A portal tore open in the clearing.
Dexmon stepped through without slowing, the girl still in his arms, blood soaking through his shirt as the world folded in on itself.
They emerged in the healing wing of Drakenfell, bright stone and sharp incense replacing forest and blood.
He moved with purpose.
"Healing protocols—" someone started.
Dexmon walked past them.
"Your Highness," Hyran said, already bowing as the portal sealed behind them.
"She took a blade to the side," Dexmon said, his voice clipped. Saying it out loud felt like grinding glass into his chest.
Alaric was moving before the sentence finished, golden light blooming from his palms. He assessed the wound with a single, practiced glance.
The gash knit slowly.
Too slowly.
Hyran's mouth thinned. "I don't like that."
"Prince Dexmon," Alaric said, looking up from her wound. "Allow me to take her. We will get her stabilized."
Dexmon ignored him.
He carried her straight into a private chamber reserved for royals alone and laid her gently on the wide bed, as if she might break if he wasn't careful. His hands lingered a fraction longer than necessary before he forced himself to step back.
Hyran followed, robes whispering over stone. Alaric rolled up his sleeves with the resigned air of a man about to work under a very large, very armed shadow.
Golden light poured from his hands over her body.
The wound still resisted his healing.
"Long term silver exposure," Alaric said after a minute. He frowned. "Blood loss and severe dehydration."
He glanced up, eyes sharpening. "Who is she?"
Dexmon's jaw tightened.
"I don't know," he said. "She was fighting rogues when I found her."
Alaric hummed, unconvinced, and brushed her hair aside to examine her neck.
The instant his fingers touched her skin, something savage twisted low in Dexmon's body. It was hot, immediate, and wrong all at once.
He stiffened and swallowed the instinct down.
"She's unmarked," Alaric said, still focused on his work.
Dexmon already knew she was unmarked. It was irrelevant.
He was about to speak when Alaric continued.
"She has a wolf," Alaric said, hands glowing as he worked. "The silver poisoning confirms that. But there's… interference."
He paused, brow furrowing. "Something layered underneath."
Hyran stepped closer, his expression sharpening as he focused. "I feel it too."
Dexmon looked at him. "What is it?"
"Her energy is similar to fae magic," Hyran said. He paused, then added, "Yet it is not."
"No one enters this room," Dexmon said coldly. "No guards. No servants. No visitors. And no one discusses her."
Alaric glanced up, met Dexmon's gaze, and inclined his head. "Understood, Your Highness."
Dexmon stayed a second longer, memorizing the steady rise and fall of her chest.
He knew that if he stayed another second, he would touch her, and if he touched her, he would not stop.
He turned and left.
The door had barely closed when Alaric moved again, efficient and focused, sliding a needle into her arm.
"That," he muttered to himself, "is definitely not standard."