The voice on the other side of the barracks door was too polite.

  Too calm.

  Too sure.

  “Your Highness.”

  Jina didn’t move.

  She didn’t breathe.

  Her mind went blank for half a second, the way it did right before an animal snapped—no thoughts, just instinct and the cold understanding that something was about to happen.

  Lysander moved first.

  He didn’t lunge for the door.

  He didn’t bark a threat.

  He lifted a finger—one, sharp—silent.

  Then he angled his body between Jina and the crack in the door like it was automatic.

  His knife slid into his hand without a sound.

  Jina’s throat tightened around a word that wasn’t hers.

  Stop.

  It rose like a reflex. Easy. Clean. One syllable and everything could freeze.

  She swallowed hard and forced it down.

  No.

  Not because she was brave.

  Because she’d seen the horror on Lysander’s face when her power leaked out.

  Because if she used it now, whoever stood outside would have proof the tyrant was awake.

  And they weren’t here to negotiate.

  The door creaked wider.

  Just a hair.

  A sliver of shadow slipped through.

  Not a person stepping inside—someone looking inside.

  Measuring.

  Listening.

  The voice came again, soft as a smile.

  “You’re alive,” it said, like a compliment.

  Jina’s stomach dropped.

  That wasn’t awe.

  That was confirmation.

  Lysander shifted his grip on the knife.

  He didn’t look at Jina.

  He didn’t need to.

  He knew she was there.

  He always knew where she was.

  That, more than the hunter’s voice, made Jina’s chest ache.

  Lysander’s fingers twitched once—a signal toward the back of the barracks.

  Jina followed his gaze.

  A narrow window. High. Too small for comfort, but wide enough for a desperate escape.

  Jina shook her head, barely noticeable.

  Too high. Too weak. She’d slow him down.

  Lysander didn’t debate. He simply moved.

  One step and he was beside her. His hand came up, hovering near her waist.

  He paused.

  He always paused.

  “May I,” he breathed.

  It wasn’t the time for manners.

  It wasn’t the time for permission.

  It was the time for survival.

  And still—he asked.

  Jina nodded once, tight and quick.

  His hand closed around her side and lifted, using her body like weight to be placed, not grabbed. He hoisted her toward the window in one smooth motion.

  Jina’s fingers caught the ledge.

  Pain flared through her ribs as she pulled up.

  She bit back a sound.

  Below, the door creaked again.

  The hunter stepped in.

  Jina saw the edge of a boot, then a gloved hand on the doorframe.

  Lysander didn’t engage.

  He shoved the bunk beneath the window with a single shove, silent despite the weight.

  Jina scrambled up, boots slipping on dusty stone, and squeezed through the opening like a cat forced into a cage too small.

  The outside air hit her face—cold, sharp, full of grit.

  She landed awkwardly in the courtyard behind the barracks, knees buckling.

  Lysander was already through the window behind her.

  He didn’t jump.

  He dropped, controlled, absorbing impact with bent knees like the ground owed him nothing.

  Inside the barracks, the hunter’s voice lifted—still polite.

  “Shadow,” it said, almost amused. “Always dutiful.”

  Lysander’s jaw tightened.

  He didn’t respond.

  He grabbed Jina’s wrist and pulled.

  Not hard.

  Just enough to start her moving.

  They ran.

  Not straight.

  Not toward the gate.

  Lysander cut them through a side passage, over a low wall where the stone had collapsed, and into the broken scrub beyond the outpost.

  Behind them, the barracks door slammed.

  Footsteps hit the courtyard.

  More than one.

  Jina’s breath turned ragged immediately. Her lungs burned. Her legs felt like wet rope.

  The poison didn’t care that she was being hunted.

  It just kept working.

  The threads flared as fear surged.

  Hot thread—Kaelen—spiked with irritation, like her panic offended him.

  Sharp thread flickered with laughter, like someone had just found the game entertaining.

  Fire thread stirred, restless, hungry.

  Cold thread stayed too controlled, too quiet, like Theron was holding himself in a fist and refusing to let go.

  Jina’s vision blurred.

  She stumbled on loose rock.

  Lysander caught her elbow and hauled her forward without breaking pace.

  “Don’t fall,” he said.

  “Trying,” she wheezed.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  Wind howled up over the ridge.

  Then something changed.

  The air thickened.

  A distant rumble rolled across the Wastes like a warning.

  Jina lifted her head and saw the sky.

  It wasn’t just gray.

  It was bruised—dark, churning clouds swallowing the light.

  A storm.

  Not a gentle one.

  The kind that didn’t ask if you were ready.

  A gust slammed into them hard enough to steal Jina’s breath. Dust and grit stung her eyes. She squeezed them shut for a second, then opened them again, blinking through the burn.

  Lysander looked at the sky once.

  Then he changed direction, cutting down toward a cluster of jagged rocks that rose like broken teeth.

  “There,” he said.

  Jina didn’t see anything that looked like shelter.

  She saw death with scenery.

  But she followed anyway, because following Lysander was the only reason she’d made it this far.

  They reached the rock cluster and Lysander found a narrow gap between two slabs. He shoved through first, knife in hand, then signaled her in.

  Inside, the wind dulled.

  Not gone—just muted.

  Jina exhaled shakily.

  The space widened into a crude hollow—half cave, half collapsed structure. Old timber beams jutted from the stone like bones. A piece of roof had caved in long ago, leaving a low overhang that blocked most of the storm.

  A storm shelter.

  Barely.

  But barely was better than nothing.

  Lysander looked back out the gap, listening.

  Jina sank down onto a flat stone and immediately regretted it when cold seeped into her bones.

  Her hands shook.

  Her breath came in shallow pulls.

  Her heart kept skipping beats like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to participate.

  Lysander crouched and listened again.

  Outside, wind began to scream.

  Rain hadn’t started yet, but the pressure in the air promised it would.

  Footsteps—distant, scattered—faded into the wind. The storm would cover tracks, swallow scent.

  A blessing and a threat.

  Lysander turned back to her.

  His eyes flicked over her face, her posture, the way her shoulders were hunched like she was trying to make herself smaller.

  “You’re cold,” he said.

  Jina tried for humor. “It’s the Wastes. Cold is kind of the theme.”

  His mouth didn’t twitch.

  He reached into his pack and pulled out his cloak. He held it out—

  Then stopped.

  Again.

  “May I,” he asked quietly.

  Jina stared at him.

  It was ridiculous.

  He was shielding her from storms and hunters and beasts, and he still treated her like her body belonged to her.

  Even now.

  Even when her title could have made him take without asking.

  Her throat tightened.

  Jina nodded once.

  Lysander draped the cloak over her shoulders carefully, as if any sudden movement might crack her apart.

  The fabric was rough, warm with his body heat, smelling like smoke and leather and dried blood.

  Jina hated how fast her body leaned into the warmth.

  She pulled the cloak tighter around herself, not looking at him.

  “Thanks,” she muttered.

  Lysander didn’t answer.

  He moved to the mouth of the shelter and sat where he could see out, back against stone, knife across his knees.

  Guarding again.

  Always guarding.

  Jina watched him for a second, then forced her gaze away.

  Because watching him made her mind do dangerous things.

  Like asking why he kept choosing her.

  Like wondering if he’d still choose her if he knew.

  If I tell him I’m not her, does he cut my throat?

  The thought came uninvited, sharp as a needle.

  Not because she truly believed Lysander was cruel.

  Because she didn’t know what “shadow guard” meant in this world when the princess’s soul was “wrong.”

  Guards didn’t protect strangers.

  Guards protected what they were ordered to protect.

  And orders didn’t come with mercy.

  Jina swallowed hard and pressed her fingers to her wrist.

  Pulse fast.

  Weak.

  Skipping.

  She needed heat.

  She needed fluids.

  She needed time.

  She had none of those.

  The storm began in earnest.

  Rain hammered the rocks, a hard, cold sheet that turned dust into mud and made everything smell like wet stone. Wind shoved it sideways, pelting the narrow shelter opening.

  Lysander shifted his body subtly to block more of it, taking the edge of the storm on his shoulder.

  He didn’t complain.

  He didn’t even react.

  Like being battered was normal.

  Jina watched him again, unable to help it.

  A drop of water slid down his jaw. His hair darkened at the temples. His eyes stayed fixed on the outside world.

  He looked carved out of duty.

  Jina’s chest tightened with something that wasn’t poison.

  She pulled the cloak tighter and tried to focus on practical things.

  Okay.

  They escaped the outpost.

  Hunters were real.

  The voice had known her. It had called Lysander “Shadow.”

  This wasn’t a random patrol.

  This was targeted.

  Which meant the Diadem’s reach extended into the Wastes.

  Which meant she couldn’t just hide until she recovered.

  Recovery wasn’t a safe plan.

  Recovery was a countdown to being found again.

  The threads pulsed faintly, reacting to her racing thoughts.

  Hot thread flickered with impatience.

  Sharp thread amused.

  Fire thread restless.

  Cold thread… still too tight.

  Jina’s jaw clenched.

  Theron was alive. She could feel that.

  But she could also feel how close he was to snapping.

  “Lysander,” she said quietly.

  His eyes didn’t leave the shelter mouth. “What.”

  “How far are we from the outpost now?”

  “A half day,” he said.

  “And from the border road?”

  “Two days.”

  Jina exhaled slowly through her nose.

  Two days with poison.

  Two days with hunters.

  Two days with bonds yanking at her ribs every time one of them breathed wrong.

  Her hands trembled inside the cloak.

  Lysander shifted slightly, and his gaze finally flicked toward her.

  Not soft.

  Focused.

  Like he’d heard something in the way she breathed.

  “You’re fading again,” he said.

  “I’m not,” Jina lied.

  Lysander’s stare didn’t change. “You are.”

  Jina’s throat tightened in irritation. “Do you want me to argue or do you want me to stay conscious.”

  Lysander’s jaw flexed.

  Then he said, quieter, “Stay conscious.”

  Jina laughed once, humorless. “I’ll put it on my to-do list.”

  She closed her eyes and reached for the warmth inside her—Heal.

  It answered sluggishly, like it didn’t want to be dragged out again.

  Jina didn’t blame it.

  She was tired too.

  She guided a small thread of warmth into her chest, aiming to steady her heart and stop the shaking in her hands.

  Warmth sank in.

  Her breath eased.

  Her pulse smoothed just enough to feel less like it was tripping over itself.

  Relief flickered—

  Then the cost hit.

  Her limbs went heavy.

  Her stomach rolled.

  She swallowed hard and forced her eyes open before sleep could take her.

  Lysander’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Stop.”

  Jina blinked at him. “What.”

  “Stop using it,” he said, voice low.

  “I need it,” she rasped.

  “You need to live,” he corrected. “And it’s draining you.”

  Jina’s jaw tightened. “So what’s your plan? Just… let my heart stutter until it stops?”

  Lysander didn’t answer for a beat.

  Rain hammered rock.

  Wind shrieked through cracks.

  Then he said, controlled and quiet, “My plan is to get you out.”

  “That’s not a plan,” Jina snapped.

  Lysander’s eyes flashed.

  Not anger.

  Fear, tightly leashed.

  He stood abruptly and crossed the shelter in two strides.

  Jina tensed on instinct, shoulders tightening under the cloak.

  He stopped in front of her.

  He didn’t touch.

  He just crouched so he was at eye level.

  His voice dropped, rough and honest.

  “Do you know what it does to me when you go quiet,” he said.

  Jina froze.

  The words hit like a blade to the ribs.

  Because he wasn’t talking about her “sleeping.”

  He was talking about her dying.

  Again.

  Her mouth went dry.

  “I’m not—” she started.

  Not dying.

  Not leaving.

  Not—

  She stopped, because she didn’t know what promise she could make that wouldn’t be a lie.

  Lysander held her gaze.

  His eyes were too sharp. Too steady. And under it—something raw he kept clamped down so hard it had to hurt.

  Jina swallowed.

  Her voice came out smaller than she meant it to.

  “I’m trying,” she said.

  Lysander stared at her for a long beat.

  Then he exhaled once, controlled.

  He shifted back—creating distance again, like he’d caught himself getting too close.

  “I know,” he said.

  Two words.

  No comfort. No apology. No softening.

  Just acknowledgement.

  He rose and moved back to his guard position at the shelter mouth, sitting with his back to stone, knife across his knees.

  Intimacy offered.

  Then denied.

  Not because he didn’t feel.

  Because he wouldn’t take.

  Not without being asked.

  Not without being sure.

  Not without… something he didn’t know how to ask for.

  Jina’s throat tightened around it.

  He thinks I’m Aurelia.

  He thinks he’s talking to the woman who made him a shadow.

  And still he asked permission to put a cloak on her.

  The thought hurt in a way she didn’t have a file for.

  Outside, the storm worsened.

  Rain poured in sheets now, turning the Wastes into a slashing curtain. The world beyond the shelter mouth blurred into gray.

  Lysander’s shoulders took the brunt of the wind.

  Water ran down his sleeves.

  He didn’t move.

  Jina watched him for too long.

  Then her voice slipped out, quiet and unplanned.

  “Why do you keep asking.”

  Lysander didn’t turn. “Asking what.”

  “Permission,” she said. “To touch me. To help me. To—” She stopped, because her chest tightened. “To exist near me.”

  Lysander went still.

  Rain hammered the rocks harder, as if the storm wanted to listen.

  He didn’t answer right away.

  When he did, his voice was flat, careful.

  “Because you don’t like being touched.”

  Jina blinked.

  That was… true, in a general sense. In her old life too. In hospitals, in emergencies, in grief.

  But it wasn’t the real answer.

  Not the whole one.

  She could hear the unsaid under it.

  Because he had touched her without permission before.

  Because Aurelia had let him do anything as a child and then punished him for it as a queen.

  Because he’d learned the hard way where the lines were.

  Jina swallowed hard.

  “I don’t hate it,” she said quietly.

  Lysander’s head turned slightly.

  Just enough that she saw the edge of his jaw in profile.

  He didn’t look at her.

  He didn’t let himself.

  “Noted,” he said.

  It should have been cold.

  It wasn’t.

  It was restraint.

  And it made something in Jina’s chest ache in a way poison couldn’t explain.

  Her eyelids grew heavy again.

  The Heal had steadied her heart but drained her strength.

  The cloak was warm.

  The shelter was dim.

  The storm was loud enough to drown out fear.

  It would be so easy to sleep.

  Too easy.

  She fought it anyway.

  Because the moment she slept, she’d lose control.

  And the last time she lost control, she almost said Stop like it was nothing.

  Jina shifted, pulling her knees closer under the cloak.

  The motion made her shiver.

  Lysander’s hand tightened around his knife.

  Not because of her.

  Because he heard the shiver and his body wanted to move.

  He stayed where he was.

  Intimacy offered.

  Then held back.

  Jina’s lips parted before she could stop herself.

  “You’re going to freeze,” she whispered.

  Lysander didn’t turn. “No.”

  “That wasn’t a question,” Jina muttered.

  Silence.

  Then, after a long beat, Lysander said quietly, “If I sit closer, you’ll feel it.”

  Jina blinked. “Feel what.”

  He didn’t answer immediately.

  When he did, his voice was lower, rougher.

  “Me.”

  The word hit like a physical thing.

  Jina’s throat went dry.

  She stared at his back—broad shoulders under wet cloth, the line of his neck, the way his posture stayed locked even while he tried to give her space.

  The threads pulsed faintly, as if the bonds were listening too.

  Jina swallowed.

  “I already do,” she said, before she could talk herself out of it.

  Lysander’s shoulders went still.

  The rain hammered harder.

  Wind shoved at the shelter opening.

  And for the first time since she woke in this body, the silence between them felt charged with something that wasn’t fear.

  Lysander didn’t move.

  He didn’t come closer.

  But his voice came, quiet and controlled, like it cost him.

  “Sleep,” he said. “I’ll watch.”

  Jina’s chest tightened.

  She hated that she wanted to obey.

  She hated more that she did.

  Her eyelids slid shut.

  Her body sank into warmth.

  And right before sleep took her, she felt it—

  Not a touch.

  Not a hand.

  A presence shifting just slightly nearer, enough that the edge of his cloak blocked more wind, enough that if she reached out in her sleep she might find him.

  Lysander didn’t claim closeness.

  He didn’t take it.

  He simply… stayed where he could catch her if she fell.

  Jina’s last waking thought was dangerous and soft:

  If he ever stops being a shadow, what does he become?

  [Romance]