Lysandra was roused from her restless sleep by the soft knock on the door, followed by the creak of hinges as it opened. Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked groggily, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings—the sizable room, the fire crackling in the hearth, the plush blankets beneath her. It took a moment to remember where she was.
A young maid entered, carrying a tray of food that filled the room with the aroma of roasted meat, fresh bread, and herbs. Over her other arm was draped a neat stack of fresh clothes, simple but well-made. The girl, barely older than a teenager, glanced at Lysandra hesitantly before setting the tray down on the small table near the bed.
"Forgive me for waking you," the maid said softly, her voice polite but a bit nervous, as if unsure how to approach the woman in armor and bandages. "Lord Halvard sent instructions for hot food and fresh garments to be brought to all the guests."
Lysandra pushed herself up slowly, wincing as her leg throbbed in protest. "Thank you," she said, her voice raspier than she'd like. The maid gave a small nod and placed the clothes at the foot of the bed.
"These should be your size," the girl added. "If you need anything else, just pull the cord by the door."
Lysandra waved her off, more eager to be left alone than to respond. The maid curtsied quickly and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Silence settled again, broken only by the gentle crackle of the fire.
Lysandra glanced at the tray, her stomach growling despite the turmoil still swirling in her mind. She reached for the bread first, tearing a piece and popping it into her mouth. The warmth of the food was comforting, and as she ate, her eyes fell on the neatly folded clothes—a tunic, soft breeches, and a clean set of undergarments. Practical, but finer than anything she was used to.
Her fingers hesitated as she reached for the tunic. The thought of changing into clean clothes felt like a luxury she didn't deserve, like the room itself. But practicality won out. The scent of travel and blood clung to her, and the prospect of fresh garments was hard to argue against.
As she started to dress, her thoughts returned to Alaric. His words, his actions, the kiss—they replayed in her mind like a loop she couldn't break. She shook her head, pulling the tunic over her head with more force than necessary.
"Pull yourself together," she muttered, echoing her earlier scolding. But the warmth of the food and the softness of the clothes only made her feel more conflicted, as if the world around her was insisting she let her guard down—and she hated it.
Her fingers brushed against her lips briefly, unbidden, and she clenched her jaw. No. Don't dwell on it. Don't think about him. She focused instead on finishing her meal, shoving the thoughts back into the darkest corners of her mind.
But as the fire flickered and the quiet of the room wrapped around her, she couldn't stop herself from glancing toward the wall that separated her room from his, wondering if he was thinking about her too.
Lysandra pushed the thought aside, her body feeling slightly more energized but still weighed down by the pain and fatigue that clung to her. She glanced at her injured leg, the fresh bandages stark against her skin, and scowled. The healer had done well enough, but her recovery was too slow for her liking. They couldn't afford to linger here longer than necessary.
Reaching into her satchel, she pulled out her rune stone. The smooth, black surface was cool against her fingers, faint etchings carved into it glimmering with an otherworldly light. She held it tightly in her palm, her eyes narrowing as she focused her thoughts.
Closing her eyes, she whispered the incantation the noble mage had taught her so many years ago. The words felt heavy on her tongue, ancient and raw, as if they carried the weight of something far older than she could comprehend. The rune stone began to warm in her hand, its faint glow intensifying until the light spilled through her fingers.
She placed the stone just above her injured leg, the heat spreading like a soothing balm as the magic seeped into her skin. The pain dulled almost immediately, the throbbing giving way to a strange, tingling sensation as the torn muscles and tissue began knitting together at an accelerated pace.
Lysandra gritted her teeth, a faint sheen of sweat forming on her brow. The process was never painless—magic came with its own price. But as the warmth faded and the glow of the rune dimmed, she could already feel the difference. The tightness in her leg was lessened, and the sharp ache dulled to a manageable throb.
Exhaling sharply, she leaned back against the pillows, the rune still clutched in her hand. She stared at it for a moment, the once-vivid glow now reduced to a faint shimmer. Sliding the rune back into her satchel, she rubbed her leg gently, testing the movement. It wasn't perfect, but it was better—enough to walk without leaning too heavily or appearing completely incapacitated.
She allowed herself a small, satisfied smirk. "That's more like it."
The room was quiet again, save for the soft crackle of the fire. Lysandra closed her eyes, her fingers brushing over the satchel containing the rune. She knew she couldn't afford to rely on it too often.
A faint knock echoed from the door, breaking the quiet of the room. Lysandra, still leaning back against the pillows, straightened slightly, her hand instinctively brushing against the satchel at her side as if to ensure the rune was safely hidden.
Before she could respond, the door creaked open, and Alaric stepped inside. He carried the same air of confidence he always did, though his expression softened slightly when his gaze landed on her.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," he said, his tone calm, as though he already knew he wasn't.
Lysandra raised an eyebrow, her voice dry. "When has that ever stopped you?"
A faint smirk tugged at his lips as he stepped further into the room. "Fair enough. I came to check on you." His eyes flicked to her leg, then back to her face. "How's the injury?"
She shrugged, her voice deliberately casual. "Better. Still hurts, but I'll live."
Alaric nodded, though his gaze lingered for a moment, as if assessing whether she was downplaying it. Finally, he crossed his arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe. "There's a bathhouse on this floor for visiting nobles. Quiet, private, and better than anything we'll find on the road." He hesitated for a moment before adding, "I thought you might want to join me."
Lysandra blinked, caught off guard. "Join you?"
He shrugged, his expression still calm but his tone light. "It's big enough for two, and I thought you might enjoy a soak."
Her lips twitched into the beginnings of a smirk, though she quickly masked it with a scoff. "Bold of you to assume I'd want to sit in a bath with you."
Alaric's smirk widened slightly, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "I'm assuming you'll appreciate the chance to soak in hot water and that my company is tolerable at best."
She narrowed her eyes, weighing his words. Part of her wanted to say no,but another part—the one she hated acknowledging—was tempted.
"You're persistent, I'll give you that," she muttered, looking away as she adjusted the edge of the blanket.
"Is that a yes?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his voice softer now.
With a resigned sigh, she rolled her eyes. "Fine. But don't think this means I enjoy your company."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Alaric replied smoothly, stepping back toward the door. "I'll wait for you in the hall. Take your time getting ready."
Lysandra watched him leave, her mind already racing with conflicting thoughts. Shaking her head, she muttered to herself, "What am I getting myself into?"
She stood carefully, testing the strength of her leg, and began gathering what she needed.
Lysandra stepped into the hallway, Alaric stood waiting, leaning casually against the wall. His expression was calm, though his eyes flicked to her leg briefly, as if gauging whether she was steady enough to walk.
"I'm fine," she said preemptively, catching his look.
"Never doubted you," he replied smoothly, pushing off the wall and motioning for her to follow.
The walk to the bathhouse was quiet, the only sound the faint echo of their footsteps on the polished stone floors. Lysandra remained tense, unsure of how she felt about this arrangement. The idea of sharing a bath with Alaric seemed entirely too personal, and yet, the prospect of soaking her aching muscles in warm water was too tempting to refuse.
When they arrived, Alaric pushed open the heavy wooden door to reveal a private, luxurious bathhouse. The air inside was warm and steamy, carrying the faint scent of herbs and clean water. The room was spacious, with a large sunken pool in the center made of smooth stone, the water shimmering invitingly. Small benches lined the walls, and folded towels sat neatly on a nearby table.
Lysandra hesitated in the doorway, her eyes scanning the space as if searching for an excuse to turn back. "This is… excessive," she muttered.
Alaric chuckled softly, stepping inside and unfastening his cloak. "It's just practical. You'll appreciate it once you're in."
She crossed her arms, leaning slightly against the doorway. "And I suppose you're just doing this for me?"
He turned to face her, his lips quirking into a faint smile. "Partly. But I've been on the road as long as you have, Lysandra. Even I can appreciate a good bath."
With that, he began unbuckling his belt, the sound of metal shifting breaking the silence. Lysandra felt a flicker of unease but quickly shoved it down. She'd bathed beside comrades in rivers and makeshift camps before—this was no different.
Stepping inside and moving toward one of the benches. She began removing her tunic, careful not to twist her back too much as she worked.
Alaric was already stepping into the water by the time she finished, the steam rising around him as he lowered himself with a satisfied sigh. "You're missing out," he said, glancing back at her.
"I'm coming," she replied sharply, brushing off her hesitation as she slipped out of her boots and stepped carefully toward the pool. The warmth hit her immediately, soothing the tension in her body before she even stepped in.
Lowering herself into the water, she let out an involuntary sigh as the heat wrapped around her aching muscles. The pain in her leg eased slightly, and she found herself leaning back against the smooth edge of the pool, her eyes briefly closing.
"See?" Alaric's voice broke the silence, though it was softer now. "Not so bad."
She opened one eye to glare at him. "Don't start."
He smirked, sinking deeper into the water, his head resting against the edge of the pool. For a while, they sat in comfortable silence, the steam curling lazily around them. Lysandra leaned back, her injured leg stretched carefully under the water, savoring the rare moment of relief the bath provided.
Alaric broke the silence, his tone casual yet laced with amusement. "You know," he began, tilting his head slightly to look at her, "I could wash your back for you. Save you the trouble."
Lysandra's eyes snapped open, and she shot him a sharp glare, her cheeks warming—not from the steam. "What?"
He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips quirking upward. "You heard me. Your back looks like it's taken a beating. I thought I'd offer."
She scoffed, turning her gaze toward the rippling water. "I can manage."
"Of course you can," Alaric replied smoothly, his voice calm but teasing. "But why should you, when I'm right here?"
She rolled her eyes, sinking deeper into the water to hide the faint flush creeping up her neck. "You're insufferable, you know that?"
"Probably," he said with a chuckle. "But the offer still stands."
Lysandra hesitated, her thoughts warring between her pride and the lingering ache in her back. She hated to admit it, but the scratches from the ghouls and the strain of travel had left her muscles knotted and sore.
After a long moment, she sighed, her voice grumbling. "Fine. But no funny ideas, Alaric."
He grinned, moving closer with the quiet confidence she had come to expect from him. His fingers brushed lightly against her shoulder as he reached for a cloth and dipped it into the warm water. Alaric began to work in silence, his touch surprisingly gentle as he pressed the damp cloth against her back. The warm water and the steady rhythm of his movements began to ease the tightness in her muscles, drawing out the knots she hadn't even realized were there. Slowly, the tension in her shoulders softened, and her breathing grew steadier.
"Relax," he murmured, his voice low and calm.
The words, so simple yet so pointed, sent an unexpected warmth through her. She closed her eyes briefly, willing herself not to overthink the intimacy of the moment.
"You don't do this for everyone, do you?" she asked after a long pause, her voice low but laced with her usual dry humor.
He chuckled softly, the sound reverberating through the quiet bathhouse. "Not everyone, no. You're special."
She snorted faintly, though her lips betrayed her with the faintest twitch of a smile. "Lucky me."
Alaric's movements slowed, his hand brushing lightly against the curve of her shoulder. "Very lucky," he said softly, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent of something deeper.
Then, as if testing the waters, he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her damp skin. Before Lysandra could process what was happening, he pressed his lips lightly to the back of her neck—a fleeting, gentle kiss that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
She froze, her eyes snapping open as the sensation rippled through her, leaving her momentarily breathless. The heat of the water seemed to pale in comparison to the warmth of his touch.
"Alaric," she moaned softly, her voice trembling as her body hung in a delicate balance between resistance and something far more dangerous. Her breath hitched as his hand lingered at the curve of her waist, his touch featherlight but deliberate.
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "Do you want me to stop?" he whispered, his voice low and intimate, the words brushing over her like a challenge and a plea all at once.
Lysandra's heart raced, her mind screaming at her to pull away, And yet, her body betrayed her, leaning slightly into his touch, her resolve crumbling under the weight of her own desire.
"You should," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the gentle ripples of the water. "You should stop."
But she didn't pull away. She didn't move his hand as it trailed lower, his fingertips tracing a line down her side with a slowness that made her shiver. Every nerve in her body was on edge, caught between the instinct to flee and the overwhelming temptation to give in—to let herself feel, even just for a moment.
"Do you want me to?" Alaric pressed, his lips brushing against her ear, his tone both teasing and reverent.
Her breath hitched again, her hands gripping the edge of the pool for stability as her heart warred with her mind. "I… I don't know," she admitted, her voice cracking under the weight of her conflicting emotions.
He paused, his hand stilling just above her hip, as though giving her the space to decide. "Say the word, and I'll stop," he murmured, his voice filled with a gentleness.
Lysandra closed her eyes, fighting the rising tide of emotion and desire that threatened to consume her. She knew this was dangerous—knew the consequences that would follow if she let herself fall any further. And yet, her body betrayed her once more, leaning ever so slightly into his touch.
"Alaric…" she whispered again, her voice heavy with longing and doubt.
His hand remained steady, his patience unwavering as he waited for her decision, his presence both comforting and electrifying.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze meeting his. The intensity in his eyes, the unspoken question lingering there, sent another shiver down her spine. She felt a quiet, raw honesty that both terrified and drew her in.
Her lips parted, her voice barely a whisper. "Don't make me regret this."
Alaric's lips curved into a faint smile, one that was both reassuring and tender. Slowly, his hand resumed its journey, sliding down to rest against the curve of her hip before pulling her gently closer to him. The water rippled around them as his other hand rose to cup her face, his thumb brushing softly against her cheek. Lysandra's heart thundered in her chest, her defenses crumbling further with every gentle touch.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss. The tension in her melted away as the kiss deepened, her body responding instinctively to his touch. His fingers traced slow,into her inner thigh, his touch leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Every movement, every breath, felt like a surrender she hadn't meant to give but couldn't stop.
"Lysandra," Alaric murmured against her lips, his voice rougher now, filled with a mixture of restraint and need.
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushed and her breathing uneven. His eyes searched hers, as though he was about to say something—perhaps to ask, to reassure, or to admit something she wasn't ready to hear.
But before he could speak, she lifted a hand and pressed her finger to his lips. "Shhh." her voice low and commanding.
Alaric's eyes widened slightly, his breath catching as she leaned in again. This time, there was no hesitation. Lysandra's hands slipped to his shoulders, gripping him firmly as she kissed him with a passion that left no room for doubt. The softness of before was gone, replaced by raw, unrestrained desire.
Alaric responded immediately, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her closer until there was no space left between them. The water rippled and swirled around them as her body pressed against his, her hips shifting instinctively, molding herself to him.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him as though he might disappear if she let go. His hands roamed her back, sliding down to rest on her hips, gripping her firmly but reverently, as if he couldn't believe she was real.
The kiss deepened, growing more urgent as both of them surrendered to the pull they had been resisting for far too long. The heat of the water seemed to pale in comparison to the fire that ignited between them, every touch, every brush of their skin fanning the flames higher.
Alaric's lips left hers only briefly, trailing down the curve of her jaw to the sensitive skin of her neck, where he pressed kisses that sent shivers cascading down her spine. She gasped softly, her nails digging into his shoulders as she arched into him, her body responding instinctively to the intensity of his touch.
"Lysandra," he murmured again, her name like a prayer on his lips.
She silenced him once more, her hands sliding to his jaw as she guided him back to her mouth, her kiss fierce and demanding. Words had no place here, not now.