Irina’s POV

Three days of bed rest.

That’s what Nadia had prescribed after my last checkup, and I’d been mostly good about following it. Mostly. Sofia kept me company for most of it, bringing books and palace gossip and pretending not to notice when I got restless and paced the length of the room.

Sofia came back from the kitchen twenty minutes later with lunch. Soup, bread, fruit. The usual spread that Nadia had prescribed for "building up my strength." She set it on the little table and dropped into the chair across from me.

"So," she said. "Guess what I heard."

"What."

"The king hasn’t eaten a proper meal in two days."

I looked up from the soup. "What?"

"Two days." Sofia crossed her arms. "Maria from the kitchens told me. She’s been trying to send food up to his office and it keeps coming back untouched. He’s been on calls non-stop since he got back. Roman’s been yelling at him about it, apparently. The whole staff is in a mood."

Something tightened in my chest.

Two days.

He’d only been back four days. He’d spent half of that not eating?

I looked at my soup.

Then at Sofia.

---

The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the palace.

That was the first thing I noticed when I walked in. Warm, and loud, and full of people moving with the specific efficiency of professionals who’d been doing this for years. Pots bubbling. Knives against cutting boards. Someone in the back yelling at someone else about timing.

They went quiet when we entered.

Not silent. Just—quieter. Heads turning. Curious looks. One of the younger kitchen staff actually dropped a spoon.

An older woman with gray hair pulled back in a tight bun came forward. Apron spotless despite the chaos behind her. She took one look at me and her face softened.

"Miss Irina," she said. "What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"

"I—" I felt ridiculous suddenly. Standing here in this professional kitchen, about to ask if I could make soup. "I wanted to cook something. For the king. If that’s—if that’s okay."

Maria—I assumed this was Maria—smiled.

"Of course it’s okay, dear." She gestured to a workstation at the back of the room. "Come. I’ll help you."

---

I made chicken soup.

Nothing fancy. Just the kind my mother used to make before she died, when I was small enough to sit on the counter and watch her work. Chicken, vegetables, herbs. A little salt. Slow simmer.

Maria watched me work. Didn’t interfere. Just handed me things when I reached for them and occasionally corrected my knife grip when I got lazy.

"You’re good," she said at one point.

"I’m not."

"You are." She tasted the broth I’d been simmering. Her eyebrows lifted. "That’s better than good, actually. Where did you learn?"

"My mother." The word came out quieter than I meant. "When I was little."

Maria nodded. Didn’t push. Just handed me the herbs she’d pulled from the garden that morning and let me keep working.

When it was done, she ladled the soup into a bowl, wrapped the bread in a cloth to keep it warm, added a glass of water to the tray.

"Take him this too," she said, adding a small plate with sliced apple. "He likes them. He won’t admit it, but he’ll eat them if you put them in front of him."

I stared at her. "How do you know that?"

"I’ve been feeding that man for fifteen years, dear." She smiled. "I know what he likes."

---

The office was a disaster.

Papers everywhere. Maps on every surface. Empty cups stacked on the corner of the desk. And Nicolas—

He was standing behind the desk with both hands braced on it, staring down at something. His sleeves were rolled up. His hair was a mess. He looked up when the door opened, and the irritation on his face dropped away instantly.

"Irina."

Just my name.

"Hi," I said. My voice came out too soft. "I—um. I brought you food."

He stared at me.

"You’re supposed to be resting."

"I was. I took a break."

He crossed the room in three strides. Stopped in front of me. His hand came up to my face—just the back of his fingers against my cheek, checking. Gentle.

"You didn’t have to do this," he said.

"You weren’t eating."

"Are you scolding me," he said.

"Maybe."

"You are."

"A little."

He laughed.

It was a small sound. Surprised. Like he hadn’t meant to do it. But it was real.

He took my hand. Led me to the chair behind the desk. Sat down and pulled me gently onto his lap—slow enough that I could pull away if I wanted.

I didn’t want to.

His arm went around my waist. Loose. Secure. He reached for the tray with his free hand and pulled it closer.

"You really made this," he said, lifting the lid off the bowl.

"I really did."

He looked at me. Then at the soup. Then back at me.

"You know," he said. "I remember the first time you ate with me. You were terrified. You couldn’t hold the fork straight. You kept looking at the door like you were calculating how fast you could get to it."

"Nicolas."

"You wouldn’t look at me." His voice had gone softer. "You wouldn’t eat until I ate first. You were convinced I’d poisoned the food."

"I wasn’t—" I stopped. Reconsidered. "Okay. Maybe a little."

He smiled. A real smile. Small but real.

"And now you’re here," he said. "In my lap. Making me soup."

"Things are—different now."

"Yeah?"

I nodded. My face was hot. I was sure I was turning red. "Yeah."

He looked at me for a long moment.

Then he picked up the spoon. Dipped it in the soup. Brought it to his mouth.

I watched him taste it.

His eyes closed. Just for a second.

"Irina."

"Yes?"

"This is very good."

He ate.

All of it. The whole bowl. The bread. The apple slices Maria had sent. The water. He ate slowly, steadily, while I sat on his lap and tried to figure out how to be here without spontaneously combusting.

His hand kept moving on my waist. Small circles. Absent. Like he didn’t know he was doing it.

At some point, I relaxed. I don’t remember exactly when. But by the time he’d finished the last slice of apple, I was leaning against his chest like I’d been doing it my whole life.

"Better?" I asked quietly.

"Much." He set the spoon down. Wrapped his other arm around me. "I didn’t realize how hungry I was."

"You can’t just—skip eating."

"I know."

We stayed like that for a while.

I could hear his heartbeat through his shirt. Steady. Strong. Alive in a way that made something in my chest ache.

"I should let you get back to work," I said eventually. Reluctant.

He leaned in. Slowly. Giving me time to stop him. When I didn’t, he pressed his lips to my forehead. Soft. Long. Like he was memorizing it.

"Thank you," he said against my skin. "For the food. For—this."

"You’re welcome."

He sighed. Pulled back. "Okay. I really do need to get back to work. But—" He caught my hand. "Come see me tonight? After dinner?"

"If you want."

"I want."

---

The courtyard was beautiful.

I’d forgotten what real sunlight felt like.

Slow enough that my legs didn’t protest. Around the edge of the courtyard, past the fountain, up the stone steps to the upper terrace that overlooked the gardens.

The view from up here was better.

I could see everything. The gardens spread out below, all geometric hedges and colorful flower beds. The palace rising behind us in pale stone. And beyond the gardens—

The training yard.

I stopped.

It was busier than I’d expected. Dozens of warriors in formation. Moving through drills. Sparring in pairs. The specific controlled chaos of a military training session.

"There are so many," I said.

Sofia followed my gaze. "Mm. Yeah. More than before."

"Why?"

"The Iron Thorn warriors." She gestured vaguely at the field. "The ones who chose to join the king’s forces. They’ve been integrating for the past week. Training with his personal guard."

Something shifted in my chest.

"How many?" I asked.

"I don’t know. A few dozen, I think? Maybe more." Sofia shrugged. "Roman would know. He’s been handling the integration."

I looked at the training field.

At the warriors moving through their drills. At the specific rhythm of it—the way bodies moved in formation, the shouted commands from the captains, the sound of wooden practice weapons striking padding.

Iron Thorn warriors.

Men I might have grown up around. Men who had served under Maxim. Men who had—

My stomach tightened.

"Irina?" Sofia’s voice. Concerned. "Are you okay? You look pale."

"I’m fine."

"You don’t look fine."

"I’m fine." I tried to smile. It didn’t quite work. "Just—a lot of them, that’s all."

But I couldn’t stop looking.

I scanned the field. One warrior to the next. Their faces too far away to make out clearly, but their shapes—their movements—the specific way they carried themselves—

There.

A tall one. Broad shoulders. Dark hair cut short. He was in the second row, moving through the drill with the others. From this distance, I couldn’t see his face clearly. But the way he moved— 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

The way he held his sword arm.

The slight favor to his left side, like an old injury he’d learned to compensate for.

I knew that stance.

I didn’t know from where. Not exactly. It was just—familiar. The kind of familiar that hit you in the gut before your brain caught up.

"Sofia," I said quietly. "Who is that? In the second row. The tall one."

Sofia squinted. "I can’t tell from here. Why?"

"He just—looks familiar."