The first thing Aidi felt was the burning in her chest, as though fire had replaced the air she desperately needed. Her body felt weak, heavier than she ever remembered, and the world around her spun in confusing shades of darkness.
When she tried to move, her head lolled to the side, her cheek brushing against something rough and cold—the cell floor. The faint murmur of voices buzzed in the distance, but she couldn't make out the words.
The cell door creaked open, and heavy boots clicked against the stone. Aidi forced her eyes open, though it took every ounce of strength she had. Hetri's towering figure came into view, his sharp features creased with something she never expected to see—concern.
"What the hell are you doing on the floor?" His voice was less harsh than usual, almost like he was trying to hide his worry.
Aidi tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat, replaced by a hoarse cough that wracked her frail body. Her chest heaved, and her vision blurred again.
"Damn it." Hetri crouched down, his usual commanding demeanor giving way to urgency. Without hesitation, he scooped her up into his arms. She was too weak to protest, but the anger still simmered somewhere deep inside her.
"You… don't… get to…" she rasped, her words barely audible.
"Shut up, Aidi," Hetri muttered, his voice low. "Just this once, let me help."
The cool night air hit her face as Hetri carried her out of the dungeons. The shift from the suffocating darkness to the open expanse above was jarring, though Aidi was too feverish to fully register it.
The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the faint scent of rain. The moonlight illuminated the path ahead, casting Hetri's sharp features in a pale glow. His grip on her was firm but careful, as though he feared she might break.
They reached his house—a sprawling estate that felt worlds away from the damp, oppressive cell she'd been confined to. The scent of polished wood and burning candles greeted her as they entered, though her hazy mind barely took it in.
"Doctor," Hetri barked, his voice echoing through the halls. "Get here now."
Within minutes, a man and a nurse rushed into the room. Aidi was placed on a bed, the soft sheets a stark contrast to the harsh stone floor she'd grown accustomed to.
"She's burning up," the doctor said, checking her temperature. "It's a severe fever. Likely brought on by the conditions she's been kept in." His tone was professional but tinged with judgment, a subtle jab at Hetri's treatment of her.
"Fix it," Hetri snapped, though there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes.
The nurse began dabbing Aidi's forehead with a cool cloth while the doctor prepared medicine. Hetri stood at the edge of the room, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched. He hated feeling helpless, but more than that, he hated the nagging voice in his head telling him this was his fault.
Aidi drifted in and out of consciousness. She could feel hands on her forehead, hear murmured voices, but it all felt distant, like she was underwater.
When she finally opened her eyes, the room was dimly lit. Hetri was sitting in a chair nearby, his usually rigid posture relaxed, his gaze fixed on her. It was a strange sight, seeing him without the layers of authority and power he usually wore like armor.
"Why… are you here?" she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You don't get to die on me," he said simply, though there was a trace of something softer beneath his words.
She turned her head away, her body too weak to match the defiance in her heart. "I don't… owe you anything."
Hetri leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't want anything from you," he said quietly, surprising even himself. "I just…" He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence.
Aidi didn't respond. She closed her eyes, letting the silence hang between them.
The following days passed in a blur of fever dreams and hushed voices. Hetri stayed close, though he never intruded too much. He brought in fresh flowers for the bedside table, a gesture that felt out of character but strangely genuine. He even made sure the food brought to her was warm and flavorful, though she barely had the strength to eat.
Despite his efforts, Aidi's resentment only grew. Every act of kindness felt like a manipulation, a calculated move to make her owe him something.
"I don't need your pity," she spat one evening, her voice stronger than it had been in days.
Hetri looked at her, his expression unreadable. "It's not pity."
"Then what is it?" she demanded, her eyes blazing. "Guilt? Some twisted attempt to make yourself feel better?"
Hetri exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what it is, Aidi," he admitted. "I just know I don't want to see you like this."
She scoffed, turning her face away from him. "I don't need you to save me."
"I know," he said softly. "But I'm here anyway."
The vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard, but she refused to let it sway her. She couldn't afford to trust him, not when he was the reason she was in this position in the first place.
Over the next few days, Hetri began to open up in small, unexpected ways. He mentioned his childhood once—a brief, almost casual remark about growing up in the shadow of expectations he could never escape. Another time, he let slip a rare moment of doubt about the war, a crack in the armor he so carefully maintained.
Aidi listened but said nothing. She didn't want to admit it, but these glimpses of the man behind the mask were disarming. They made it harder to see him as just the enemy, though her hatred remained steadfast.
Hetri, on the other hand, found himself watching her more closely. He noticed the way her eyes lit up with defiance even in her weakest moments, the way she clung to her pride like a lifeline. It frustrated him, but it also intrigued him.
One evening, as the rain pattered softly against the windows, Hetri sat beside her bed, a book in his hands. He wasn't reading, though. His gaze kept drifting to her, to the way her breathing had steadied, to the faint color returning to her cheeks.
"You're staring," Aidi muttered without opening her eyes.
Hetri smirked, though she couldn't see it. "You're paranoid."
She cracked one eye open, glaring at him. "I'm not paranoid. You're just obvious."
Hetri leaned back in his chair, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Good," she shot back. "Then maybe you'll finally leave me alone."
He didn't respond, and for once, Aidi found the silence unnerving. She risked a glance at him, only to find him watching her with an intensity that made her stomach twist.
"What?" she snapped, trying to sound annoyed rather than unsettled.
"Nothing," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Just… wondering how someone so infuriating can be so—" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Never mind."
Aidi narrowed her eyes at him. "So what?"
"Forget it," he said, standing abruptly. "You need rest."
As he left the room, Aidi couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them. She hated it. She hated him.
But deep down, in the quietest corners of her mind, she couldn't ignore the way his presence lingered, even after he was gone.