Not the feverish heat of injury, nor the searing sting of pain—but something gentler. Soft. Solid. Familiar.
The second thing she felt was weight. A tiny, comforting one.
She cracked her eyes open and saw silver fur—bright as moonlight, curled under her chin. A small blue eye blinked back at her.
"...Lia," she breathed.
Relief rushed through her like cool water.
"She's awake!"
The voice came from her right, too familiar. And too unexpected.
She turned her head—slowly, wincing as her body protested—and saw her father.
Duke Luthair sat beside her bed, eyes red-rimmed, his sword set against the wall behind him. He looked far older than she remembered, like grief and guilt had carved something out of him in just days.
"Father…?" she whispered, unsure whether to brace herself or relax.
He rose slowly, but didn't speak.
"I'm sorry," Virelle said quickly, panic creeping into her voice. "I didn't mean to cause such a commotion. I—"
"Stop," he said hoarsely.
She froze.
And then he stepped forward and pulled her into a gentle, trembling hug.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"
His voice cracked over and over.
"I didn't see it. I didn't protect you. I left you in a house full of wolves. I thought— I thought I was keeping you safe by staying away—"
Virelle's breath caught.
And then the tears came.
Not the silent ones she'd grown used to hiding. Not the elegant, contained ones noble ladies were trained to release in measured drops.
No. These were ugly, shaking sobs that rattled her whole chest and clutched at her father's cloak like a drowning child.
"I wanted to hear it," she gasped. "Just once—I wanted you to say something… to see me—!"
"I see you now," he whispered into her hair. "And I'll never stop."
Lia, still on the bed between them, meowed and pressed against Virelle's ribs, curling tighter.
They both laughed—between tears.
Later, when the room quieted and she had finally been allowed to sip warm tea and sit upright with pillows propped behind her, her father said gently:
"If that cat is yours," he said, "she stays. She's family now."
Virelle's heart swelled.
"She is mine," she said, gently scratching Lia behind the ears. "She always has been."
Lia purred so loudly it rattled the teacup on the tray.
Then, the door opened—without knocking.
Princess Serenthia strode in, arms crossed, regal even in disheveled riding clothes.
"So," she said, surveying Virelle, "you're finally awake. Took long enough."
Virelle blinked, then smiled. "Your Highness…"
"Don't you 'Your Highness' me," Serenthia snapped. "I came here for a quiet vacation, and what do I get? A murder plot, a royal slap, and three days of babysitting a sleeping drama queen."
Virelle laughed—a real laugh, weak but bright.
Serenthia's expression softened. "Get healthy," she said. "We're going on a walk soon. And you owe me tea."
"I do?"
"Yes," she said, sitting down beside the bed and dramatically poking the teacup. "And proper pastries. Not this… noble peasant slop."
Even the Duke laughed at that.
The next day, Virelle found her father had canceled his planned departure to the capital. The reason, he said, was "unfinished family business."
The business, as it turned out, was her.
He dined with her every evening. Walked her through the rose gardens. Sat in the library while she read. Never saying much, but never leaving.
The mansion changed, too.
New staff arrived—kind ones.
Maids who didn't flinch at Lia. A butler who brewed Virelle's favorite tea without asking. Gardeners who didn't gossip. A cook who baked fresh cinnamon rolls and whistled.
It was almost peaceful.
And then came the full moon.
That night, Virelle, Princess Serenthia, and Lia walked through the quiet gardens. The moonlight painted the paths in silver and the roses in ghostly blue. Virelle wore a new cloak lined with fur, Lia perched on her shoulder like an accessory to her soul.
"You know," Serenthia said, staring at the stars, "I think this is the first quiet night I've had in years."
"No assassination attempts?" Virelle teased.
"No yelling from senators. No one mistaking my brother for me."
Lia purred between them, a peaceful bridge of fur and contentment.
Eventually, they returned to the room, exhausted from laughter and moon-chilled cheeks. Serenthia yawned, threw her legs over the divan, and fell asleep wrapped in a velvet blanket.
Virelle curled into bed, Lia tucked under her arm.
Everything was right.
She closed her eyes.
Morning
Sunlight filtered through gauze curtains.
Birds chirped softly beyond the balcony.
Virelle blinked awake slowly, groggy but smiling.
She reached for Lia.
But felt—
Skin?
She sat up fast.
Where Lia usually slept, curled tightly in a ball of fur, lay—
A girl.
Silver hair like liquid light.
Soft, slow breaths.
Naked.
On the pillow.
Virelle's brain blue-screened.
"...What?"
The girl stirred, mumbling softly.
"...My head…"
She cracked one eye open.
Brilliant blue.
Familiar. Impossible.
"Virelle?" she said groggily. "Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?"
Virelle opened her mouth.
Closed it.
And screamed.