I woke to the unfamiliar feeling of warmth pressing down on me.
Not the gentle warmth of sunlight through a window, nor the dull ache of exhaustion that usually accompanied my mornings—but something heavier. Intentional. Watchful.
I opened my eyes slowly.
The ceiling above me was the same wooden frame I had looked at for years, yet my body refused to move the way it usually did. Every limb protested, wrapped snugly in clean bandages that smelled faintly of herbs. My head throbbed dully, like a reprimand delivered too late.
"So you're finally awake."
Her voice.
Calm, low, and dangerously close.
I turned my head—only to immediately regret it.
Avaris sat beside the bed, posture straight, eyes sharp despite the dark circles faintly shadowing them. A bowl rested in her hand, steam curling upward in slow, lazy spirals. Soup. Thick. Nourishing. The kind she only made when someone was truly unwell.
"How long…?" I croaked.
"Long enough," she replied flatly. "Don't move."
I hadn't even tried yet.
She dipped the spoon, tested the temperature with practiced ease, then brought it toward my lips.
I froze.
"…You don't have to—"
"Ilyas."
Just my name. Nothing more.
My mouth opened on instinct.
The soup was warm, rich, grounding. Each swallow felt like it was stitching me back together from the inside. I hadn't realized how hungry I was until that moment.
Avaris watched carefully as I ate, eyes tracking every subtle wince, every shallow breath.
"You collapsed," she said after a moment. "Again."
I grimaced. "I told you… I just didn't sleep well. Deadlines don't wait for—"
The spoon stopped midair.
Her gaze sharpened.
"Your work will wait," she said. "Your health will not."
There was no anger in her voice. That somehow made it worse.
I sighed weakly. "You sound like you're scolding a child."
"I am," she replied immediately, feeding me another spoonful. "And he happens to be stubborn."
I had no defense.
From the corner of my eye, I noticed a small figure hovering near the doorway.
"Arin," I murmured.
My son flinched as if struck. His usual boundless energy was gone, replaced by guilt so thick it clung to his movements. He shuffled closer, hands clenched tightly at his sides.
"I didn't mean to…" he muttered. "I swear. I won't spar anymore. Not ever. I'll just… read. Or sit. Or breathe."
I managed a weak chuckle. "No need to go that far."
Avaris shot him a look—not sharp, but firm. "You will rest today. Both of you."
Arin nodded vigorously.
Then, quietly, another presence made itself known.
Lysa approached with measured steps, holding a small cup. She placed it on the bedside table with deliberate care.
"Medicine," she said simply. "You forget to take it when you're tired."
I blinked.
The mixture was prepared exactly the way I liked it. Less bitter. Warmer than usual.
"…Thank you," I said.
She hesitated. Just for a second.
Then nodded. "Don't mention it."
As she turned away, I caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window.
My eyes.
The same shape. The same color.
Lysa was my daughter—blood of my blood. She simply carried her concern differently. Quietly. Guarded. As if emotions were weapons best kept sheathed.
Avaris noticed my gaze and gently adjusted the blanket around my shoulders.
"You are not allowed to work today," she said.
I opened my mouth.
"No."
Closed it.
She reached past me and plucked a brush from my desk, placing it out of reach. Then a stack of unfinished scrolls. Then my ink.
Each motion was calm. Absolute.
"I have commitments," I tried one last time.
"If your commitments put you in the ground," she replied evenly, "they are worthless."
That silenced me completely.
She returned to my side, lifting the bowl once more.
As she leaned closer, her sleeve slipped back slightly.
I froze.
Scars.
Old ones. Thin lines crossing her wrist—some faint, some deeper, all quiet witnesses to a past I had never asked about properly.
"…Those again," I murmured.
Avaris paused.
I glanced up at her face, then smiled weakly. "Let me guess. You're not going to tell me."
Silence.
She gently pulled her sleeve back down, movements smooth, unhurried. No panic. No guilt. Just that familiar wall.
I sighed theatrically. "As always."
She shot me a brief look—half warning, half amusement. "You talk too much for someone who's supposed to be resting."
I chuckled softly. "And you dodge questions better than anyone I know."
She didn't deny it.
I leaned back against the pillow, closing my eyes. "It's fine. Everyone has things they don't want to say."
Her hand paused on the bowl.
"…Thank you," she said quietly.
I smiled, tired but genuine. "Just don't expect me not to tease you about it later."
She snorted. Barely audible—but unmistakable.
"Eat," she said.
I obeyed.
Whatever past my wife carried, it was clearly not something she wished to share.
And that was fine.
After all, being married to Avaris had taught me one important thing:
Some mysteries were better approached slowly… preferably without getting injured again.
Though judging by the way Arin was peeking at me from the doorway with a wooden spoon still clutched in his hand—
That lesson might take a while to learn.