Crimson bonds

Three weeks had passed since the night Cid cleaved the high dragon’s head from its shoulders.

The desert had changed in that time—colder at night, wind sharper, dunes shifting into unfamiliar shapes—but so had the space between him and Fenrona.

They still hadn’t spoken the words that hung between them, but they didn’t need to. It was in the way she’d hand him water before drinking herself, in the way he’d slow his pace when she lagged even slightly, in the way her ears twitched toward his voice no matter what else was happening.

Their bond had deepened in quiet moments—shared glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking, rare smiles cracked open like fragile doors. Yet neither dared step through.

That night, their campfire was a modest flicker in the dark, struggling against the cold wind that dragged sand across the dunes in whispering sheets.

Fenrona shifted closer to the fire, pulling her cloak tighter. “Cid,” she murmured, “are we close? I need a bath before I turn to dust.”

“We’re near the border,” he replied, poking the fire with a stick. “Should be a village not far from here.”

She groaned softly. “The Golden Kingdom?”

“That’s the plan.”

Her voice softened, nearly lost to the wind. “I’m tired of running.”

His eyes flicked to hers, catching the firelight in the silver of her gaze. Something tight coiled in his chest, but he swallowed it back. “…Get some rest.”

“Good night, Cid.”

“Good night, Fen.”

The silence didn’t last.

A subtle shift in the air made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. His eyes opened to a shadow crouched over Fenrona—slender, cloaked in black, one gloved hand over her mouth.

Clain was in his hand before thought caught up. “Let her go,” he growled.

The figure didn’t flinch, gold-and-silver armor glinting faintly in the firelight, foreign script curling along its plates.

“Golden Kingdom,” Cid muttered.

A man’s voice cut in from behind. “Camelot now.”

Cid turned sharply. A tall man stood in silver robes over gold-plated armor, hood shadowing his face.

In a blink, Cid was moving—grabbing Fenrona, pulling her close, putting his body between her and the strangers. “You alright?”

She nodded, breath shaking. “You always show up.”

“I’ll never let them take you,” he said, low, steady.

“You promise?”

“I do.”

The man in silver chuckled, pulling back his hood. Blond hair, emerald eyes. “Sweet. But I came for a fight, not a love story.”

Steel flashed before the last word finished. Cid shoved Fenrona back and met the strike. Sparks hissed between them.

“You’re strong,” the man said, grinning.

“I could say the same,” Cid replied—and slammed a fist into his ribs.

Blood spotted the sand as the man staggered, then smiled wider. “Name?”

“Cidolfus Lynvern. From Moonlight.”

The man’s gaze sharpened. “That cursed place? I heard it burned.”

“I’m what’s left.”

“You’re cursed,” the man said flatly. “I can feel it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been looking for you… the NT.”

The fight escalated.

Arthur’s style was honed—footwork tight, strikes precise, every blow thrown with intent. Cid’s was sharper in instinct, reacting not to the blade but to the man’s breath, his weight shifts, the smallest twitch of his eyes before he struck.

They circled and collided in bursts—steel ringing, sand spraying underfoot. A heavy downward slash from Arthur was caught on Clain’s black steel, Cid twisting the angle and countering with a brutal elbow to the jaw.

Arthur reeled but responded instantly, sweeping low to take Cid’s legs. Cid leapt back just in time, the tip of Arthur’s blade grazing his thigh.

“You fight like a street brawler,” Arthur panted, blocking a flurry of strikes.

“You fight like you’ve never been hit,” Cid shot back.

Their blades locked again—Arthur’s emerald eyes meeting Cid’s unflinching brown. Pressure built in the clash, arms trembling against the strain, until they shoved each other apart.

Arthur lunged high, feinted, then spun low for Cid’s flank—only for Cid to catch it on the flat of Clain and shove him sideways into the sand.

Arthur rolled to his feet, laughing. “Finally… someone worth my time.”

It might have gone until one of them lay dead, but—

“Stop!” Fenrona’s voice cut through the air.

“Enough!” shouted the woman in black, stepping forward and yanking her hood down to reveal long blond hair and mismatched eyes—one green, one silver.

The men froze, still glaring, still breathing hard.

Arthur lowered his blade first. “Name’s Arthur Ventvag. King of Camelot.”

Cid sheathed Clain slowly. “Figures.”

When they settled—Arthur with Merly watching him like a hawk, Cid beside Fenrona—they spoke of the reason for their meeting.

“There’s a girl,” Arthur began, voice cooling from the heat of battle. “Ten years old. Name’s Sith. She’s… not from here.”

Cid frowned. “Not from here as in—?”

“As in… not from this time,” Arthur said. “She’s from the beginning. Daughter of Zeus—the god of thunder.”

Fenrona’s breath caught. “The Zeus?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. And Time itself wants her dead.”

Merly added quietly, “She’ll need protectors who don’t belong anywhere. People who can live outside the rules of fate.”

Arthur’s gaze met Cid’s directly. “People like us.”

Silence. The fire popped.

Cid finally looked to Fenrona. She met his gaze without hesitation. “We help her. No child should carry that weight alone.”

Cid turned back. “Then we help.”

Arthur gave a single nod. “Good. Because once we cross that border, we’re in Camelot’s territory… and the Red Moon is almost here.”

The fire burned low, shadows stretching long across the dunes. Above, the stars swam in an endless sea of black, but the moon’s thin white arc hung like a blade on the horizon.

They broke camp before dawn, the air sharp with desert chill. Arthur led with long, confident strides, Merly close at his side. Cid and Fenrona followed a few paces behind, their steps almost in rhythm.

She glanced at him now and then, as if trying to read a thought he wasn’t saying aloud. “You didn’t have to agree so quickly,” she said after a while.

“To helping Sith?”

She nodded. “You don’t know her.”

“I didn’t know you either,” Cid said, not looking away from the path. “Didn’t stop me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes on the sand slipping beneath her boots. “That’s different.”

“No,” he said, tone soft but certain. “It’s not.”

The wind tugged at her hair, catching in her wolf ears. She didn’t answer, but her pace drew a little closer to his.

By midday, the land began to change. The dunes gave way to scattered outcrops of stone, the sand thinning until patches of dry grass showed between the rocks. The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke—distant, but real.

Arthur slowed, scanning the horizon. “The border village should be less than an hour. Keep your hoods up. There are soldiers posted here who’d sell their own mothers if the price was right.”

Fenrona’s brow furrowed. “And if they recognize you?”

Arthur’s mouth curved into something between a smirk and a grimace. “Then we make sure they regret it.”

As they crested the last ridge, the village came into view—low stone walls, narrow streets, and a single guard tower that leaned slightly east, as if the desert wind had pushed it for years.

From this distance, it looked quiet, almost lifeless. But Cid’s gut told him eyes were already on them.

“You feel that?” Fenrona murmured.

“Yeah,” Cid said. “They’re watching.”

Arthur’s voice carried back to them without turning his head. “Camelot’s border towns are full of loyalists and informants. If you don’t want to end up in chains, don’t talk too much.”

“Or fight too much?” Cid asked dryly.

Arthur gave a humorless chuckle. “That too… unless you’re fighting for me.”

They passed through the gate without a word from the guards, but the stares followed them like shadows. The streets were narrow, lined with small market stalls—most closed at this hour—but a few merchants peered out from behind crates as the strangers passed.

Cid caught one man’s gaze linger on Fenrona, his eyes narrowing at her ears. Cid shifted his step subtly, putting himself between them. The man looked away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Fenrona murmured.

“I know,” he replied, not slowing, “but I will anyway.”

She smiled faintly beneath her hood.

Arthur led them to a squat building at the far end of the street—a border inn, its sign worn to the point the name was unreadable. He pushed the door open, and a wave of warm, stale air greeted them.

Inside, the innkeeper glanced up from a ledger, his expression neutral but not unfriendly. “Rooms?”

Arthur slid a few coins across the counter. “Two. Quiet ones.”

The man nodded, disappearing into a back room.

As they waited, Fenrona leaned closer to Cid. “Do you think this place is safe?”

“For tonight,” he said. “That’s all we need.”

Her eyes lingered on him a moment longer, as if she wanted to ask something else—but the innkeeper returned with two keys, and the moment slipped away.

The inn’s upstairs hallway was narrow, its boards creaking under each step. A single window at the far end let in the last traces of daylight, washing the corridor in a muted gold.

Arthur stopped at the first door and handed Merly a key. “You’re with me,” he said. She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath about “as if I had a choice,” but followed him in.

Cid and Fenrona took the second room. He pushed the door open and stepped inside first, scanning without thinking—habit from too many nights in places less friendly than they looked. The room was small but clean, with a bed against one wall, a small table, and a basin of water that still held the warmth of the afternoon sun.

Fenrona closed the door behind them, pulling her hood down. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders, catching what little light the room offered.

“It’s better than sleeping in the sand,” she said softly.

The room was warmer than either of them had expected. The walls, plastered in a faded ochre, held the heat from the day, and the scent of old cedar hung faintly in the air. A single oil lamp flickered on the table, throwing slow-moving shadows across the floor.

Fenrona let her cloak slip from her shoulders and draped it over the chair. The faint tension in her posture eased for the first time since they’d stepped into the village. She took a breath that sounded almost like relief.

Cid set Clain against the wall beside the bed, the black steel catching the lamplight in quiet glints. He tested the weight of the water in the basin, dipping his fingers in and finding it still lukewarm.

“You should wash first,” he said, without looking at her.

She smiled faintly. “That’s the first time you’ve offered me something before taking it for yourself.”

“I’m trying to be civil,” he said, his voice low but edged with dry humor.

Her wolf ears twitched at that. “Trying?”

He smirked. “You’d notice if I was trying too hard.”

Fenrona crossed the small space between them, brushing past him to the basin. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed already.”

He stayed silent, watching her wring out the cloth and draw it along her arms, washing away the dust of the road. For a moment, he let himself look—not at her body, but at the way her movements slowed here, the way she let her guard drop in a place that felt safe, if only for a night.

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“You’ve been quieter since the dragon,” she said suddenly, not looking at him.

“I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Not as dangerous as charging headfirst at something that could swallow you whole,” he replied.

She laughed softly. “Worked for you, didn’t it?”

“It nearly didn’t.” He shifted his weight, leaning against the wall. “Fen… when I saw it coming for the village, I didn’t think about the people there. I didn’t even think about myself. I just thought—‘If I die, she’ll be alone.’”

Her hands stilled in the water. She turned, meeting his gaze. “You… thought about me first?”

“Always,” he said simply.

Something passed between them in that quiet. No roar of dragons, no hiss of steel—just the unguarded truth of it.

“You’re making it very hard for me to keep pretending,” she said.

“Pretending what?”

“That I don’t…” She stopped, biting down on the words as if afraid of what might happen if they got out.

He stepped toward her, closing the distance until the space between them was nothing. “Say it.”

She looked up at him, silver eyes steady despite the faint tremor in her hands. “That I don’t love you.”

He exhaled slowly, his own chest tight. “Then stop pretending.”

Her breath hitched—not from fear, but from the sudden release of something she’d been holding back for too long.

“I love you, Cid,” she said, the words steady now, fierce even. “Not because you saved me. Not because you fight for me. But because you see me. All of me.”

His reply was quiet, almost reverent. “Fenrona Cency… I love you too. And I’m not letting you go. Not in this life, not in any other.”

The words weren’t shouted. They didn’t need to be. They settled in the warm air of the room like the final line in a song, unshakable.

When she leaned in, it wasn’t the frantic clutch of two people afraid they might not get another moment—it was the sure, deliberate closeness of a promise. His hand found hers, fingers threading together in the easiest motion in the world.

They stood like that for a long while, the oil lamp burning low, the world outside forgotten.

The lamp had burned itself low by the time either of them moved again.

Cid shifted first, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand before letting it go. “You should sleep,” he said, though his voice carried none of the distance it used to.

“You too,” she replied softly, and for the first time, she didn’t hesitate before taking the side of the bed closest to the wall, leaving him the space by the door. He knew she’d done it deliberately—if anything came through that door, it would have to go through him first.

The night passed without dreams.

Morning came with a pale wash of light through the window slats. The air smelled faintly of sand and woodsmoke from the village hearths. Cid sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his boots on in silence until he felt her stir behind him.

“You’re up early,” Fenrona murmured, still tangled in the thin blanket.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Besides… I figured we should move before the market gets crowded.”

Her ears perked slightly. “Market?”

He gave a small nod. “There’s a blacksmith in this village. Word is, he forges weapons that can bind to the soul of the wielder.”

She sat up fully, silver hair spilling over her shoulders. “Soul-bound weapons? Those are rare.”

“Dangerous too,” he said, pulling his cloak on. “If it rejects you, it burns itself out—or you.”

Her smile was faint but certain. “It won’t reject me.”

The market sat near the center of the village, its stalls built from weathered wood and faded cloth awnings. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the sharper tang of metal and oil from the forges. Villagers moved about their business, eyes flicking toward the strangers in travel-worn cloaks but not daring to linger.

The blacksmith’s stall was set apart, a heavy canvas canopy shading a workbench littered with half-finished blades and the faint shimmer of runes burned into steel. The man behind it was broad-shouldered, his forearms blackened with soot, a strip of leather tied around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes.

“You’re not here for kitchen knives,” he said as they approached.

Cid rested a hand lightly on Fenrona’s shoulder. “We’re looking for a soul weapon. Something that’ll answer to her.”

The smith’s gaze slid to Fenrona. His eyes lingered on her ears, then her posture, reading more than most would. “You’ve got bite in you. That’s good. The blade I’ve got left doesn’t like cowards.”

From beneath the counter, he drew a rapier—a slender length of silver and black, the guard shaped in the curling form of a wolf’s jaw. The steel seemed to breathe in the light, catching faint traces of silver moonlight even under the sun.

Fenrona’s hand hovered over it, her pulse quickening. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” the smith said.

Her fingers closed around the hilt, and a warmth shot up her arm—not burning, but alive. The runes along the guard flared briefly, silver against black. She drew the blade free in one motion, the balance perfect in her grip, as if the weapon had been waiting for her hand alone.

Cid watched the exchange quietly, his eyes narrowing slightly at the unmistakable resonance in the air. “It’s hers,” he said simply.

The blacksmith gave a single, knowing nod. “Then it’s bound. She won’t need another in this lifetime.”

“How much?” Cid asked.

The man studied him for a moment before naming the price. Cid paid without haggling, counting out the coins into the smith’s calloused palm.

Fenrona lowered the blade, glancing at him. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interrupted, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve fought without a weapon worthy of you long enough.”

She smiled faintly, tracing a thumb along the wolf’s jaw on the guard. “Then I’ll fight with this—for us.”

By evening, the heat had bled from the air. The sky above the dunes took on the bruised hues of twilight, and a red sliver had already begun to climb the horizon.

“The Red Moon,” Merly murmured from the edge of the village wall, watching it rise.

Arthur’s expression tightened. “We’ll need to move soon. Once it’s fully above the horizon, the things it calls will start crawling out of every shadow.”

Cid’s hand rested on Clain’s hilt. He glanced at Fenrona beside him, the new rapier at her hip. “Stay close. We fight together.”

Her silver eyes met his. “Always.”

The moon rose higher, staining the sand blood-red. And then, in the distance, the first inhuman screech split the night.

The village wall groaned under the weight of boots and armor as the border garrison rushed to their positions. Torches flared along the ramparts, throwing jagged shadows across the sand.

Beyond those walls, the Red Moon loomed like a bleeding eye, casting its glow over everything. The dunes shimmered in crimson, and from their depths came the howls — guttural, wet, wrong.

Arthur stood at the gate with Claiomh Solais in one hand, his other crackling faintly with shifting energy — fire flaring, water dripping into steam, arcs of lightning flashing along his knuckles. His emerald eyes burned brighter than the torchlight, and his jaw was set like stone.

“This is going to be ugly,” he muttered.

Cid, standing to his left, adjusted his grip on Clain. “Good. I hate easy fights.”

Fenrona was at Cid’s other side, her new rapier held low, point angled toward the sand. The silver-and-black blade caught the moonlight in a way that almost seemed to drink it in.

Merly moved to Arthur’s flank, her hands bare, her posture deceptively calm. But Cid noticed her eyes — sharp, constantly flicking between Arthur and the battlefield.

The first wave hit before the gates were fully closed.

Twisted shapes erupted from the dunes, their skin stretched thin over bones, eyes pale and glowing like sick moons. The soldiers met them first, spears bracing, arrows whistling down from the walls. The clash was immediate and deafening — the sound of steel through flesh, the hiss of blood on sand.

“Hold the line!” a captain roared, his voice raw against the monstrous shrieks.

Cid surged forward into the melee, cutting down a lunging beast in one smooth arc. Its head rolled into the sand, and already he was pivoting to catch another trying to climb the wall.

Fenrona moved with him, her rapier darting into gaps in armor and flesh alike. She was fast — faster than even some of the soldiers noticed — and every strike was precise, never wasted. A soldier staggered back from a beast’s claws, and she was there, blade flashing once before the creature dropped in two pieces.

Arthur… was chaos.

He didn’t fight like a swordsman. He fought like a storm given human shape. One strike would cut a beast clean in half, the next would unleash a surge of fire that turned three more to ash. A whip of water lashed another from the wall, only for a bolt of lightning to catch it mid-air. The Red Moon’s light seemed to make it worse — his magic shifted faster, sharper, as if every element was clawing for dominance at once.

Cid caught the flicker of his eyes — not just emerald now, but fracturing with veins of red and gold.

“Arthur’s losing control,” Fenrona shouted over the din.

“I know,” Merly’s voice cut through, cold and steady. She stepped into his path, her hands catching his wrist just as a fire-laced strike nearly tore through three soldiers in its way.

“Arthur, look at me!” she barked.

For a second, the king’s eyes didn’t see her. The chaos inside him surged — fire, water, lightning, wind, earth — all flaring in random bursts that scorched sand and froze air. But her grip didn’t waver.

“Breathe,” she ordered, her voice lowering. “It’s the Red Moon. It’s feeding it. Feeding you. You need to anchor.”

Arthur’s breath came hard, ragged. “Can’t… hold—”

“Yes, you can,” she cut in, pressing her forehead to his. “You’re not just chaos. You’re mine. Hold. The. Line.”

Slowly, painfully, the wild magic dimmed — not gone, but chained. Arthur straightened, the storm in his eyes banked just enough for him to turn back to the fight.

Cid and Fenrona had formed a line with the soldiers by then, cutting down anything that broke through. One beast slammed into Cid hard enough to send him to a knee, but Fenrona’s blade was already sliding through its spine before it could finish the strike.

“Thanks,” he said between breaths.

“Always,” she answered, her voice steady despite the blood streaking her cheek.

Merly stepped up beside them, her hands faintly glowing with a stabilizing magic that wasn’t aimed at the enemy — but at Arthur.

“That’s his curse,” she said quickly, eyes scanning the dunes. “Chaos magic older than time itself. It’s not meant to exist in one body — it wants to tear him apart from the inside, or burn the world around him.”

“And the Red Moon?” Cid asked, ducking a claw swipe and countering with a slash that split a beast from hip to shoulder.

“It amplifies curses,” Merly said grimly. “Yours. Mine. His. Hers. The Moon doesn’t care what it awakens — it just wants more.”

Another wave came screaming over the dunes, dozens of shapes crashing into the garrison’s front line.

Arthur stepped forward, controlled but burning with restrained power. “I’ll break their charge.”

“Don’t burn yourself out,” Merly warned.

He only smirked faintly. “You’ll keep me standing.”

And then he was in motion again — a controlled storm this time, every element striking with surgical precision. Fire roared in a straight line through the charging beasts, ice locked their legs, wind hurled them backward into walls of stone he pulled from the sand.

Cid and Fenrona used the chaos he created to carve down stragglers, their movements in sync now — his heavy, cleaving blows paired with her piercing strikes that finished whatever he staggered.

When the last monster fell, the only sound left was the hiss of cooling steel and the low moans of wounded men. The Red Moon still hung high, but no more shapes moved on the dunes.

Arthur leaned on his sword, sweat and blood streaking his face. Merly was already at his side, one hand gripping his arm to keep the chaos from spilling over again.

Cid stood with Fenrona at the edge of the wall, both breathing hard. Her hand found his, not for comfort, but as if to silently confirm — we’re still here.

He squeezed back, just once.

The last corpse hit the sand with a wet thud. Silence followed — not peace, but the fragile kind that only comes when everything worth killing has already been killed.

The soldiers on the wall lowered their weapons slowly, exchanging weary glances. The captain barked an order to check the perimeter, his voice hoarse from shouting over the chaos.

Cid’s chest rose and fell hard. He lowered Clain and let the black steel rest against his shoulder. Beside him, Fenrona leaned on her rapier, silver eyes reflecting the bloody light of the moon. Their hands found each other’s briefly — not soft, not trembling, but firm. They were still standing. That was enough.

Arthur stood a few paces away, his shoulders hunched, every muscle tight. Merly’s hands were already on him, her presence steady, feeding him the grounding magic that kept the chaos from tearing through his veins unchecked.

“We’re done,” Arthur muttered, half to himself.

“No,” Cid said, voice low, “we’re alive. That’s not the same thing.”

They turned toward the gates. The captain waved them through, soldiers parting as the four cursed warriors entered the village. Faces peeked from shuttered windows, children clinging to their mothers’ skirts. No cheers — only wary eyes. But Cid was used to that.

Inside the inn, the air was thick with the smell of wood smoke and cooked grain. The innkeeper’s face was pale, but his hands were quick as he passed them their keys without asking a single question.

They climbed the stairs together. Two rooms.

Fenrona lingered in the hallway with her key in hand, glancing sidelong at Cid. Her voice was quieter now, stripped of the battlefield edge. “I’m taking the first shower. You’ll wait.”

Cid’s brow lifted faintly. “Bossy tonight.”

Her lips curved in the faintest smirk. “Earned it.”

He handed her the key without another word. She disappeared inside her room, the sound of the door locking clicking softly in the hallway.

Cid turned toward his own room — and stopped when he saw Merly hook her fingers into Arthur’s collar.

“You. With me. Now.”

Arthur blinked. “What—”

“You’re bleeding, you stink of magic burn, and you’re one bad breath away from collapse. Shower. Now.”

She tugged him through their door before he could argue further.

Cid shook his head faintly and stepped into his own room. He sat on the bed, loosening his cloak, listening to the muffled sounds of water running down the hall.

Minutes later, a knock.

When he opened the door, Fenrona stood there, her silver hair damp, her wolf ears twitching faintly from the heat of the steam. She was barefoot, her cloak loose around her shoulders.

“My turn’s done,” she said. Then, after a pause, her voice dropped. “Unless you want to take it together.”

Cid froze for half a second — then stepped aside. “Fine. Just don’t stab me if I take too long.”

Steam curled in the small bathing room, fogging the mirror and carrying the scent of hot stone. They said nothing at first — just the quiet rhythm of water hitting skin. Fenrona’s hand brushed his shoulder once as she passed behind him, and he glanced at her over his shoulder.

“You’re still bleeding,” she murmured, fingertips tracing a thin cut along his ribs.

“And you’ve still got sand in your hair,” he countered.

She gave a small laugh — the first real one he’d heard from her since they entered the desert. “Guess we both need work.”

When they finished, she didn’t go back to her own room. She followed him to the common hall, where Arthur and Merly were already seated at a round table. Four cups of hot spiced tea steamed in the candlelight.

Arthur lifted his cup. “To the cursed children.”

Merly smirked. “To those born broken.”

Fenrona’s voice was quieter, but it carried. “To the ones who still choose love.”

Cid’s gaze didn’t leave hers as he spoke. “To us.”

The cups met with a soft clink.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, the firelight casting sharp lines across his face. “Since you’ve seen it now… I should explain. Chaos isn’t like your curses. It’s not just a thing inside me — it’s a hunger. Fire, water, lightning, earth, wind — all of it wants to be free. If I lose control, it doesn’t just kill me. It corrupts everything it touches. Metal rots. Flesh warps. Magic turns on its wielder.”

“Then how do you fight like that?” Cid asked.

Arthur’s eyes flicked to Merly. “I don’t. We do. She anchors me. Every second I’m in a fight like tonight, she’s holding a chain around my throat. Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here. And you wouldn’t have a village left to drink in.”

Fenrona glanced at Cid. “We’re lucky, then. That all of us survived.”

“Not luck,” Cid said. “Choice. We kept each other alive. That’s why we won.”

For a long moment, the four of them just sat there, the Red Moon’s light spilling faintly through the window. Soldiers laughed quietly downstairs. The smell of hot bread drifted from the kitchen.

It wasn’t peace — but it was theirs.

Arthur exhaled deeply, setting his cup down. “If I don’t stand now, I’ll end up sleeping here.”

Merly smirked. “And drool all over the table.”

He raised a brow. “You’d still carry me upstairs.”

She rose, walking around to him, and tugged at his collar with mock annoyance. “Of course. You’d trip over yourself without me.”

Arthur grinned faintly, leaning down to press a brief kiss to her forehead. “Guess I’m lucky you haven’t left me yet.”

“You are,” she said softly, her voice losing its teasing edge. Her hand stayed on his chest for a heartbeat longer than necessary before she turned toward the stairs.

Arthur followed, throwing a glance back at Cid. “Don’t stay up all night. She’ll drag you upstairs the way Merly does me.”

When they were gone, the quiet grew heavier — but not uncomfortable.

Fenrona rested her chin on her hand, studying him through the candlelight. “You never break your promises.”

Cid tilted his head. “Which one are we talking about?”

“All of them,” she said. “Even the small ones.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Guess I’m predictable.”

She shook her head. “No. You’re steady.”

The way she said it left something warm in his chest. For a moment, he wanted to tell her more — what she meant to him, how she’d become the only constant he wanted to keep — but instead, she stood and offered her hand.

“Come on. You’re hurt. And I’m not sleeping alone in some dusty inn bed.”

The hallway upstairs was quiet, the creak of the floorboards under their boots the only sound. When they reached their room, Fenrona opened the door and slipped inside ahead of him, her silver hair catching the lamplight.

Cid closed the door behind them, the soft click echoing in the stillness. The single lamp on the table bathed the small space in a warm, golden glow. One bed, a chair, and a narrow wardrobe — it was simple, but after weeks in the desert, it might as well have been a palace.

Fenrona glanced over her shoulder, eyes glinting. “What’s wrong, Lynvern? You look like you’ve never seen a bed before.”

Cid smirked faintly. “Not one without sand in it.”

She stepped closer, her tone light but her gaze steady. “You’re not going to stand there all night, are you? Unless you plan to sleep on your feet.”

“Depends,” he said, loosening the strap of Clain from his back. “Do I get the bed or the floor?”

Her lips curved. “The bed. With me. You’ve more than earned it.”

She reached for the clasp of his cloak, fingers brushing the back of his neck. The touch sent an unexpected shiver down his spine. She didn’t miss it, and her smirk deepened.

“You’re still bruised,” she murmured, pulling the heavy cloak from his shoulders and setting it over the chair.

“I’ll live.”

“You will,” she said softly, “because I’m here now.”

Before he could respond, she leaned in and kissed him — brief, but warm, a spark in the quiet.

“That’s one,” she teased, turning away toward the bed.

Cid caught her hand before she could get far, tugging her gently back to him. “My turn.”

This time his lips met hers in a slower, deeper kiss. She melted into it, her fingers curling lightly into his shirt. When they parted, her breath caught faintly, and he could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

“That’s two,” he said, a small grin tugging at his lips.

They both stripped down to their underclothes without another word — neither shy, both moving with the ease of people who had bled beside each other. The desert chill seeped in through the thin walls, but the bed was wide enough for them both.

Sliding under the covers, Fenrona curled against his chest without hesitation, her head resting just beneath his chin. His arm came around her automatically, holding her close.

She rested her hand over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm. “You’re warm,” she whispered.

“And you’re tired,” he murmured back, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

They lay like that for a long while, breathing in sync, the heat of their bodies chasing away the cold.

She tilted her head up just slightly, her lips brushing his jaw. “Good night… love.”

The word froze him for just a moment — not in fear, but in a way that made him want to promise her the whole world. He bent his head, pressing a third kiss to her forehead, slow and lingering.

“Good night, Fen.”

Her eyes closed, her breathing softening almost immediately. He kept his arm around her, holding her against him as if to shield her from everything beyond that room. Only when her breaths had fallen into the steady rhythm of deep sleep did his own eyes close, sleep pulling him under with her warmth still pressed against him.