Elena barely slept.
Being confined to her room for the rest of the previous day—Soren's word remain sounding far too much like stay put—had grated on every one of her nerves. She felt trapped, restless, bored, irritated, and embarrassingly aware that she had obeyed him.
Never again, she told herself.
Probably.
So when Soren appeared without warning the next morning—filling her doorway like a very large, very controlling reminder of her situation—Elena didn't bother pretending she was pleased.
He ignored it.
"You will meet someone today," he said.
No apology. No "good morning." Just: You will.
"Another noble who thinks I'm a walking omen?" she muttered.
A faint sound escaped him—almost amusement.
"No. Someone who will not stare at you like a threat. My sister."
Elena blinked. "You have a sister?"
His face stayed composed, but something in his jaw shifted. "Yes."
That was all he offered.
He led her down a sunlit corridor softened by embroidered drapes and carved stone flowers, a surprising contrast to the citadel's harsh stone. The warmth of the space softened her irritation… barely.
Soren stopped at a carved wooden door and opened it. "Inside."
Elena stepped into a room glowing with afternoon light—shelves of fabrics, sketches, paintings, embroidery hoops. A young woman looked up, her dark hair arranged in elegant waves, her hazel eyes bright with curiosity.
And the moment she saw Elena, she smiled.
"Oh," she said, rising gracefully, "so you're the woman my brother refuses to explain properly."
Elena opened her mouth—but the woman was already crossing the room.
"I'm Claire." She took Elena's hands warmly. "And please ignore Soren's brooding. He was born dramatic."
Behind Elena, Soren inhaled through his nose—an elegant, offended sound.
"Claire," he said, "Elena is still adjusting. Do not overwhelm her."
Claire waved him off. "I overwhelm no one. Except you."
Then Claire's gaze flicked down to Elena's outfit.
"Oh dear," she breathed, eyes widening theatrically. "You're still in that… shirt and trousers."
Elena glanced down at her conference T-shirt and jeans. "Yes…?"
Claire gasped, horrified in a charming way. "Soren! You didn't get her clothes?! She has been in your citadel for how long?"
Soren straightened. "I was considering priorities."
Claire put a hand to her forehead. "She's in a foreign realm, Soren, not attending a training session at the academy!"
Elena nearly laughed. Soren looked… offended. And unusually cute in a vaguely murderous way.
Claire turned to Elena. "Ignore him. He forgets people need things like comfort. And fabric."
"Leave her with me," Claire said firmly to Soren. "Before you scowl her into bolting back to the forest."
Soren looked at Elena—checking, asking permission in that subtle way of his.
She nodded.
He inclined his head and left the room, the door closing behind him with a soft click.
Claire clapped her hands. "Wonderful! Now that the storm cloud is gone, let's fix your wardrobe crisis."
Elena let out a breath. "He's very…"
"Intense? Brooding? Emotionally constipated? Unnecessarily tall?"
"…Yes."
Claire laughed, bright and warm. "He's nicer than he looks. Or acts. Or sounds."
She pulled open a beautifully carved wardrobe. Elena's jaw dropped. Gowns in rich jewel tones, pale silks, shimmering embroidery—an entire world of fabric she'd never imagined.
"Since someone—" Claire shot a pointed look at the door "—forgot the basics of hospitality, let's start with something elegant."
She lifted a deep emerald gown that shimmered with silver thread. "This will make your eyes impossible to ignore."
Behind a screen, Elena changed. The fabric fell around her effortlessly, cool at first, then warming.
When she emerged, Claire gasped softly.
"Oh—perfect. You look like you walked out of one of our stories."
Heat crept up Elena's throat. But when she saw her reflection in polished metal, something inside her shifted.Not belonging.But something adjacent. Something… possible.
"I don't know how to thank you," she whispered.
Claire took her hands. "You're alone in a strange world. That makes you my responsibility now. And my friend, if you'll let me."
A knot tightened in Elena's chest—gratitude, relief, something like hope.
"I'd like that," she said.
Claire beamed. "Wonderful. Now come. I want to show you the infirmary."
Elena froze. "The what?"
"The infirmary," Claire repeated cheerfully. "A place where healers treat the injured. I've heard you're observant. Curious. And—importantly—not squeamish."
Elena blinked. "Who told you that?"
"Soren, of course."
Elena nearly tripped."He said that?"
Claire shrugged. "He notices everything. Especially when he pretends not to."
They walked down a quieter corridor lined with ancient tapestries. Claire pushed open double doors carved with a serpent and staff.
Elena stepped inside—and felt her world tilt.
Rows of cots. Healers working methodically. Jars of herbs, poultices, tinctures.
And a young soldier with a poorly wrapped bandage. Instinct pulled her forward—analysis switching on automatically. Swelling. Incorrect pressure. Dried poultice.
She reached for the bandage—
Then stopped.Hand frozen midair.
Claire saw everything.But her gaze held only understanding.
"You've done this before," she said softly.
Elena swallowed. "Yes. In my world."
Claire's expression warmed. "Then perhaps your place here is not as uncertain as you fear."
Elena looked at the healer's tools—simple, imperfect, familiar—and felt something inside her finally, blessedly, settle.
Not safety.Not clarity.
But a beginning.
And beneath it all, she felt something else too:
A shadow of attention.Not smothering—but unmistakably Soren's.As if the citadel itself whispered her movements back to him.
As if he was aware of her even when he pretended not to be.