The Rogue King staggered closer, his golden eyes locked on Erald with a strange mixture of disbelief and fury. Blood still dripped from the deep gash in his side, and his breath was uneven.
"What did you do?" he demanded again.
Erald took a step back, blinking in surprise at the sudden accusation. "I didn’t do anything."
His eyes flicked down to the gash in his side, still bleeding, slower to heal than it should have. His hands trembled slightly as he pressed his palm over it. "You did sothing. I felt it."
Her gaze flicked to the blood seeping between his fingers. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," she said, her brows furrowed. "You lost. That’s it."
"Don’t change the subject," he snapped. "I don’t bleed like this. I don’t lose like this."
His gaze darkened, but she could see it now. Beneath the fury, there was disbelief. He couldn’t understand how this happened. And neither could she.
"You’re still bleeding," she said quietly. "Maybe you should sit down."
The Rogue King flinched slightly at her tone before turning his gaze to Kieran, who had swiftly positioned himself between them, standing protectively in front of Erald. "Accept your defeat. You lost, end of story."
The Rogue King’s glare was like a blade aid at Kieran’s heart. If looks could kill, the ground would already be swallowing him whole.
But Erald just stood there, confused and silent, her mind racing as she looked between the two n. She hadn’t done anything... had she?
She’d expected Kieran to lose. She had felt the imbalance between them before. The Rogue King had always moved like a creature far beyond natural. She had read about his feats in ti past, including how he helped her father win a war.
So why... why had it felt like the battle was tilted against him tonight?
It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel real.
And from the look on The Rogue King’s face, like he could rip him apart with a thought, it was clear he felt the sa.
"Point proven," Lucien said coldly from behind them. "I think it’s ti we left."
Erald turned her head slightly toward Kieran. "Kieran... are you okay?"
He gave a faint nod, still breathing hard. "Just a few scratches." He gestured toward the path. "Co on."
But Erald didn’t move. Her eyes remained fixed on The Rogue King, who was still bleeding, still stunned, still watching her like she held the answers.
He had moved slightly to lean against a tree, his jaw clenched tight. He had worn trousers now, but blood was still running down his side.
"Erald?" Adrien called softly. "You coming?"
She didn’t answer right away.
She couldn’t.
Sothing about the way he looked now... that gash, his laboured breathing, the faint tremble in his fingers, it wasn’t right. Why wasn’t he healing?
Her throat tightened. "You all go ahead," she said.
Kieran froze. "What?"
"I’ll catch up later."
Lucien’s voice was sharper this ti. "Erald, don’t..."
"I’ll catch up," she repeated.
Adrien frowned, stepping beside her. "You don’t need to stay with him."
She didn’t respond.
Eventually, with heavy glances and obvious reluctance, the three turned and made their way back through the woods, Kieran trailing behind them.
The mont they were gone, she approached The Rogue King slowly.
He turned slightly as she approached, his posture wary. "What now?" he muttered.
Erald didn’t speak; she reached out, slowly, toward his side.
He flinched away. "What are you doing?"
"You’re bleeding."
"You’re still bleeding."
"I’ve noticed," he bit out.
She crouched slightly, her gaze scanning the wound. "You’re healing too slow."
He didn’t answer.
She looked up at him. "Why aren’t you healing?"
He glared at her. "You tell ."
"I didn’t do anything."
"This isn’t the first ti," he growled. "In the mine, during the cave-in, my aura weakened. I thought it was a coincidence. But now..."
Erald frowned. "You think I’m... suppressing your powers?"
"I think it only happens when you’re around," he said quietly.
Erald stared at him in disbelief. "And you think I’m knowingly doing sothing?"
He didn’t answer.
"Seriously?" she said. "You think I’m what? Sabotaging you? Cursing you?"
"I don’t know," he said in a low voice. "All I know is that this... started with you."
She rose slowly. "So now I’m your weakness?"
"You’ve always been. Maybe not deliberately, but this... isn’t natural. Sothing about you changes everything."
Erald looked down at the wound again. "Well, whether it’s natural or not, that wound needs to be treated. I’m taking you back."
He laughed darkly. "You want to parade through the estate like this? Let everyone see the great Rogue King limping and bloodied?"
"I’m not taking you through the estate," she said flatly. "We’ll go the back way. You’re not dying out here."
He gave her a withering look and scoffed. "I may be injured, but I’m far from weak."
"Then walk beside ," she said calmly. "Or crawl. I don’t care."
The Rogue King stared at her long enough that she thought he’d refuse. When he didn’t say or do anything, she stopped waiting for his permission.
She stepped beside him, slid her arm around his back, and threw his arm over her shoulder.
He tensed, but didn’t stop her.
They walked in silence through the woods, slipping back into the estate through a side entrance Erald often used when she was a resident of the Blood Moon Pack.
No one saw them.
She led him to her room, locking the door behind her. "Sit," she ordered, gesturing to the small bench near the fireplace.
He obeyed, reluctantly.
Erald disappeared briefly into the adjoining washroom, returning with warm water, clean towels, and a healing salve.
"Take off your coat," she said.
He raised a brow. "Ordering now?"
"I’m trying to keep you alive, not seduce you," she muttered.
With a quiet grunt, he shrugged off the coat, still dressed in his trousers. As the fabric slipped from his shoulders, Erald froze.
His torso was well-built and muscular, with rigid planes of muscle in his arms, chest, and abs, no surprise there. But it was the scars that caught her breath.
Dozens of them, so small, so large. They crisscrossed his ribs, back, and shoulders. Most were faded with ti, but so remained dark and raised, indicating they were newer wounds.
She swallowed.
"You going to stare or help?" he said gruffly.
She said nothing, just dipped a cloth in alcohol and pressed it to the wound.
He hissed.
"How many battles have you survived?" she whispered.
He didn’t answer; he just looked toward the fire, his profile cast in gold.
She dipped the cloth again and pressed it to his skin; he didn’t flinch this ti. She cleaned the wound carefully, her touch gentle despite the tension between them.
"You know," he said suddenly, "you’re a strange one."
She looked up.
"You say you want gone. That you don’t want near. But here you are, tending to like I’m so wounded animal."
"I don’t want you to die," she said softly. "That doesn’t an I want you in my life."
"You’ve said that," he replied. "And yet... you never answer why you care."
She pressed the cloth harder than necessary.
He hissed but didn’t pull away.
After a long silence, she looked up. "I still don’t know your na."
He blinked.
She sat back a little. "You keep calling yours. You stalk my life. You’ve invaded every inch of my world, and yet... I don’t even know your na."
He turned his gaze back to the flas, looking distant. "I haven’t used it in years." A beat passed, then more quietly, "No one’s asked in a long ti."
"How long?"
He was quiet for a while. Then: "About a century, give or take."
She paused, waiting.
Finally, he turned his head, eting her gaze with an expression that was almost... hollow. "Ares," he said.
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