I blinked.

The dim light, filtered through the misted windowpane, cast the ceiling in a pallid shade of grey. The scent of rain still lingered in the air, mingling with the faint musk of dampened wood and the ghost of herbs clinging to the scarf I had worn through the night. I could not tell how long I had slept—if I had slept at all—only that my body felt as though a stone were pressing upon my chest, and my head throbbed with the dull, persistent ache of fever.

When the door creaked open, I thought for a moment I must be dreaming.

A man entered—tall of stature, dressed in a high-collared white uniform, the shoulders veiled beneath a coat of muted grey. His hair, a deep russet with a touch of unruly curl, fell almost to the collar. Raindrops still clung to his boots, and his eyes... eyes of somber reddish-brown, calm to the point of coldness, as though they might see straight through the thin blanket I clutched about myself.

I gripped the edge of it by instinct.

He was not of the garrison here, nor anyone I had ever known; yet neither did he seem a stranger entirely. There was something in him vaguely familiar, though I could not name it—like reading an unsigned letter in which every word strikes some tender place in the heart.

He stood at the threshold for a while, his gaze sweeping over the small room. He asked no question, gave no name, betrayed no awkwardness—only a quiet, measured, and remote presence.

I knew him.

The man from the previous night... the last to remain in the room when the feast had broken apart, when the rain had just ceased against the eaves and the soldiers had all gone upstairs. The man who had spared me a trouble I had no strength to resist. He had spoken little, yet the manner in which he compelled the half-drunken soldier to offer an apology for that ill-bred jest—I remember it still, clear as the day it occurred.
Though I had thanked him with a handkerchief then, I had not thought to meet him again so soon—least of all whilst lying fever-stricken upon my bed.

I tightened my hold on the blanket. My voice, hoarse from illness, came scarcely above a whisper:

"You are the gentleman... who aided me yesterday, are you not?"

He did not deny it. He inclined his head slightly, without marked expression—like a man whose every movement is weighed and arranged according to some silent rule.

Beneath the russet fall of hair, his features were as severe as the night before, yet something softened—though not into tenderness—when his eyes met mine. It was the composure, the steadiness of one long accustomed to facing disorder without yielding to it.

And I realised, dimly, that his presence, as on the night before, was not warm... yet it made me feel safe.

"You are fevered, my lady. You must be taken to the infirmary."

The voice was deep and even—neither urgent with concern nor careless—merely stating a fact that could not be ignored.

I turned my face aside and tried to rise, but the dizziness drove me to shake my head faintly instead.

He kept a measured distance from the bed—enough not to trespass—yet the bronze-coloured gaze beneath the russet fringe never wavered in its watch. It was not the gaze one gives a lady, but the deliberate scrutiny of a soldier assessing the field: precise, cautious, unshaken.

"Have you any kin, my lady?"

The question was plain, without insistence or suspicion—only the need to know.

I bit my lip and lowered my eyes for a brief instant. A year ago, I could have named several dear to me. But now...

"No," I replied, my voice husky. "I travel alone."

Something in his gaze seemed to darken, though I could not tell whether it was for my words or from the pale light of morning slanting into the room.

"No family at all?" he asked again—his tone still quiet, yet carrying that particular resolve which will not permit the neglect of even the smallest hope.

I faltered. The word family sounded so distant, so formal—like the faint toll of a bell recalling a memory buried under ash. My hands, chilled, tightened about the blanket.

"...No," I said again, this time more clearly, more slowly—and more alone. "There is no one left to me."

Two years past, my father—the last of my blood—had gone to his rest, leaving behind an emptiness no comfort could fill, for me and for Caelum alike. Together we had laid him to sleep upon a small hill, beside the grave of the wife he had cherished all his life.

What little he possessed came to me, the sole remnant of his legacy. But the title, by the unyielding law that grants inheritance only to men, had passed to a distant kinsman—a newly-appointed Count to govern Berlinard.

A silence wove itself between us. The wind of early day slipped through the narrow casement, bearing the scent of earth still damp from the rain. He said nothing further, only inclined his head once—gently, almost in assent. Then, unfastening his white coat, he set it about my shoulders to shield what was frail and easily harmed. His gaze, steady yet touched with an unspoken care, lowered to meet mine as he reached out his hand to help me rise.

"Can you walk, my lady?" The low voice carried a restrained solicitude that warmed me against the morning chill.

I tried to smile—wanly—to assure him I could, to prove myself equal to the effort. Yet the fever swelled like a tide within my skull, and my limbs trembled.

"I... I can," I murmured, though each movement was an exertion.

But before I could steady myself, the world tilted; my body, frail and unmoored, collapsed to the cold boards beneath me. Breath came heavy; the fever held me fast.

"Allow me," he said, kneeling beside me, his hands firm yet gentle. "In such a state, I must carry you to the infirmary. To let you walk would only worsen your condition."

Without waiting for protest, he bent closer, movements deliberate. His hands settled at my waist—careful, protective—as though to guard me from further harm. The fever clouded my sight, and strength abandoned me. I yielded to his hold.

The floor fell away beneath me; dizziness surged. Yet his grip never slackened.

Step by measured step, he bore me across the room. The wind crept again through the open pane—cold, without warmth. Silence held, broken only by the sound of his boots upon the wooden floor.

I closed my eyes, feeling the steadiness of his movements. This was but a necessary act—a duty, no more.

I wished to thank him, even softly, but the dryness of my throat made no sound. My eyelids, heavy, refused to lift. I leaned forward by instinct, my brow finding rest against the solid breadth of his chest.

His breathing was calm, his heart slow and resolute, carrying the faint scent of clean cloth, paper, and the first wind of morning.

Whether he sensed my surrender, I cannot say. But in that moment, I could resist no longer. With my head against him, I let the weariness pull me into a shallow, wintry sleep—dreamless, voiceless, filled only with the silent ache of one too tired to feel sorrow.