Maria.

Pain came first.

Not sound.

Not sight.

Pain.

It pulsed through every inch of my body before my mind could even form a coherent thought. Sharp. Hot. Throbbing in relentless waves that overlapped and collided until I couldn’t tell where one sting ended and another began. My skin felt swollen, stretched too tight over bone, as if it no longer fit me properly.

Even breathing hurts.

Each inhale dragged across my chest like sandpaper, slow and abrasive, catching on something raw inside me. My ribs protested with every shallow rise, and when I tried to draw in more air, the ache deepened, radiating outward in tiny, burning pinpricks.

I groaned before I even realized I was awake. The sound slipped out of me, low, broken, involuntary.

And then memory came.

Not whole, not steady, just broken flashes.

The shawl.

Silver threads catching light.

The hum.

Low.

Growing.

The swarm.

Bees.

My heart lurched weakly at the recollection, but even that movement sent another pulse of pain rippling through me.

My fingers twitched against the surface beneath me. It wasn’t cold stone. It wasn’t the storage room floor.

It was rough fabric.

Canvas.

A cot.

The realization filtered slowly through the haze in my mind. My body felt heavy, weighted down by invisible hands pressing me into place.

A faint medicinal scent filled my nose, herbs crushed into paste, leaves steeped into something bitter and clean. It cut through the lingering phantom smell of dust and fabric that still clung to my thoughts. The scent was grounding.

Safe.

My eyelids fluttered.

They felt too heavy to lift fully, reluctant to cooperate. Light bled into my vision in thin, wavering streaks. Blurry shapes formed and dissolved, shadows shifting as my eyes struggled to focus.

The world tilted.

Then steadied.

Shapes began to settle into outlines. Edges sharpened slowly.

And then I saw him.

Vincent.

He hovered over me, close enough that I could see the tight pull of his brows, the strain around his eyes. His usual ease was gone. Replaced by something raw and unguarded.

Worry.

He was carefully applying a cool balm along my arm, his fingers deliberate and steady despite the tension in his posture. The ointment spread across my skin in gentle strokes, soothing and icy against the inflamed heat beneath it. A damp cloth rested near my shoulder, beads of moisture catching faint light.

A robe had been draped loosely over my body.

Soft.

Protective.

Covering me with a kind of quiet care that made my chest ache for a different reason.

His movements were slow.

Measured.

As if I were fragile glass that might splinter beneath the slightest pressure.

"Maria?" His voice was soft, but there was strain beneath it. Tight. Held together.

"Are you okay? Can you hear me? How are you feeling?"

The questions came carefully, not rushed, but edged with urgency he was trying to contain.

I swallowed.

My throat felt dry, scraped raw.

"Hurts..." I whispered.

The word barely made it past my lips. Even speaking felt like effort, like my body had to push through layers of resistance just to form sound.

His jaw tightened slightly at my answer.

Not in frustration.

In helplessness.

"I know," he murmured.

The words were low, almost lost between us, but steady. Not dismissive. Not impatient. Just... grounding.

"The healer said the stings were severe but not fatal. You just need rest."

His thumb smoothed another careful line of balm across my forearm as he spoke, as though the reassurance traveled through his touch as much as through his voice. The cool ointment seeped into my overheated skin, easing the sharpest edges of the burning, though it couldn’t fully erase it.

I shifted slightly.

Just enough to test my balance.

I regretted it instantly.

A sharp wave of pain rippled across my back and arms, radiating outward in jagged lines as if every sting had reignited at once. My breath hitched, teeth clenching before I could stop myself. The world swayed faintly at the edges of my vision.

Vincent reacted immediately.

His hand slid to my shoulder, steadying me before I tipped too far. The other hovered near my waist, careful not to press too hard.

"Don’t move too much," he said gently.

Not a command.

A plea wrapped in caution.

I stilled, forcing myself to breathe through the flare of discomfort. Inhale. Slow. Careful. Exhale. Even that small effort felt monumental.

I blinked up at him properly now.

Really looked at him.

His face looked exhausted.

Not physically drained in the obvious way, but pulled tight by hours of tension. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, his jaw set more rigidly than usual. His composure was intact, but it clung to him like something held in place by will alone.

"You... scared me," he admitted quietly.

The words were simple. Controlled. He didn’t dramatize it. Didn’t let his voice shake.

But the honesty in it sat heavy between us.

I managed the faintest smile.

It felt fragile on my lips, but real.

"I’m not that easy to kill," I breathed.

The sentence came out softer than I intended, barely above a whisper, but there was something stubborn in it. Something that refused to yield to weakness.

A flicker of relief crossed his features.

Subtle.

His shoulders lowered just a fraction. The tension in his brows eased, though it didn’t disappear entirely.

"You should be free from this kind of thing," he said, almost to himself.

His gaze drifted briefly to the angry swell of my skin beneath the balm.

"You shouldn’t be the one always sent into danger."

There was no accusation in it.

Just quiet frustration. A protectiveness he wasn’t fully trying to hide.

His hand slowed as he finished applying the balm, fingers brushing lightly over the last inflamed patch on my arm. He set the small container aside carefully, movements deliberate, controlled.

I didn’t answer him.

Because there wasn’t an answer I could give that would ease what he was feeling.

Instead, I let the coolness of the ointment sink into my burning skin. It dulled the pain slightly, just enough to take the edge off the relentless throbbing. Just enough to make breathing deeper possible without wincing.

After a long moment, I pressed my palms lightly against the cot and forced myself to sit up slowly.

Every muscle protested.

Every sting reminded me it was still there.

But I moved anyway.

Careful. Controlled.

"We need to get back to the palace," I said quietly.

The words felt heavier than my body had moments ago.

Vincent stared at me.

Not confused.

Not surprised.

Just studying me, like he was trying to decide whether I was brave... or impossibly stubborn.

"You can barely sit upright," he said, his voice low but edged with concern. His eyes didn’t leave me, sharp and assessing, as though he could see through every layer of pain I tried to hide.

"I’m fine," I said, forcing the words out. They sounded weaker than I intended, ragged at the edges, but I clung to them anyway.

"You were covered in stings," he said firmly, stepping closer. His tone carried a weight I rarely heard from him, commanding without being angry. "Your body is still reacting. You need rest."

I shook my head weakly, almost imperceptibly, as if movement alone might convince him. "We can’t stay long," I whispered, voice tight and brittle, echoing the stubbornness that burned faintly even through my exhaustion.

"They said there’s no permanent damage," he replied, voice steadier now, measured. "But you’re not riding back on a horse. We came on foot. You’re not walking anywhere right now."

His words were anchored in certainty, and his firmness didn’t demand obedience,it radiated care. The kind that refused to let you make a mistake at the cost of your body.

I tried to swing my legs off the cot, ignoring the protest in every muscle. Pain shot through me instantly, jagged and cruel, forcing a sharp inhale that rattled in my chest.

Vincent moved in a heartbeat, pressing a firm but gentle hand to my shoulder. "Maria. Stop."

I clenched my jaw, the stubborn flare inside me rising despite the agony radiating through my arms and back. I wanted to argue. To prove that I could do it, that I was stronger than my pain.

But my body betrayed me.

Every movement felt heavier than it should. Every small motion dragged through fire. My limbs trembled, refusing to cooperate. Slowly, reluctantly, I sank back slightly onto the cot.

"Just lie down," he said more gently now, his hand still resting lightly on my shoulder. There was no impatience in his voice, only a soft insistence that I listen to my own body. "Let your body recover."

I exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as I allowed myself to ease fully back against the cot. The ceiling above blurred slightly as exhaustion crept in again, pressing down on my eyelids. Maybe... just a little longer, I thought, letting the pain dull into the background like a muted hum.

The room was quiet except for faint movement somewhere beyond the walls, a shifting footstep, the whisper of distant air.

Vincent remained close, hovering protectively. His presence pressed against the edge of my awareness, a steady anchor I hadn’t realized I needed so desperately.

Then...a sharp whistle cut through the air.

It was sudden. Piercing. Almost surreal in its clarity. My body tensed before my mind could fully register the sound.

Vincent’s head snapped toward the doorway, eyes wide, instincts already moving faster than thought.

Before either of us could react, the next moment shattered everything. An arrow flew through the open window.

Fast. Unerring. Precise.

It struck him squarely in the shoulder. The impact sounded sickening, a dull, cruel thud that vibrated in my chest.

Vincent staggered backward with a choked gasp, his body jerking violently from the force. My scream tore from me before I could think. "Vincent!"

He collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, the arrow embedded deep in his shoulder. Blood began to seep through his tunic almost immediately, warm and vivid against the pale fabric.

Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously. Footsteps approached, urgent and echoing, but all I could see was him—Vincent—crumpled on the ground, barely moving, the arrow trembling where it had struck.

The door swung open, and a voice shouted, breaking through the haze.

"Back off, you asshole!"

My head snapped up instinctively, heart hammering in sync with the chaos that had erupted.