The Bastard and the Prince

Lysandra didn't reply, instead turning her attention to the healer who was already approaching. The man was older, with sharp eyes that missed nothing and hands that carried the calm efficiency of someone who'd seen far too many wounded soldiers. He looked her over with a discerning gaze, his brow furrowing as he took in her limp, the bandages already stained with blood, and the exhaustion etched across her face.

"Sit," he ordered curtly, pointing to a nearby wooden stool. Lysandra hesitated, eyeing the stool like it was a trap, but a pointed look from Donall convinced her to comply. She lowered herself stiffly, hissing under her breath as her leg flared with pain.

The healer knelt beside her, carefully rolling back the torn fabric of her pants to inspect her injured leg. His expression remained impassive, though the tight press of his lips hinted at his disapproval. "You've been walking on this far too much," he muttered, reaching for a basin of water to clean the wound. "Foolish girl. I've seen men with lesser wounds whining like babes, yet here you are, trying to march like nothing's wrong."

Lysandra rolled her eyes but said nothing, her jaw tight as the cool water hit the angry wound.

The healer glanced up at her, studying her face with an approving, if grudging, nod. "You look worse than half these men, but you handle it better. Strong lass, you must be."

"Comes with practice," she said dryly. "I've had my fair share of stubborn teachers."

The healer snorted, shaking his head as he began wrapping her leg with fresh bandages. "Aye, and stubborn seems to be your middle name. Try resting for once, lass, before you make this worse."

Kellan leaned against the doorway, grinning faintly. "She doesn't know how to do that."

"Quiet, Kellan," Lysandra snapped, though her voice lacked any real bite.

The healer ignored the exchange, moving to check her back next. As his hands carefully brushed the scratches and bruises there, he muttered under his breath, "You've been through hell, that's clear enough. But you're tougher than most. Voltaria could use more fighters like you."

Lysandra stilled for a moment, then turned her head slightly to look at him. "That supposed to be a compliment?"

"Aye," he replied with a faint smirk of his own.

The healer finished tending her wounds and straightened, wiping his hands clean. "That'll hold for now, but you need rest. You're strong, lass, but even strength has its limits."

Lysandra pushed herself upright, carefully testing her leg before meeting the healer's gaze. "Thanks," she muttered, the word awkward on her tongue.

He waved her off. "Don't thank me—just don't be stupid enough to tear it open again."

As she limped past Kellan and Donall, both of them fell into step beside her. Donall grinned, nudging her lightly with his elbow. "Strong lass, huh? I might start calling you that."

Lysandra shot him a glare, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "Do it, and I'll show you just how strong I am."

Kellan laughed softly. "I'd pay to see that."

Donall and Kellan flanked Lysandra as she limped away from the healer's station, her freshly bandaged leg still throbbing despite the care she'd received. Donall, ever the steady one, offered his arm with an exasperated sigh.

"Lys, for the love of the gods, let me help you. You're wobbling like a newborn foal."

"I can walk," Lysandra grumbled, brushing him off as she attempted another stubborn step forward.

Kellan smirked, falling into step on her other side. "You say you can walk, but you look ready to face-plant into the dirt. No shame in leaning on us, you know."

"Try me, Kellan," she shot back, though her voice lacked any real venom. She didn't get far before Donall shook his head, muttering something about "hardheaded women" under his breath.

Before either of them could insist further, they spotted Alaric approaching across the courtyard. His expression was unreadable, though the sharp focus in his gaze immediately settled on Lysandra.

Donall straightened slightly, clearing his throat, amusement flickering across his face. "Here comes your prince," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Lysandra to hear.

"Don't start," she growled, though the color in her cheeks betrayed her irritation.

Alaric approached with a purposeful stride, his sharp gaze immediately falling on Lysandra and the way Donall and Kellan flanked her like overprotective guards. His brow furrowed, and his tone was dry but firm. "No crutches?"

Donall shook his head, trying—and failing—to hide his smirk. "No, Your Highness."

Kellan, leaning casually with his arms crossed, added with a mock sigh, "She refuses them. Apparently, Lysandra thinks limping around on her own is far more impressive."

Alaric turned his full attention to Lysandra, his expression both exasperated and concerned. "The healer said you need to lay off that leg. You're supposed to be resting."

"I can manage," Lysandra shot back immediately, her chin lifting in defiance.

"Right," Alaric muttered, unimpressed as his gaze dropped briefly to the way her weight shifted awkwardly to her uninjured leg. Without another word, he stepped forward.

"What are you—" Lysandra started, but she didn't get the chance to finish.

Before she could protest, Alaric ducked down and scooped her up into his arms, lifting her effortlessly.

"Alaric!" she snapped, her voice a mixture of outrage and disbelief. She squirmed, trying to wriggle free, but the sudden shift in movement made her wince as her leg throbbed. "Put me down! I mean it!"

To her absolute horror, Donall and Kellan burst into laughter, their amusement unrestrained. Donall doubled over, holding his stomach. "I'd say he's managing you now, Lys."

Kellan grinned widely, leaning against a wagon for support. "This is the highlight of my day."

"Traitors, both of you," Lysandra hissed, glaring daggers at her so-called allies.

Alaric, however, remained unfazed. He adjusted her slightly to make sure she was secure and began walking toward the manor as though carrying a protesting mercenary was the most natural thing in the world. "You can yell at me, or you can save your strength. Either way, you're resting."

"Alaric," she growled again, her voice sharper this time. "I swear—if you don't put me down—"

"What?" Alaric interrupted smoothly, looking down at her with the faintest hint of a smirk. "You'll fight me off? I don't think you're in any shape for that right now."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the truth hit her harder than she cared to admit. As much as she hated it, she was too weak to put up a real fight, and the effort would only hurt her more. Defeat settled on her face as she crossed her arms and glared pointedly at anything but him. "You're insufferable."

"And you're stubborn," Alaric replied with calm finality, carrying her up the steps toward the manor doors.

From behind, Donall's voice called out, still laced with laughter. "Rest well, Lys! Don't let your prince pamper you too much."

Kellan added, "Don't forget to say thank you!"

Lysandra groaned, burying her face in her hands as Alaric carried her through the doorway. Her muffled protests earned no sympathy from the prince as he strode into the manor, his steps steady and deliberate.

The interior was exactly what she expected from a Voltarian lord—grand yet austere. The main hall was expansive, with vaulted ceilings lined with wooden beams and tall stained-glass windows that cast muted colors across the stone floors. Tapestries hung on the walls, depicting Voltarian victories and generations of lords who ruled this territory. A roaring hearth at the far end of the hall filled the space with warmth, the orange glow flickering against the cold stone. Despite the splendor, the manor retained a sense of severity, built for practicality rather than decadence.

Lysandra peeked out from her hands, frowning as Alaric carried her through a side corridor instead of heading toward the barracks where she assumed the knights and Shadow Blades would be staying. The hallways here were quieter, more polished, with ornate sconces lining the walls and thick carpets muffling the sound of footsteps.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, suspicion lacing her tired voice. "This doesn't look like the barracks."

Alaric ignored her question for the moment, continuing down the hall. Her frown deepened when they reached a sturdy oak door, which he pushed open with his shoulder. The room beyond made her blink in surprise.

It was sizable—far larger than anything she expected. The floors were polished dark wood, partially covered by a deep crimson rug. A four-poster bed with carved details and plush blankets sat against the far wall, flanked by a small table and an elegant writing desk. Heavy curtains of velvet hung over the tall window, partially drawn to filter the late afternoon light. A basin and pitcher of water sat atop a sideboard, and a fire crackled quietly in the hearth, filling the room with a soft warmth.

Lysandra stared, dumbfounded. "This isn't the barracks," she repeated slowly, narrowing her eyes at Alaric.

"No, it's not," he replied casually as he set her down gently on the edge of the bed.

She sat stiffly, her hands pressing into the soft blanket beneath her as though it might bite her. "Why?"

"Because you're not staying in the barracks," Alaric said matter-of-factly. "This room is for visiting nobles—or, in this case, visiting stubborn mercenaries who need to rest."

Her brow furrowed deeply, confusion and irritation mixing on her face. "I don't need this. I can stay with my unit."

Alaric didn't miss the edge in her voice, but his expression remained calm, his tone unrelenting. "I know you can, but you'll recover faster resting in a proper bed."

Lysandra looked at him, her expression unreadable, though the faintest flicker of uncertainty passed through her eyes. She wasn't used to this—being treated like she belonged somewhere better.

Her voice came out quieter, almost wary. "And where will you be?"

"In the room next door," Alaric said simply, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "You'll be within earshot if you need anything. I'll make sure no one bothers you."

Lysandra's confusion deepened, and she stared at him as though trying to solve a puzzle. "Why are you doing this?"

Alaric paused for a moment, his gaze steady as he considered her question. For a heartbeat, it looked as though he might say something else, something heavier, but then his expression smoothed, and his tone remained calm, practical.

"You're injured," he said simply, though there was an edge of something deeper beneath his words. "It makes sense to keep you close. If something happens, I'll be there to help."

Lysandra narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced. "That sounds an awful lot like an excuse."

Alaric's lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile, but he didn't deny it. "Call it whatever you like. I'm still not leaving you halfway across the manor with a pack of nobles and soldiers who'd sooner sneer at you than lift a finger to help."

She scoffed, shifting uncomfortably where she sat on the bed. "I don't need you playing nursemaid, Alaric. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he replied, his voice softening slightly. "But just because you can doesn't mean you always have to."

His words hung in the air, heavier than she expected. Lysandra's brow furrowed as she searched his face, trying to read him, to find the hidden motive she was sure existed. But Alaric just looked back at her, calm and unyielding.

"And if I don't need anything?" she challenged, her voice edged with suspicion as she searched his face.

Alaric didn't answer immediately. Instead, his fingers reached out, almost unconsciously, gently brushing through a loose strand of her hair. The small, unexpected gesture sent a ripple of something unfamiliar through her chest—something she couldn't quite place.

"Then I'd just be coming by to keep you company," he replied softly, his tone steady but carrying an undeniable warmth.

Lysandra froze, her breath catching as she stared at him, her sharp wit failing her for once. The way he looked at her—left her feeling vulnerable in a way she didn't know how to fight.

"That's… unnecessary," she muttered, turning her head slightly to hide the faint heat rising in her cheeks.

Alaric's lips twitched into a subtle smile, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. Before Lysandra could react, he leaned in, his fingers brushing lightly against her cheek as he pressed his lips onto hers—a fleeting kiss, soft yet deliberate.

Lysandra froze, her breath catching as the world seemed to narrow to that single moment. His touch was careful, respectful, yet it sent an unexpected jolt through her.

Alaric pulled back, his gaze steady and calm, though something deeper flickered in his eyes. "Get some rest, Lysandra," he murmured, his voice soft and unshaken, the quiet sincerity in his words lingering like the kiss itself.

She stared at him,speechless, her sharp wit and usual retorts utterly failing her. Her heart pounded in her chest, the steady rhythm now erratic.

Alaric straightened, offering no explanation as he turned toward the door with the same quiet confidence he always carried. "I'll be next door if you need anything," he added, glancing back at her briefly before slipping out of the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Lysandra sitting there in stunned silence.

"What in the hell…?" she muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible as she tried to make sense of it. Her fingers brushed against her lips again, as if to confirm the kiss had actually happened, that it wasn't some fevered delusion.

Pull yourself together, she scolded herself silently, shaking her head as if to clear it. "No," she whispered fiercely to the empty room. "No, don't fall in love with someone you can't have."

She pushed herself back against the pillows, forcing her breathing to steady, her thoughts to settle.

He's a prince, she reminded herself bitterly, staring up at the ceiling as if it held the answers she sought. A prince of Voltaria, the next in line to the throne. And you? You're a bastard mercenary with Eldren blood in your veins.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the emotion surface. Instead, she exhaled sharply, her resolve hardening. "He'll come to his senses," she muttered. "They always do."

But even as the words left her mouth, she couldn't ignore the small, treacherous part of her heart that whispered back: What if he doesn't?

Lysandra closed her eyes tightly, forcing the thought away. She'd built walls to keep feelings like this out—walls that had kept her safe her entire life. She couldn't let Alaric tear them down.

"Focus, Lysandra," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling just slightly. "You don't need him. You never have, and you never will."

But as she lay there, trying to force herself to sleep, the ghost of his kiss lingered—soft and unshakable—reminding her just how thin her walls had become.