Kaydence had been awake for some time.
The ache in his side had dulled to a throb, but it was the silence that kept him still—the kind that wrapped around him like gauze, thick and careful.
He watched her descend the stairs.
She hadn't noticed him.
Her arms were full—bread, meat, a bottle of wine. Her lip was split, blood dried at the corner. Her eyes were distant, her steps slow. She looked like someone carrying more than food.
She looked like someone carrying years.
Kaydence didn't speak.
He studied the way she moved, the way her fingers lingered on the note she'd tucked into her apron, the way she whispered to herself as if no one else could hear.
"I have to keep going."
He felt it then—not pity, but recognition.
She was surviving.
Just like him.
But there was something else. Something he hadn't expected.
She hadn't flinched when she saw him bleeding. Hadn't hesitated to help. Hadn't asked questions he wasn't ready to answer.
And now, even bruised and bloodied, she walked like someone who refused to break.
Kaydence shifted slightly, the movement catching her attention.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, neither spoke.
Kaydence shifted, bracing his hand against the wall as he rose to his feet. His muscles protested, but he pushed through the ache, steadying himself with slow, deliberate movements.
Meisha was still lost in thought, her gaze distant, the note folded tightly in her hand deep in her pocket.
He crossed the room quietly, his steps careful.
When he reached her, he extended his arms.
"Let me help," he said, voice low but firm.
Meisha startled, her breath catching as she turned to find him standing beside her. She hadn't heard him move. Her thoughts had been too loud.
She hesitated, then allowed him to take the bread, the meat, the wine—his hands steady despite the pain.
Kaydence studied her face, the dried blood at her lip, the weariness in her eyes.
"Are you… alright?" he asked.
She looked away, just for a moment.
Then she deflected, her voice calm and practiced.
"I'm fine," she said. "You must be starving. I was gone longer than I meant to be."
Kaydence didn't press.
But he didn't stop watching her, either.
He carried the food to the small table near the hearth, setting it down with care. The wine bottle clinked softly against the wood.
Meisha followed, her steps slower now, her thoughts still tangled.
And in the quiet that settled between them, something unspoken began to take root.
She said she was fine.
But Kaydence had spent years reading battlefield silences, the tremble in a soldier's grip, the way pain hides behind routine.
Meisha's voice was steady, her hands busy, her posture composed.
But her lip was split.
Her eyes didn't meet his.
And her words— "You must be starving"—were a shield, not a bridge.
He didn't press. Not yet.
But the deflection settled in his chest like a stone.
She was protecting something. Maybe herself. Maybe someone else.
Kaydence leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the ache in his ribs forgotten.
She reminded him of soldiers who stitched their own wounds in the dark.
Of commanders who never let their troops see them bleed.
Of himself.
He didn't know what had happened while she was gone.
But Kaydence knew this: whatever it was, it hadn't broken her. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, and gently reached for her wrist.
Meisha froze.
His touch wasn't forceful—just enough to guide her.
He led her to the edge of the bed and sat beside her, the mattress dipping slightly under their weight.
She didn't pull away.
But she didn't look at him either.
"Please," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what happened."
She stared at the floor, fingers tightening around the handkerchief still stained with blood.
The sight of her—bruised, quiet, holding herself together with threads—compelled him. Not just to know. But to protect.
Meisha inhaled slowly, then deflected with practiced ease.
"How's your wound?" she asked, her voice calm, her gaze still averted. "You should eat. You need strength."
Kaydence didn't answer.
He saw it now—the way her shoulders curled inward, the way her voice softened not out of care, but out of defense.
He stayed on topic.
"You've put your life at great risk to hide me here."
She looked at him then.
Her eyes didn't waver, but they shimmered with something raw. Something she hadn't meant to show.
But Kaydence didn't waver.
He sat beside her, close but careful, watching the way she held herself together with silence and deflection.
"You've put your life at great risk to hide me here," he said again, voice low, steady.
Meisha didn't respond.
She stared at the floor, her fingers still clutching the blood-stained handkerchief, her breath shallow.
Kaydence leaned in just slightly, not to press—but to offer.
"Let me repay you somehow," he said. "Even if it's just by listening. You don't have to carry it alone."
His words were gentle.
Unexpected.
And they came from someone of the demon race—someone she had every reason to fear, to distrust.
But they broke through.
The tears she'd been holding back began to fall, slow and silent, tracing the curve of her cheek.
She didn't sob.
She didn't collapse.
She simply let herself feel.
Kaydence didn't speak. He let the silence hold her.
Meisha wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve, her voice trembling but clear.
"Okay," she said softly. "You can start by telling me who you really are."
She turned to him, eyes steady now, the fire returning.
"Second in command… General Kaydence Oren."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kaydence's breath caught at the sound of his name.
"General Kaydence."
She said it with clarity. No accusation. No fear. Just truth.
He looked at her—really looked—and saw the tears still glistening on her cheeks, the strength it had taken to speak, the quiet demand behind her question.
He hesitated.
Not because he didn't want to answer.
But because he hadn't spoken his name aloud in days.
Weeks?
He'd lost track.
"I am," he said finally, voice low. "Or… I was."
Meisha didn't interrupt.
She waited.
Kaydence leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly.
"I led the southern flank under King Burruk. We were stationed near the border of the Nykon forest—monitoring rogue clans, keeping the peace. Or trying to."
His jaw tightened.
"We were ambushed. Night raid. No warning. They came from the trees—fast, coordinated. Not like the usual skirmishes. This was… deliberate."
He paused, the memory flickering behind his eyes.
"I was separated. Injured. I don't know how far I ran. I just remember the cold, the blood, and then… you."
He turned to her, eyes steady.
"I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I'd live. But you didn't hesitate."
Meisha said nothing.
But her silence was no longer guarded—it was listening.
Kaydence continued, softer now.
"I've seen war. I've seen cruelty. But I've never seen someone risk everything for a stranger."
He looked down at his hands.
"So, if you want truth… you have it. I'm second in command, General Kaydence Syire of the Demon King's court. And I owe you, my life."
Kaydence's gaze remained steady as Meisha exhaled, the weight of her silence finally lifting.
"My name is Meisha," she said, voice low but clear. "Meisha Emberwyn. I am the daughter of Alyra and Daman Emberwyn."
She stood, her posture straightening as if reclaiming something long buried.
"My mother is a renowned healer. A savior of this town."
The words hung in the air like incense—soft, fragrant, undeniable.
Kaydence's eyes widened.
"Alyra Emberwyn…" he echoed, breath catching.
He moved too quickly.
Pain shot through his side, sharp and sudden. He gasped, cradling his wound as fresh blood seeped through the bandage.
Meisha rushed forward instinctively, her hand reaching out—but stopping just short of touching him.
Kaydence gritted his teeth, steadying himself against the bedpost.
"I've heard her name," he said through clenched breath. "Even in the demon territories. Her healing… her defiance… it's legend."
He looked up at Meisha, eyes burning with something more than pain.
"And you're her daughter."
Meisha didn't speak.
She didn't need to.
Her silence was confirmation.
And in that moment, something shifted.
Not just between them—but within them.
The moment Meisha saw the blood, her body moved before her mind could catch up.
She turned sharply toward the shelves lining the far wall, her fingers already reaching for the familiar jars and cloths. Dried herbs, salves, clean wraps, and a small vial of tonic—each item chosen with practiced precision.
She laid them out on the table, her movements swift but careful.
As she crushed the herbs and stirred the salve, her voice broke the silence.
"What do you mean you've heard her name throughout the demon territories?"
Her tone was even, but Kaydence could hear the edge beneath it—part disbelief, part defense, part something else.
He shifted on the bed, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side, blood seeping through the bandage.
"Because her name carries weight," he said, watching her work. "Even among those who were taught to see humans as lesser."
Meisha didn't look up.
She poured the tonic into a small cup, the scent of crushed valerian and golden root rising into the air.
"She never sought fame," she murmured. "Only to heal."
Kaydence nodded slowly. "That's exactly why her name spread."
He paused, then added, "There are stories—of a healer who crossed battle lines to tend to the wounded. Who defied kings and warlords. Who saved lives without asking which side they bled for."
Meisha's hands stilled.
She looked at him then—really looked.
And for the first time, she saw not just a soldier, not just a demon, but someone who had carried her mother's name like a lantern in the dark.
Kaydence's voice was soft, reverent.
"News of your mother's death and the defeat of Goblin King Adle reached far beyond the Ashen Vale."
Meisha didn't speak.
She had finished preparing the salves and wraps and now sat beside him on the edge of the bed. Her hands moved with practiced care—lifting the bloodied bandage, cleaning the wound with warm cloth and crushed herbs.
Kaydence winced but didn't pull away.
"Even King Burruk held a vigil of his own," he added, his gaze distant. "In her honor."
Meisha's hands paused for a breath, then resumed.
The scent of golden root and sage filled the room.
But her mind was elsewhere.
Who were you, Mother… before me?
She'd never asked.
And her parents had never offered.
Alyra Emberwyn had always been Mother—gentle, wise, steady. But now, with every word Kaydence spoke, Meisha saw the outline of someone else. A woman who crossed battlefields. Who defied kings. Who was mourned by demons and humans alike.
A woman who had once been more than a mother.
More than a healer.
More than what she let me see.
Meisha pressed the salve gently into Kaydence's side, her fingers trembling just slightly.
She didn't speak.
But something inside her had shifted.
And the silence between them was no longer empty—it was full of questions neither of them had yet dared to ask.
Meisha completed dressing his wound and handed him the cup of herbal tonic she had prepared, the earthy scent of crushed herbs rising with the steam. Kaydence took it with his right hand, lifted it to his nose, and recoiled slightly.
"This smells awful," he muttered, brow furrowed. "Do I really have to drink this?"
Meisha let out a small chuckle, the sound light and unexpected.
"If you want to get better and report back to your squadron," she said, her voice teasing but firm, "then yes. You do have to drink it."
Kaydence gave her a look—half glare, half grin—and tilted the cup back.
The bitterness hit immediately.
He grimaced, swallowing hard, then exhaled like he'd just survived a battlefield.
Meisha shook her head, amused. "You demons are supposed to be tough."
"We are," he said, wiping his mouth. "Just not against whatever that was."
She smiled again—soft, real.
And for a moment, the basement felt less like a hiding place and more like a sanctuary.
Meisha gave a small nod of approval as Kaydence finished the tonic.
"Well done," she said with a hint of pride. "Most people gag halfway through."
Kaydence handed her the empty cup, then leaned back slowly, resting his shoulders against the wall. His breath was steadier now, the pain dulled to a manageable throb.
Meisha stood and moved across the room, returning the jars and cloths to their shelves with quiet efficiency. The rhythm of care—familiar, grounding.
Then her stomach growled.
Loudly.
She froze.
A beat passed before she let out a soft laugh, hand instinctively resting on her abdomen.
"I… forgot to eat," she admitted, half to herself. "With everything that happened today…"
Kaydence's eyes flicked toward her, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"I heard," he said dryly. "Sounded like a war drum."
Meisha rolled her eyes, but the smile lingered.
"I suppose it's time we both eat," she said, walking toward the small bundle of bread and meat she'd brought in earlier.
She paused, fingers brushing the wine bottle.
The note still sat folded beside it.
And for a moment, the room felt full—not just of hunger and healing, but of quiet gratitude.
Meisha moved toward the small hearth tucked into the corner of the basement, gathering the meat she'd received earlier, along with a handful of root vegetables and dried herbs from her stores. The rhythm of preparation steadied her—chopping, stirring, layering flavor with memory.
Kaydence watched from the bed, his body relaxed but his eyes alert.
"I can help," he offered, shifting slightly forward.
Meisha turned, brow raised.
"You can barely sit up straight," she said, half amused, half stern. "Your dressing is fresh. You're not lifting a finger."
Kaydence leaned back again, surrendering with a quiet grin.
"Bossy," he muttered.
"Efficient," she corrected, tossing chopped carrots into the pot.
The scent of simmering meat and herbs began to fill the room—thyme, garlic, a hint of wild fennel. It wrapped around them like a blanket, softening the stone walls and the silence between them.
Meisha stirred the pot slowly, her thoughts drifting as the broth thickened.
Kaydence watched her—not just the way she moved, but the way her presence filled the space. Not loud. Not demanding. Just… steady.
And for the first time since waking in this hidden place, he felt something close to peace.
The stew had thickened into something rich and fragrant—tender meat softened by slow heat, vegetables steeped in golden broth, herbs blooming with warmth.
Meisha took the wooden ladle and poured the stew into two bowls, steam curling into the air like a quiet offering.
With a bowl in each hand, she walked them over to the table and set them down gently.
Meisha walked back around and placed the lid on the cast iron pot and tucked it onto the low shelf near the window. As she straightened, her gaze drifted outside.
Night had fallen.
And with it, the first snow of the season.
Duskmere's rooftops were already dusted in white, the flakes drifting slow and deliberate, like the gods were painting silence across the town.
She moved to the burner, adding two thick logs to the fire. The flames crackled in response, casting a warm glow across the stone walls.
"It looks as if the gods favored you today," she said softly, watching the snow fall.
Kaydence, still seated at the table, turned toward her.
"And why is that, My Lady?" he replied, voice tinged with curiosity.
Meisha walked back around, with two wooden cups stacked in one hand, and two spoons in the other. She placed them beside the bowls of stew, the scent of thyme and roasted meat curling into the air.
"The fall snow has come early in Duskmere," she said, settling into her seat. "Not only would you have bled out if I hadn't found you… but you would've frozen to death from the cold."
Kaydence looked toward the window, watching the snow gather in quiet layers.
Then he looked at her.
"So, I owe my life to a healer… and to the weather."
Meisha gave a small smile, her fingers curling around the spoon.
"Mostly the healer," she said.
They began to eat, the warmth of the stew grounding them both.
Outside, the snow continued to fall.
Kaydence took his first bite of the stew, the warmth spreading through his chest like a balm.
He paused, savoring the flavor, then looked up.
"This is… incredible," he said, voice low but sincere. "Truly."
Meisha glanced over, a flicker of surprise in her eyes before she smiled.
"Thank you," she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "I almost forgot—I brought wine and bread too."
She stood and moved to the shelf, retrieving the bottle of deep red wine. The cork gave a soft pop as she opened it, and she poured carefully into the wooden cups, the liquid catching the firelight.
Then she sliced two thick pieces of baked bread—crisp on the outside, soft within—and placed them beside their bowls.
Kaydence watched her from the bed, quietly scooting the table closer to reach.
His eyes followed her movements—the way her fingers curled around the knife, the way her hair fell across her cheek, the quiet grace in how she moved through the space.
He didn't speak.
But inwardly, he noted it all.
The curve of her jaw.
The steadiness in her hands.
The way her presence filled the room without demanding it.
Beautiful, he thought. Not just in form—but in the way she carries herself. In the way she saves without asking.
Meisha returned to the table, setting the cups down gently.
"Here," she said, offering him one. "To warmth. And to not freezing to death."
Kaydence took the cup, his fingers brushing hers.
"I'll drink to that."
They drank quietly after the toast, the wine warm and earthy, softening the edges of the day.
Meisha took slow bites of her stew, savoring the quiet.
Kaydence, however, hadn't taken his eyes off her.
His gaze lingered—not just in admiration, but in concern.
The gash on her lip caught his attention again, stark against the softness of her face.
He set his spoon down.
"Lady Meisha."
She glanced up, mid-bite.
"Yes?"
"You have yet to inform me how you obtained that scar on your lip."
Meisha didn't answer.
She continued eating, her posture unchanged, hoping the question would dissolve into the steam rising from their bowls.
It didn't.
"I'm not letting this go," Kaydence said, his voice quiet but firm—like someone who'd learned to read silence as well as speech.
Meisha turned to face him, her expression flickering with subtle shock.
He mirrored her look playfully, raising his brows in exaggerated mimicry.
She blinked, caught off guard.
Then—despite herself—she let out a breath of laughter, short and soft.
Kaydence leaned forward slightly, the firelight catching the edge of his smile.
"I'm not asking to pry," he said. "I'm asking because I care."
Meisha's smile faded, not in rejection—but in the weight of being seen.
She looked down at her bowl.
And for the first time, considered answering.
Meisha filled her low cup with more wine, the deep red swirling like ink in the firelight. She brought it to her lips and took a long, steady gulp—bracing herself.
Then, setting the cup down with quiet finality, she met Kaydence's gaze.
"I'll answer whatever questions you may have for me truthfully," she said, voice low but unwavering. "As long as you do the same."
The room fell still.
Outside, the snow whispered against the window.
Inside, two truths waited to be spoken