The walls of the west wing were quiet now.
Mirane was gone. The servants were gone. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, unwilling to disturb the silence in Virelle's room.
She hadn't moved in three days.
The fever had broken on the second night, and the bruising along her ribs was beginning to yellow—but she still hadn't opened her eyes. Her lips remained pale, her breathing shallow, and her long, golden hair lay spread like faded sunlight across the pillow.
Beside her sat Duke Luthair Elarian
No longer dressed in the polished black uniform of the war hero or the fine noble robes of a duchy head, he wore only a simple shirt now—wrinkled, sleeves rolled up, and stained at the cuff where he had been wringing them with shaking hands.
He hadn't left her side.
Not once.
In the early hours of dawn, with no one else present, he dipped the cloth into the basin and gently wiped the sweat from Virelle's brow.
"You used to hate water on your face," he murmured softly. "I remember. When you were little, you'd bat it away and pout."
She didn't stir.
Across from him, perched beside her arm, was Lia.
The little silver cat hadn't moved from Virelle's side either. She watched the Duke with curious eyes—measuring him. Judging, in a way only cats could.
When his hand trembled, she reached her paw out and gently placed it on the back of his wrist.
He flinched.
Then slowly looked down at her.
Her blue eyes blinked slowly.
Like she understood.
He let out a breath—slow, cracked, and broken.
"I'm a pathetic father," he said.
Lia didn't move.
"I left her alone in that house. I thought I was doing the right thing," he continued, voice low. "I thought—maybe—if I married someone proper, someone graceful, she could take care of Virelle better than I could. I thought my grief would poison her. That I'd only be a shadow of the man she needed."
He laughed bitterly.
"But I didn't know the woman I left her with would become her executioner."
He looked at Lia. She stared back. A tiny statue of sympathy.
"You were with her, weren't you?" he whispered. "When no one else saw her. You stayed."
Lia nodded. A simple, solemn dip of her tiny head.
The Duke's throat tightened.
"Will she ever forgive me?" he asked, voice barely audible. "Will she… even want to look at me again?"
Lia meowed softly.
Then lifted her paw and touched it to his hand again. Gentle. Comforting.
Meow meow meow.
(Don't worry. When she wakes up, just hug her. She'll be happy.)
He looked at her like he understood.
And somehow… he did.
He let out a shaking breath and reached out with his other hand, gently stroking the top of Lia's head. She leaned into the touch. A truce, tentative and warm.
So they waited.
Together.
That afternoon, the door opened with barely a creak.
Princess Serenthia stepped inside.
She looked first to the bed—still untouched.
Then to the Duke.
"She hasn't woken?"
"No."
Serenthia crossed the room and sat on the edge of the chair beside the bed. Her hands folded in her lap, as if holding her composure together like threadbare silk.
"She'll wake," she said.
Luthair rose. "I must leave for a while."
Serenthia looked up. She didn't ask why.
She nodded once.
"Let her see you when she wakes," she said simply. "Not the Duke. Not the title. You."
He nodded.
And quietly left the room.
Downstairs, in the dungeon, screams had begun.
But upstairs… the air stayed still.
Serenthia placed her hand lightly over Virelle's.
Lia shifted slightly and crawled onto Virelle's chest, resting just under her chin.
"She called me a stray," Serenthia whispered. "Did you know that? Alessa. She said I followed you like one."
She smiled faintly. "But maybe we're all strays. You. Me. This tiny warrior beside you."
She looked at Lia. "Keep holding her, little one. You've done more than any of us."
And so the third day passed.
With no words.
But with warmth.
A cat.
A princess.
And the waiting that only love and regret could bear.