The morning light seeped into the room, creeping over the edges of the curtains. Aidi stirred, the warmth of the blanket cocooning her more comforting than she wanted to admit. She opened her eyes slowly, blinking against the sunlit haze.
The faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen reminded her that she wasn't alone. Hetri was likely up, playing the part of her reluctant caretaker. She sighed, the weight of her hatred pressing less heavily on her chest today, though she'd never admit it.
With a groan, Aidi swung her legs off the bed and stood. Her body was still weak from her illness, but she was determined not to stay trapped in bed all day. She made her way to the kitchen, her bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor.
Hetri was at the counter, his back to her. He was slicing something—apples, maybe? The sight was disarming. A man she had come to hate, doing something so... ordinary.
He glanced over his shoulder and froze when he saw her. "You should be resting," he said, his tone both firm and concerned.
Aidi leaned against the doorway, folding her arms. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Hetri replied, turning back to the counter. "But suit yourself. At least sit down."
She rolled her eyes but complied, easing herself into a chair by the table. The kitchen was small but cozy, with wooden cabinets and a view of the garden through the window. Aidi couldn't help but notice how different it felt from the cold, imposing presence Hetri usually carried.
He placed a plate in front of her, slices of apple and bread arranged neatly. "Eat," he said, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument.
She stared at the plate, her stomach growling despite herself. "Is this another one of your attempts to win me over?" she muttered.
Hetri sighed, pulling out the chair across from her and sitting down. "If I wanted to win you over, Aidi, I'd do better than apples and bread."
To her surprise, a small smirk tugged at her lips, but she quickly suppressed it. She picked up a piece of bread, nibbling at the edge, though her eyes never left him. "Why are you doing this?"
Hetri leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "I told you. I don't want to hurt you."
"And I told you I don't trust you," she shot back.
His gaze softened, though his lips twitched as if suppressing a smile. "You remind me of someone."
Aidi froze, the bread in her hand forgotten. "Who?"
He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "My sister."
The words were unexpected, and for a moment, Aidi didn't know how to respond. "You have a sister?"
"Had," Hetri corrected, his voice quieter now. "She died a long time ago. She was stubborn, like you. Always ready to fight, even when she didn't need to."
Aidi's chest tightened. She wanted to dismiss his words, to accuse him of trying to manipulate her. But the way his eyes darkened as he spoke, the slight tremor in his voice—it felt real.
"I'm not your sister," she said after a pause, her voice firm but not as sharp as before.
"I know," Hetri replied. "But I see pieces of her in you. That fire. That strength. It's... hard to ignore."
Aidi looked away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. She hated how his words made her feel—like maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the monster she wanted to believe he was.
The room fell into a brief silence, the only sound the faint chirping of birds outside the window. Aidi risked a glance at Hetri, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was something there, something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't trust, not yet, but it wasn't hatred either.
She broke the gaze, focusing back on her plate. "I still don't trust you," she said, more for herself than for him.
Hetri nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I know. But you're still here."
Aidi didn't respond, but her fingers relaxed slightly. The bread in her hand tasted less bitter now, though she'd never admit that either.
---
Later that day, Aidi found herself wandering the garden outside Hetri's house. The sun was warm on her skin, and the scent of damp earth filled the air. She had resisted coming outside at first, not wanting to accept any more of Hetri's hospitality than necessary. But the confines of the house had grown too stifling.
The garden was simple but well-kept, with patches of herbs and flowers scattered among the grass. Aidi found herself drawn to a small bench under a tree, its branches swaying gently in the breeze. She sat down, letting the quiet envelop her.
She didn't hear Hetri approach until he was standing beside her. "I thought you'd enjoy some fresh air," he said, his tone careful, as if testing the waters.
Aidi didn't look at him. "Don't read too much into it."
"I wouldn't dare," Hetri replied, a hint of amusement in his voice.
They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the rustling of leaves and the distant chirp of crickets. Aidi found herself relaxing despite her best efforts, the peaceful surroundings chipping away at her defenses.
"You know," Hetri said after a while, his voice quiet, "I didn't bring you here to manipulate you. I just... didn't want to see you die."
Aidi turned to look at him, searching his face for any sign of deceit. But he seemed genuine, his expression open in a way she hadn't seen before.
"I don't get you," she admitted. "One minute, you're the ruthless leader of an empire, and the next, you're... this."
"This?" Hetri echoed, raising an eyebrow.
She gestured vaguely. "Kind. Attentive. Human."
He smiled faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I can be both, Aidi. Ruthless when I have to be, and human when I want to be."
"And which one is the real you?" she asked.
Hetri's gaze held hers, steady and unflinching. "Both."
The answer unsettled her, though she couldn't say why. She turned away, focusing on the swaying branches above them. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"I've been told," he said, a trace of humor in his voice.
For the first time, Aidi allowed herself a small smile. It wasn't much, but it was enough to crack the ice between them, just a little. And though she didn't trust him, though her hatred still simmered beneath the surface, she couldn't deny that something had shifted.
Something she wasn't sure she was ready to face.