Chapter 44 – Aftermath
The shouts in the arena faded fast.
They always did.
Once the healers were sure Ezra's heart wasn't going to stop and Erynd's shoulder wasn't going to fall off, the crowd began to peel away in layers—students buzzing in tight clusters, instructors arguing about rules, priests muttering about "dangerous precedents."
Ezra walked out under his own power, jaw set, steps uneven.
His wife moved beside him, one hand hovering just behind his arm, close enough to catch, not quite daring to touch.
Noel trailed a few paces back.
Not beside them.
Not fully apart.
Just… hovering. Like there was still a wall of lightning between parent and child that nobody else could see.
The campus head finally released Erynd with a long-suffering, "There will be formal reports," and a quieter, "Please, for the love of the Emperor, no more noble duels this month."
"You say that like I schedule them," Erynd muttered.
He was free to go.
He didn't.
He watched Noel disappear into one of the side corridors, following the faint glow of Staff healing spells, then adjusted the weight of the claymore on his back and went after her.
The letter felt heavy in his inner pocket.
***
The infirmary had been a battlefield triage centre during the hunt.
Now, it was almost tranquil.
A few beds held students with bandaged limbs or overstrained mana channels. Someone snored quietly behind a curtain. At the far end, a healer pretended to be deeply invested in a clipboard and then, with suspicious timing, slipped into the adjoining room and pulled the door half-closed.
Noel stood by one of the high windows.
The late light caught on her hair—still worn long at her mother's insistence—turning the strands into a soft halo. Her hands were braced on the stone sill, knuckles pale.
She didn't turn when his boots clicked on the floor.
"You should be in a bed," she said. Her voice was rough from shouting his name in the arena. "After using that much mana."
"Beds are boring," he said.
She huffed, but it came out thin.
He stopped beside her, close enough to see the tension in her shoulders and the faint tremor in her fingers.
Outside, the Academy courtyard went on like nothing had happened—students crossing between buildings, some glancing up at the arena, most already dragged back into the rhythm of classes and gossip.
"My father accepted," Noel said, very quietly. "In front of everyone. I heard him."
"I did too," Erynd said.
"He called me…" She swallowed. "Her."
The word shook, then settled.
Like something that had spent years lodged in her throat and finally slid into place.
Erynd watched her profile.
Relief.
Fear.
Disbelief.
All fighting for space.
"And he called you…" she added, a faint, incredulous smile twitching at her mouth, "his potential son-in-law."
Erynd grimaced.
"That part," he said, "was not on my list of expected outcomes."
A small, helpless laugh broke out of her, half-sob, half-giggle, gone almost as soon as it came.
Silence followed.
The air between them felt thick with things unsaid.
He let it stretch for a moment, then exhaled.
"I came to talk about that," he said.
"The son-in-law thing?" Noel blurted, flushing. "I didn't— I mean, I didn't know he'd say it like that, I just—"
"The letter," Erynd cut in gently.
She went still.
He tapped his jacket, where the parchment lay folded flat.
"I still have it," he said.
"I… know," she said, eyes dropping to his hand. "You took it. In the infirmary. After the hunt."
He nodded.
"I'm keeping it," he said.
Her breath hitched.
"But I'm not accepting it," he added.
The words landed like a clean cut.
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
"Oh," she said. "I… see."
He could almost hear the thoughts spinning behind her eyes—gratitude and humiliation and hurt and relief all trying to speak at once.
He leaned his shoulder lightly against the wall beside her, mirroring her stance.
*In my old world,* he thought, watching a pair of first-years argue over a dropped book in the courtyard below, *people wrote entire books about this.*
Not about marriage letters and duelling fathers and gods named Vastriel.
About what it did to a person to grow up being told that everything they were was wrong. About how trauma warped attachment. About how often the first person who made you feel safe became the centre of your universe overnight.
They'd had neat terms for it.
Gender dysphoria.
Minority stress.
Attachment patterns.
Academic phrases that boiled down to: *if the whole world keeps stepping on you, the first outstretched hand will feel like salvation, even if it's just another human with too many problems of their own.*
Noel Verdan, twelve years old, shoved into the wrong box since birth, nearly eaten by a monster and then dragged into the centre of a god-blessed duel, had picked up the sharpest tradition she knew and aimed it at herself and him at the same time.
It made sense.
It was also exactly the kind of thing those old books had quietly warned against: confusing escape with destiny.
Out loud, he said something much simpler.
"I'm not angry you gave it to me," he said. "I'm not offended. And I'm not… throwing it back in your face."
Her shoulders loosened a fraction.
"I am," he went on, "refusing to let this letter be just a rebellion against your father with my name written on the front."
She flinched.
He didn't soften it.
"You wrote it after almost dying," he said. "After a lifetime of being called wrong every time you reached for what felt right. After realising your father was more upset about dresses and letters than he was about you bleeding out in a forest."
He turned his head enough to meet her eyes.
"Some of what you feel for me is mine," he said. "Some of it is about the fact I stepped in front of something horrible for you. Some of it is because I told your father he was hurting you. And some of it—" he tapped his jacket "—is everything you never got to shout at him, wrapped up in the first choice you were allowed to make."
Tears welled again, fast and hot.
She didn't look away.
He let the silence sit between them, steady as a held stance.
"I don't want to be just your rebellion," he said at last, quieter. "I don't want this letter to be you grabbing the sharpest symbol you can find and swinging it at the past until it bleeds."
Her voice came out raw.
"I… I wanted to thank you," she said. "And to choose something. To say, 'this is mine' before Father or the Church decided everything for me again. Letters like that are always sent by people with power in our house. I wanted… I wanted to do it first. For once."
She laughed, short and bitter.
"I knew it was too fast," she whispered. "Too much. I just… couldn't not. It felt like if I didn't do something, I'd go back into the box and never come out."
Erynd exhaled through his nose.
"That," he said, "I understand."
*Better than you know,* he added silently.
The loop that had broken his first life had been different in details, but not in shape. Cages came in many kinds.
"I'm not going to answer the letter now," he said. "Not with a 'yes' and not with a 'no.' I'm just going to… hold it."
Her brows drew together.
"Why?" she whispered. "If you're not… if you don't…"
"I'm waiting," he said simply. "For you to figure out who you are when you're not pushing against him. For you to know what you want because you want it—because it makes you happy—not just because it makes him angry."
He paused.
"And when you can look at yourself in a mirror," he added, "and say 'I am her' without needing your father to be wrong for it to be true… then we can talk about what this letter means."
She bit her lip hard, colour flooding her face.
"What if," she said, voice shaking, "what if I do that. And I'm still… and you…"
"Then," he said, gentler, "you can ask me again. Properly. Not through tradition. Not through panic. Just… as you. And I'll answer you properly. As me."
He hesitated, then let a wry note creep into his voice.
"And if, by then, I've died doing something stupid," he said, "you have my permission to call me an idiot at my grave."
She made a strangled sound—half laugh, half sob.
On instinct, he reached out and rested his hand lightly on her shoulder.
She didn't flinch.
"In the meantime," he said, "I'm still here. You're still here. Your father just promised, in front of half the Academy and a god's name, to try and be less of an idiot. That's more than most people in your position get."
Her head bowed.
"And you won't… avoid me?" she asked. "Because it's awkward? Because you know how I feel?"
He snorted.
"I have an empress hugging me in class, a duke's daughter trying to turn the training yard into a bonfire, and a commoner girl who looks at me like she's planning something every time I blink," he said. "Awkward moved in weeks ago."
Her shoulders shook again—this time with a softer, less painful laugh.
"I'm not going anywhere," he added, softer still. "Friend. Patient. Co-conspirator. Whatever you can carry right now without breaking."
She looked up.
Her eyes were red and wet and bright.
"Thank you," she whispered.
She stepped forward before he could say anything else and hugged him.
It wasn't desperate, like Olivia's sudden grab in the classroom.
It wasn't rough and competitive, like Tamara's shoulder slams.
Noel's arms folded around him carefully, as if she was afraid he'd disappear if she held on too loosely—but also afraid he'd shatter if she held on too tight.
He brought his free arm up and rested his hand between her shoulder blades.
Up close, she smelled faintly of healing salve and chapel incense.
Her voice was muffled against his shoulder.
"I knew it was too early," she said. "Even when I pushed that letter at you. I just… needed you to see it. To see me."
"I saw you before the letter," he said quietly. "This just added paperwork."
She let out a shaky little laugh and pulled back enough to swipe at her eyes.
"And I knew," she said, "that you'd say something like this. That you wouldn't pretend it was nothing. Or wave it around. Or grab it like a prize."
She took a breath.
"Thank you," she said again. "For keeping it. For… waiting. For not using it to hurt me back."
He shrugged, glancing toward the window so she didn't have to hold his gaze if it got too much.
"Waiting is easy," he said. "You're the one doing the hard part."
A wobbly smile tugged at her mouth.
"Midterms?" she said suddenly, clinging to the safest topic in reach.
He groaned.
"Don't remind me," he said.
"Too late," she murmured. "You promised to let me help you not fail theory, remember?"
"I'm not failing theory," he said. "I'm failing 'pretending not to know more than the professor.' Completely different subject."
She snorted.
"Then I'll tutor you in humility," she said.
"Good luck," he replied.
She hesitated.
"I'm… still going to like you," she said, very quietly. "Even if half of this turns out to be rebellion. Even if you never answer the letter the way I want."
He blinked.
"That's your problem," he said, but there was no heat in it.
Her smile turned small and real.
"Thank you," she said, one last time.
He tapped his jacket.
"Hold me to this later," he said. "When you're ready. Not before."
She nodded.
He turned and headed for the door, the claymore's weight a familiar drag between his shoulders, the letter a steady pressure over his ribs.
Halfway down the corridor, the System finally chimed.
[ System ]
[ Flag Updated: Noel Verdan – Confession Deferred ]
[ Route Adjustment: Cheap Clear Skipped. Long Route Engaged. ]
Erynd rolled his eyes internally.
"Of course," he thought.
He stepped back out into a world that still expected him to sit midterms after monsters, duels, and a noble family's entire future rearranging itself.
At least, he thought, patting the pocket where the letter rested, one thing in that mess was on pause by choice, not by fear.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.