Yvain didn’t exactly rember how he got from the front hall to Blair’s room—probably because his brain had decided it was the perfect ti to go into full autopilot panic mode. One mont, he was digesting the words “Princess Blair is awake,” and the next, he was pushing past stunned physicians like a royal tornado with a dical license.
The mont he stepped inside, the white-robed crowd of healers parted for him like he was the ssiah of bedside manner. And there she was—Blair—awake, confused, and for so reason… squinting at his left pinky?
He blinked. “Do I have sothing on my—” Never mind. She was clearly still rebooting.
“Lay back. I’ll check your internal injuries,” he said, voice calm, hands steady.
“E-Evan…?” she whispered, blinking up at him with the expression of soone who just woke up in a parallel dinsion where twelve-year-olds run critical care units. Weird how these people treated her classmate like a literal king.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, gentle.
She frowned, clearly trying to find words. “I feel… light. And empty…? Umm… kind of nauseous?”
“Low energy?” he asked. She nodded, confirming it.
He quietly channeled a mild healing spell, ran a few magical checks, and only after finding no glaring internal disasters, allowed himself to breathe again.
Right on cue—perhaps fashionably late to avoid doing any actual work—Alan and Matthew finally burst into the room. They skidded to a halt like overexcited golden retrievers in human form, both lighting up the mont they saw her sitting up.
“Your Highness!”
“You’re finally awake!”
Blair tried to smile at them, bless her, but it ca out like a half-glitched emoticon. Understandable, really. She was probably still figuring out where her limbs were. Everything about her posture scread ‘ethereal ghost girl discovering gravity for the first ti’.
“What… happened?” she asked, voice cracking like a haunted violin string. “Is everything okay now?”
Yvain wordlessly signaled one of the idle physicians to fetch a glass of water, because clearly, this child was in no state to rember basic hydration protocols. After handing her the glass and watching her sip it like it was the elixir of life, he finally answered.
“Everything should be okay for now,” he said slowly. Emphasis on the should. You know, barring another apocalyptic-level tantrum from the Demon Lord or any bonus kidnappings.
Blair gave a tiny nod, clearly trying to process the answer while still fighting off the residual dizziness of post-magical-coma confusion. Then her expression shifted—anxious, careful, the kind that always ca right before the Bad Question.
“What about… my brother?” she asked, looking at them with a soft, hopeful dread.
Yvain didn’t answer imdiately. Matthew and Alan—usually brimming with dumb jokes and bad timing—were uncharacteristically quiet, their smiles dimming just enough for the air to shift.
Of course she’d ask. Of course she’d noticed they hadn’t ntioned him yet. Because even half-conscious and running on half a soul, Blair wasn’t stupid.
Her gaze dropped, bracing for the worst.
Yvain stepped forward. “Senior Locan is… okay. You can et him later when you feel better.”
Which was true. Technically. Locan wasn’t dead. Not even injured, physically. But ntally? Spiritually? Existentially? That was a different buffet of drama entirely.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, they had one ghost-like princess alive and semi-lucid, and that was already a miracle worth safeguarding.
“Sir, should we report this to His Majesty?” one of the physicians asked, voice low, reverent—as if Yvain might smite them for daring to follow protocol.
“I’ll do it myself later. Papa’s probably still trying to convince the world leaders to wage another war,” Yvain replied without sparing them a glance. “You’re all dismissed.”
And just like that, the entire battalion of professional adult healers filed out with the synchronized solemnity of a choir leaving a funeral. Doors clicked shut behind them, leaving just four teens, one bed, and the collective relief of one of them no longer dying today.
“Stay for dinner, you two,” Yvain said casually, like they weren’t fresh off the trauma train. “We can tell the kitchen to get us snacks and gas.”
Alan and Matthew didn’t need to be told twice. Their grins scread ‘yes, free food and staying over at the cool friend’s place!’. Then Yvain turned to Blair, his tone softening.
“Bone marrow broth or so bisque? Porridge might still be too much for you now. What do you think?”
Blair blinked. Then blushed. And then blinked again. Was this how so boys just… talked to girls? With actual concern and nu options?
She shouldn’t be this flustered, but it was hard not to be. Especially when she rembered how Yvain’s father treated his wife—like royalty that deserved tenderness. And now here was Evan, acting like affection was just… standard protocol. Like it wasn’t revolutionary.
“Mmm, bisque might be yummy right about now…” Matthew suddenly piped up, his brain clearly caught in the food fantasy. Alan promptly elbowed him in the gut with the force of divine retribution.
Seeing them joke around like nothing was wrong sohow made Blair feel more grounded. The world hadn’t ended. There were still idiots bickering over soup.
“If I eat sothing… will you tell everything that happened, Evan?” Blair asked, tilting her head innocently—too innocently.
Yvain imdiately narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. “Are you trying to negotiate information out of with your health as the bargaining chip? My fair lady, I know you’re smart, but this is psychological warfare.”
“Dayum,” Matthew muttered with full-body admiration.
Alan gave a low whistle. “Smooth.”
Blair giggled, and the two boys proceeded to slap Yvain’s back in the ti-honored ritual of ‘you got rizz, my liege.’
“Tell the kitchen to get us snacks and bisque for Her Highness,” Yvain grumbled, pushing them toward the door like misbehaving puppies. “Go.”
“Fine~”
“Don’t ss this up, Your Majesty.”
“Kew~kew~wooop~”
“Shut up!”
“Kekekekekek…”
Their laughter echoed down the hallway, gradually fading like the aftershocks of a very specific kind of chaos: friendship.
Now, just the two of them remained. The princess, half-reclined in bed with a faint flush in her cheeks, and the king—though she didn’t know that yet—seated beside her like he had all the ti in the world.
But Blair wasn’t just sitting around for soup and banter. No. There was a question gnawing at the edges of her relief.
Because she rembered—the curse, the spiraling loss of her soul, the lessons with Mada Bunny Fay, the aching fight to hold onto herself. She rembered the chaos.
And she wasn’t in the palace.
She was in the Wilderwood Capital Mansion. Still.
Not the palace. Not ho.
Her fingers curled slightly around the blanket. Was she… being cast aside? Quietly tucked away like a secret too troubleso to parade?
After all, she wasn’t a real princess.
Just an illegitimate one.
“We’ll start slow,” Yvain said, tone calm. “And I’m not going to hide anything from you.”
Bold words. Dangerous words. The kind that made you sit up straighter, even if your body felt like overcooked noodles.
Yvain folded his hands together, fingers interlocking. Blair saw it, what she saw ever since she opened her eyes—thin as spider silk, barely-there but unmistakable.
A red string.
Delicate. Strange. Glowing faintly like sothing that had no business existing in the realm of reality, and yet, there it was. Stretching from his left pinky finger… to hers.
She didn’t know what it ant yet.
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