Rosalia — POV
It had been two days since we arrived at the safe base.
Two days since we moved into this villa.
Two days—just forty-eight hours—and yet sohow, these short monts had been better than every year I had lived before. Better than the twenty-sothing years filled with heaviness, coldness, and a suffocating silence that clung to like a second skin. I kept turning that realization over in my mind, again and again, as if afraid it would slip away if I didn’t examine it from every angle.
I an... in that world, in that house, with that family... I never felt the peace and warmth I feel now. Not even for a second. Not even accidentally. Life back there had always been a bleak corridor that stretched endlessly, without a single open window to let in the smallest breath of comfort.
Isn’t that ridiculous?
Anyone who lived in this apocalypse—a world now rotting under death, corruption, endless fighting, and the desperate instinct to survive—would laugh in my face if I admitted such a thing. They would probably spit at , curse , maybe even kill for daring to think that the past world was anything less than paradise.
For them, the past was heaven. A heaven that collapsed into hell.
But for ... it was the opposite.
This world—this broken, dangerous, blood-stained world—gave sothing I had never had before: space to breathe. A place where I existed without being crushed. Maybe it was pathetic, but the proof was right there on my face.
I had been smiling nonstop for two whole days.
Smiling at the children as they ran about, letting them tug at my sleeves or climb onto my lap as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Smiling at Liz and the others whenever they spoke, cooked, argued, or simply existed beside .
Smiling at Cassel—especially Cassel—whose re presence, even from afar, quieted every trembling thing inside . The way he walked, the way he breathed, the way he filled a room with silent certainty... it grounded . Wrapped in a feeling I had never known before—an unbelievable sense of relief, strength, and safety.
But living with him under one roof... hearing his footsteps echo through the villa’s hallways... knowing he might walk past at any mont... that was sothing else entirely. That was like drinking warmth directly into my veins.
And touching him—even the idea of it—felt like a double dose of happiness.
Ahem... although I hadn’t actually touched him these past two days.
Not because I didn’t want to. Oh, I absolutely wanted to. But Cassel had been busy—constantly out on missions, always leading his n, handling matters around the base. He barely had ti to sleep, let alone indulge my quietly ridiculous need for physical closeness.
Anyway... I wasn’t obsessed with touching. I wasn’t. But for so reason, my mind kept circling back to it, like a hand brushing against the sa bruise over and over.
Maybe I had so haphephilia. That would be funny. Or embarrassing. Or both.
Or maybe the reason was much simpler... maybe I was starved for sothing I’d never had. Love. Warmth. A hand reaching out for mine without pulling away in disgust. Twenty-plus years without such things leaves a very strange emptiness—one that reacts too strongly when finally given even a drop of affection.
The truth was: I barely touched anyone in my old life.
What do you expect from soone who couldn’t even rember touching her own mother?
I sat in the villa’s backyard garden—a small patch of peace in the midst of chaos—where Katy had planted countless flowers of every kind she could find. The garden was far from perfect; so petals were wilted, so stems were half-broken, and so areas of the soil were dry. And yet, despite its flaws, it felt more alive than anything I had ever seen.
Sunlight filtered through the thin leaves overhead, brushing my skin gently. The faint scent of earth and flowers wrapped around like a soft blanket, coaxing out thoughts I had never ant to think aloud.
Crazy thoughts. Vulnerable, fragile thoughts.
The kind of thoughts I never wanted Cassel to discover.
I didn’t want him to think I was unstable. I didn’t want him to pull away. I didn’t want to beco soone he had to keep at a distance because she carried too much softness in a world too harsh for it.
While my thoughts sward like a storm in my head, I suddenly heard a noise from the far end of the garden—a soft clatter, followed by a cracking sound.
I snapped my head toward it.
It was the wooden fence separating our villa from the neighboring one. A section of it had crumbled inward.
And through the broken planks peeked a little girl.
How did I know she was little? Because the gap she squeezed through was tiny—two loose boards barely wide enough for a small body. She must have pushed them aside just enough to slip in, or maybe the old fence had been one nudge away from collapsing already.
She looked like a doll. A tiny, delicate doll no older than three or four. Her hair frad her round cheeks softly, and her clothes were crumpled in a way that only very young children could manage.
I stayed where I was for a mont, watching her cautiously from a distance. She seed curious, confused—until she got stuck halfway. Her little legs kicked helplessly, and when she couldn’t pull herself free, her face crumpled.
Then she started crying.
Loudly. Heartbreakingly.
My instincts reacted before my mind did. I rushed toward her.
"Co here—don’t be scared, darling. Don’t worry, you’re okay. I’ll get you out, just don’t move."
My voice softened without realizing it. Sothing in naturally shifted around children.
The mont she heard my tone, her sobs softened into sad little whimpers. She sniffled, trembling lightly, eyes wide and glossy with tears. The sight lted instantly. Her tiny hands gripped the broken wood as if it were the only thing keeping her from drowning.
I carefully examined the fence. Thankfully, it looked like it had been decaying for years. I grabbed the loose plank and shifted it, and it gave way easily. Once I cleared enough space, I gently pulled the girl out. It only took seconds.
"Why did you go in there? You could’ve gotten hurt, little one."
"Papa... bwaaaah!"
She burst into tears again—louder than before—and this ti her cries were almost frantic.
I tried everything—rocking her slightly, patting her back, making gentle sounds—but she refused to calm down. Her tiny body shook with each sob, and she clung to like a terrified kitten.
And then—
A sudden gust of wind shot toward .
So fast I didn’t understand what happened.
One mont I was standing by the fence with the child in my arms.
The next mont—
I was no longer standing.
I was being lifted—swept, carried—into soone’s arms so swiftly the world blurred around .
My heart leapt into my throat. Instinctively, I clutched the little girl tighter, afraid she might fall.
I looked up—
And saw Cassel.
Or rather... the sharp angle of his jaw, because he wasn’t looking at .
He was staring straight ahead with an expression so terrifying it felt like the temperature in the garden dropped several degrees.
The air around him thickened, heavy and suffocating.
Even the little girl, who had been crying seconds earlier, fell completely silent. Her tears froze on her cheeks, her small body trembling in fear.
I wanted to whisper to her, "Sweetie, trust , you’re not alone. Even I’m scared to breathe too loudly right now."
I had no idea why Cassel looked so deadly—until I looked toward the spot he was staring at.
The place where I had been standing monts ago.
It was destroyed.
A massive crater ripped the ground open. Earth was torn apart, stones shattered, dust rising in a thick cloud. The soil was churned violently, as if so explosive force had slamd into it with murderous intent.
And standing amid the destruction...
Was a man.
A man so painfully ordinary it was almost insulting. Not strong. Not intimidating.
He looked like one of those teachers you forget as soon as the sester ends—bland expression, forgettable features, plain clothes.
And yet, I would never forget his face.
Because he had almost killed .
If Cassel hadn’t arrived at that exact mont...
"P-papa... papa..."
The little girl’s voice shook as she reached her tiny hands toward the man.
The man’s expression changed instantly—twisted with panic and rage.
"Let go of my daughter, you bastards! LET GO OF MY DAUGHTER!"
He charged forward like a madman. Without hesitation, he swung his arm, and the wind around him coiled, sharpening into a blade that tore through the air with frightening speed.
I stared at him in disbelief.
Seriously?
If he loved his daughter so much, shouldn’t he try to save her instead of attacking blindly?
What if we couldn’t dodge?
What if his attack hit her?
But I didn’t have ti to say any of that.
Because Cassel didn’t dodge.
He didn’t move.
He simply raised one hand—calm, effortless—and caught the wind blade as if it were nothing more than a child’s toy.
Then ca his voice.
Cold.
rciless.
Beautiful.
"You dare attack my people inside my territory? You’re begging for death."
Before his sentence even ended.
The man was lifted into the air—violently, helplessly.
His body contorted, limbs pinned by invisible force, his face draining of color.
He couldn’t scream.
He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t move.
Cassel was angry.
Very angry.
Angry enough to kill.
And in that mont... I realized the full weight of what it ant to be protected by him.
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