards, over the worn tables and the rows of hanging herbs that perfumed the air. The scent of roasting meat, thyme, and freshly baked bread filled every breath - a scent that could make even the most hardened soldier believe, if only for a moment, that the war existed somewhere far away.

Jack's mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a sturdy woman with kind eyes and a touch of gray in her hair, the sort of face that had seen grief and met it with patience rather than bitterness. When her gaze found her son, the lines at the corners of her eyes softened.

"You brought friends," she said, her voice warm but laced with surprise. Her eyes flicked to me, taking in the crest on my cloak, the faint shimmer of the silver-threaded armor beneath. "And important ones, by the look of it. Welcome, Princess."

I inclined my head, fighting to keep my posture steady despite the throb in my ribs. "We seek only a night's rest and a meal, if you can spare them."

Her smile deepened - the kind that made you believe she'd never turned a soul away. "Then you'll have both," she said firmly. She glanced to the others, assessing each battle-worn face, the soot, the exhaustion that clung like a second skin. "Four rooms and enough stew to drown a soldier. Sit down before you fall down - you all look like death on horseback."

A ripple of quiet laughter passed through our group - tired, grateful. I let myself exhale for the first time in hours, the tension in my shoulders easing as the fire's heat settled into my bones. For just a moment, the world outside - the smoke, the screams, the endless march of war - felt very far away.

-

We obeyed gladly.

The promise of warmth and rest was too precious to question.

I sank into the chair nearest the hearth. The firelight licked across the stone walls, painting them in gold and ember. My body felt heavier than armor, every breath dragging through me like lead. The scent of smoke and wet leather clung to the air - the perfume of a long survival.

Flahera moved beside me, silent and efficient. Her fingers traced the clasps of my breastplate, unfastening each with practiced care. One by one, the silver-threaded plates fell away, the sound a muted chime against the floor. Beneath it, only the padded underlayer remained, soaked through from the ride.

When the final buckle came loose, the air hit my side - cold, sharp, merciless. Pain bloomed beneath the linen where the wound had reopened, a slow bleed darkening the bandage with each heartbeat.

Before I could draw breath, Danny was there.

He dropped to one knee, the firelight catching in his eyes - clear, steady, and edged with worry."You should've told me it was bleeding again," he said quietly. His voice wasn't harsh, but there was weight in it, the kind that came from fear disguised as frustration.

"I've had worse," I said. The words were meant to sound strong, but they frayed before they reached the air.

Danny didn't flinch. "Still," he murmured, "you shouldn't face worse alone."

Something in his tone - not command, not pity, just truth - slipped beneath the armor I hadn't removed. It disarmed me faster than any blade could.

Flahera returned with a basin of water and clean cloth. The worry in her face softened her usual poise. "Let me-"

I lifted a hand. "Go. Eat before the stew vanishes. I'll handle this."

She hesitated, but only for a heartbeat. Then she nodded and withdrew, her steps fading toward the long table where the others gathered, their laughter low and tentative - the fragile music of the living.

The room settled into quiet. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint hiss of wind at the shutters.

Flahera returned with a basin of water and a clean cloth, the steam curling faintly in the firelight. The scent of smoke and iron clung to everything - the smell of survival.

Ravensha had cleaned this wound once before, back on the battlefield. Her touch had been steady and unflinching - all discipline, no hesitation. There had been no time then for gentleness, no space for pain. Just blood, grit, and the will to keep moving.

But now the world had slowed. The storm outside had dulled to wind against stone. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the low murmur of voices from across the hall.

I glanced at the cloth in Flahera's hands, then at Danny, who lingered near the hearth, watching but trying not to.

"Flahera," I said quietly, "go eat. I'll handle this."

She hesitated. "Princess-"

"I'll be fine." I managed a small smile. "Go."

Reluctantly, she obeyed, setting the basin down before slipping away toward the others.

The silence she left behind was warm and heavy. I turned to Danny. His eyes caught the light - steady, uncertain, full of things he didn't say.

"Will you clean it for me?"

He blinked, startled. "Me?"

I nodded, keeping my voice even. "You were there when it happened. You've already seen the worst of it. Might as well finish what the battlefield started."

A faint smile touched his mouth, half amusement, half disbelief. "You're serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

He studied me for a heartbeat longer, then knelt beside the chair. The cloth hissed softly as he wrung it out, steam rising between us. His touch was cautious at first - then careful, practiced, almost reverent.

The sting of the water faded beneath the warmth of his hands. The firelight blurred, softening the room's edges until there was only this: breath, heat, and the quiet sound of trust being rebuilt in silence.

His hands were careful. Warm. He pressed the cloth to my side, cleaning the wound with a tenderness that stole the breath from my lungs. The pain dulled beneath the rhythm of his movements, steady as a heartbeat.

The fire whispered between us, soft and patient. Shadows moved along the walls like old ghosts learning to rest.

And for the first time in longer than I could remember, the warmth I felt had nothing to do with flame.

-

He worked in silence.

The world had shrunk to the circle of firelight around us - the low murmur of voices fading into the warmth, the steady rhythm of his breath beside mine. Danny's hands moved with slow precision, cleaning the wound again, gentler this time. His touch carried a kind of reverence, as though he feared that too much pressure might break me apart completely.

I watched him through the flicker of flame, studying the foreign cut of his clothes, the calluses on his fingers that spoke of work but not war, the way his eyes kept straying - to the silver of my armor, the crest at my collar, the small moonstone pendant that rested against my throat. Everything about him seemed out of place in this world of magic and blood and old gods. And yet... somehow, he didn't feel like an intruder.

When he finished wrapping the fresh bandage, his hands lingered, uncertain. His gaze lifted, soft and questioning. "This necklace," he said quietly. "You touch it a lot. Is it... important?"

I hesitated, my fingers brushing the cool surface of the pendant. The moonstone caught the firelight and glowed faintly, as though remembering its own light. "It was my mother's," I said at last. "It's all I have left of her. She died when I was a child - long before the Queen found me."

Danny's eyes softened. "It's beautiful," he murmured. "I've never seen anything like it."

There was nothing remarkable about the words, but something in the way he said them - quiet, genuine - stirred something fragile inside me. I turned away before it could show, pulling my cloak back over my shoulders, fastening the clasp with practiced hands.

"Get some food before it gets cold, Danny of Richmond," I said, my tone lighter than I felt.

He smiled, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "That's... your nickname for me now?"

"It suits you," I replied, unable to stop the faint curve of my lips.

For a heartbeat, the firelight seemed to hold us still - two souls from different worlds, bound for a moment by warmth and silence. Then he stood, offering a small, almost awkward bow before moving toward the table.

I watched him go, the ghost of a smile lingering - and for the first time in a long while, the ache in my chest felt almost bearable.

---

We joined the others by the fire. The stew was rich and savory, thick with herbs and root vegetables. It wasn't palace fare, but it felt more like home than any royal meal ever had.

Jack's mother scolded him for coming home late; Violet asked endless questions about dragons; Flahera told a terrible joke that made Ravensha nearly spit her drink.

And for the first time in months, we laughed.

Truly laughed.

When the fire burned low, we retired to our rooms. I shared mine with Flahera, though she fell asleep almost immediately. I stayed awake, watching the firelight dance across the ceiling, feeling the ache of my side and the weight of my necklace against my chest.

-

That night, I dreamed.

At first, I thought it was memory - the kind that drifts up unbidden when the mind is finally too tired to defend itself. I smelled smoke. Heard the faint hum of a lullaby, sung by a voice I'd almost forgotten. Moonlight spilled like water across stone, soft and silver, and for a heartbeat, it was peace - the kind that belongs to a world long gone.

Then the scene twisted. The light faltered, warped into something darker.

I was small again, standing in the ruins of a village I barely remembered but somehow knew too well. The sky above burned crimson, clouds rolling like smoke over a dying horizon. The air was thick with ash. The world reeked of blood and charred wood. Around me lay bodies - shapeless, nameless - faces erased by flame.

And in the center of it all stood a figure cloaked in shadow. His form rippled, half smoke, half nightmare, and yet I could feel his gaze cut through me as though he'd always been there, waiting.

"You cannot deny what you are," he said.

His voice was wrong - both whisper and thunder, close enough to feel against my skin. "The blood of the moon and the curse of the void. You are mine, little light."

I stumbled back, heart pounding, feet slipping on the scorched ground. "No," I breathed. But the earth split beneath me as if the world itself refused to believe my denial. Fire burst through the cracks, curling around my legs, pulling me down.

The necklace at my throat - my mother's - flared white-hot. Pain seared through me, burning and pure, a light that tried to fight the darkness clawing inward.

"Mother!" The word tore from me, raw and desperate. I didn't know why I called for her - only that I always did in this dream, and she never answered.

But this time, through the haze of smoke, I saw her - or something like her. A silhouette of silver hair and outstretched arms, a ghost framed in firelight.

Then the darkness surged, swallowing her whole.

The flames around me shifted, twisting into eyes - endless and watching, their gaze colder than death itself.

And from somewhere beyond the void came the voice again, low and resonant, echoing through my bones:

"When the moon falls, so will you."

-

I woke with a gasp, the sound sharp in the stillness.

For a moment I didn't know where I was - only that the air was heavy, my heart hammering like it was still trying to escape the fire. Sweat clung to my skin, chilling as the night air brushed against it. The room around me was cloaked in shadow, lit only by the faint glow of dying embers in the hearth. They pulsed weakly, casting fleeting shapes across the walls - ghosts of flame and memory.

My hand flew to my throat. The necklace was there, the moonstone cool against my trembling fingers. I pressed it hard, as if touch alone could ground me, could anchor me back in this world instead of the one that still burned behind my eyelids.

Just a dream, I told myself. The words came out in a whisper, too fragile to believe. Just a dream.

But then I saw it - a thin curl of darkness winding up from my palm, like smoke rising from unseen fire. It coiled in the air, faint and sinuous, before fading into nothing.

My breath caught.

The embers crackled softly, the sound unnervingly alive. And in their dim glow, I could have sworn - just for an instant - that the shadows along the wall were moving on their own.