Irina’s POV

I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

The warrior. The one in the second row.

Three days had passed since I’d seen him from the terrace. Three days of turning it over in my head, trying to place him, trying to figure out why the sight of his silhouette had hit me the way it had.

I hadn’t said anything to Nicolas.

What would I have said? *I saw someone who looked familiar during drills. I can’t tell you who. I can’t tell you why. But I have a bad feeling.* He’d ask questions I didn’t have answers to. He’d probably lock me back in the medical wing "just to be safe."

So I said nothing.

And I kept thinking about it.

---

Nicolas had given me permission to walk the grounds.

Not the whole grounds—not yet. But the inner courtyard and the gardens closest to the residential wing. Two guards followed me whenever I went out, keeping their distance but always there. Nadia had cleared me for "light activity." Walking counted.

I took advantage.

I spent an hour outside every morning now. Sometimes more. Sitting on the stone bench near the rose beds, letting the sun hit my face. Walking slow loops around the fountain. Nothing ambitious. Just—being outside.

It was helping.

The nausea was still bad in the mornings, but it passed faster when I was moving. The exhaustion was still constant, but the air helped. My skin had color again. My hands had stopped shaking when I reached for things.

Small things. Good things.

But every time I stepped into the courtyard, my eyes drifted to the far archway. The one that led to the training yards.

I never went closer.

I told myself it was because Nadia wouldn’t approve. Too much walking, too much exertion. But the truth was simpler.

I was afraid.

---

The Iron Thorn warriors were here.

Nicolas had confirmed it when I’d finally asked—casually, over dinner, pretending I was just curious. A few dozen had chosen to join his forces. They’d been integrated into the training rotation for the past two weeks. They lived in the barracks on the east side of the grounds. They ate in a separate mess hall. They had their own schedule.

"Why?" he’d asked, watching my face.

"Just wondering."

He hadn’t pushed. But I’d seen the way his eyes had lingered. He knew I wasn’t telling him something. He just hadn’t decided yet whether to ask about it.

I was counting on him not asking.

Because the truth was—my father’s family had fled. Nicolas had told me that himself. The house was empty. They’d run before he’d arrived. So the men from Iron Thorn, the ones who were here now, should all be strangers.

Except.

Except I’d seen that silhouette. That stance. That particular way of holding a sword arm. And something in my body had recognized it before my brain had.

I didn’t know what that meant.

I was trying very hard not to find out.

---

It was mid-morning when I went outside.

The sun was high. Warm but not hot. The kind of day that made being alive feel like a decision instead of an accident.

I settled on the bench near the fountain. The guards positioned themselves at the two entrances to the courtyard, far enough to give me space, close enough to see me. I’d stopped noticing them most of the time. Which was probably the point.

I pulled my knees up. Tucked my feet under me. Closed my eyes and let the sun do its work.

For a few minutes, I let myself not think about anything.

Then I heard them.

Voices. Young. Excited. Coming down the path from the servants’ quarters.

I opened my eyes just as three of them rounded the corner.

Maids. All young—maybe sixteen, seventeen. They were walking close together, heads bent toward each other, talking in rapid whispers punctuated by muffled giggles. One of them was clutching the arm of another, laughing so hard she was practically bent over.

They didn’t see me at first.

Then the one in front looked up. Spotted me on the bench.

She froze.

The other two slammed into her back. The laughing stopped instantly. All three of them stared at me with eyes that had gone very wide, very fast.

"Oh—" The first one recovered first. Dropped into a hasty curtsy. "Miss Irina. We didn’t—we didn’t see you. We’re so sorry—"

The other two scrambled to follow. Curtsies. Dipped heads. The specific posture of servants who’d just been caught doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.

"It’s fine," I said.

They didn’t move.

"Really," I said. "It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong."

The one in front—the boldest of them, clearly—straightened up slowly. She was the shortest, round-cheeked, with freckles across her nose. She gave me a nervous smile.

"We didn’t mean to disturb you, miss."

"You’re not disturbing me."

"We just—we were on our way to—"

"You don’t have to explain."

She stopped. Bit her lip. Glanced at her friends. They were still frozen, still staring at me like I might bite.

I suddenly felt ridiculous.

I was eighteen. I was barely older than they were. And they were looking at me like I was the queen herself.

Which—I supposed—was technically what I was.

I pushed that thought away.

"What were you laughing about?" I asked.

All three of them flushed.

It was so immediate, so uniform, that I almost laughed. Their faces went pink in a matter of seconds. The bold one glanced at her friends again. One of them made a tiny squeaking sound that might have been mortification.

"Nothing, miss," the bold one said quickly.

"Nothing?"

"Just—girl stuff."

"Girl stuff."

"Yes, miss."

I looked at them. At the three red faces. At the way they were trying very hard not to look at each other because it would make them laugh again.

"You can tell me," I said. "I won’t tell anyone."

They hesitated.

The one on the right—the tallest, with a long braid—finally broke. She couldn’t hold it in anymore.

"The new warriors," she blurted. "The ones from—from the other territory. We were talking about—"

She stopped. Realizing, maybe, that "the other territory" was *my* territory. Her face went from pink to crimson.

"Oh gods," she whispered. "I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t mean—"

"It’s fine." I almost smiled. "You were saying?"

"They’re just—" The bold one cut in, clearly trying to rescue her friend. "They’re very—um. They’re—"

"Handsome," the third one said. Small. Barely audible.

All three of them exploded into stifled giggles.

This time I did smile.

I couldn’t help it. Something about the absolute normalcy of it—three teenage girls blushing over cute soldiers—hit me in a place I hadn’t expected. It felt so *young.* So simple. The kind of conversation girls were supposed to be having at their age.

The kind of conversation I’d never had.

I’d never giggled about a boy with anyone. Not once. At seventeen I’d been in a cell. At sixteen I’d been cleaning blood off my father’s floors while Maxim watched and laughed. At fifteen—

I didn’t want to think about fifteen.

"Really," I said. "That’s what this is about?"

"Yes, miss," the bold one said. She’d relaxed a little, seeing I wasn’t angry. "They’re all so—we’ve never seen so many new faces at once. And some of them are—well. You know."

"I don’t, actually."

"They’re nice to look at," she said. Frankly. "That’s all."

The tallest one nodded vigorously. "There’s one with these eyes—they’re green, but a different green than the king’s. More like—like moss. You know?"

"Like moss," I repeated.

"And there’s the one with the scar on his jaw," the third one chimed in, gaining courage. "He doesn’t talk much but when he does, it’s—"

"Don’t," the bold one warned her. Then, to me, apologetic: "She has a thing for quiet ones."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"Oh!" she said. "Miss Irina—did you know?"

"Know what?"

"There’s one of them who looks like you!"

The world went very quiet.

The other two maids were laughing at something the bold one had said, but their voices faded to background noise. I couldn’t hear them anymore. All I could hear was the maid’s voice, still bright, still innocent, still completely unaware of what she’d just said.

"Looks like...me?" I repeated.