Irina’s POV
Three days of bed rest.
That’s what Nadia had prescribed after my last checkup, and I’d been mostly good about following it. Mostly. Sofia kept company for most of it, bringing books and palace gossip and pretending not to notice when I got restless and paced the length of the room.
Sofia ca back from the kitchen twenty minutes later with lunch. Soup, bread, fruit. The usual spread that Nadia had prescribed for "building up my strength." She set it on the little table and dropped into the chair across from .
"So," she said. "Guess what I heard."
"What."
"The king hasn’t eaten a proper al in two days."
I looked up from the soup. "What?"
"Two days." Sofia crossed her arms. "Maria from the kitchens told . She’s been trying to send food up to his office and it keeps coming back untouched. He’s been on calls non-stop since he got back. Roman’s been yelling at him about it, apparently. The whole staff is in a mood."
Sothing tightened in my chest.
Two days.
He’d only been back four days. He’d spent half of that not eating?
I looked at my soup.
Then at Sofia.
---
The kitchen was warr than the rest of the palace.
That was the first thing I noticed when I walked in. Warm, and loud, and full of people moving with the specific efficiency of professionals who’d been doing this for years. Pots bubbling. Knives against cutting boards. Soone in the back yelling at soone else about timing.
They went quiet when we entered.
Not silent. Just—quieter. Heads turning. Curious looks. One of the younger kitchen staff actually dropped a spoon.
An older woman with gray hair pulled back in a tight bun ca forward. Apron spotless despite the chaos behind her. She took one look at and her face softened.
"Miss Irina," she said. "What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?"
"I—" I felt ridiculous suddenly. Standing here in this professional kitchen, about to ask if I could make soup. "I wanted to cook sothing. For the king. If that’s—if that’s okay."
Maria—I assud this was Maria—smiled.
"Of course it’s okay, dear." She gestured to a workstation at the back of the room. "Co. I’ll help you."
---
I made chicken soup.
Nothing fancy. Just the kind my mother used to make before she died, when I was small enough to sit on the counter and watch her work. Chicken, vegetables, herbs. A little salt. Slow simr.
Maria watched work. Didn’t interfere. Just handed things when I reached for them and occasionally corrected my knife grip when I got lazy.
"You’re good," she said at one point.
"I’m not."
"You are." She tasted the broth I’d been simring. Her eyebrows lifted. "That’s better than good, actually. Where did you learn?"
"My mother." The word ca out quieter than I ant. "When I was little."
Maria nodded. Didn’t push. Just handed the herbs she’d pulled from the garden that morning and let keep working.
When it was done, she ladled the soup into a bowl, wrapped the bread in a cloth to keep it warm, added a glass of water to the tray.
"Take him this too," she said, adding a small plate with sliced apple. "He likes them. He won’t admit it, but he’ll eat them if you put them in front of him."
I stared at her. "How do you know that?"
"I’ve been feeding that man for fifteen years, dear." She smiled. "I know what he likes."
---
The office was a disaster.
Papers everywhere. Maps on every surface. Empty cups stacked on the corner of the desk. And Nicolas—
He was standing behind the desk with both hands braced on it, staring down at sothing. His sleeves were rolled up. His hair was a ss. He looked up when the door opened, and the irritation on his face dropped away instantly.
"Irina."
Just my na.
"Hi," I said. My voice ca out too soft. "I—um. I brought you food."
He stared at .
"You’re supposed to be resting."
"I was. I took a break."
He crossed the room in three strides. Stopped in front of . His hand ca up to my face—just the back of his fingers against my cheek, checking. Gentle.
"You didn’t have to do this," he said.
"You weren’t eating."
"Are you scolding ," he said.
"Maybe."
"You are."
"A little."
He laughed.
It was a small sound. Surprised. Like he hadn’t ant to do it. But it was real.
He took my hand. Led to the chair behind the desk. Sat down and pulled gently onto his lap—slow enough that I could pull away if I wanted.
I didn’t want to.
His arm went around my waist. Loose. Secure. He reached for the tray with his free hand and pulled it closer.
"You really made this," he said, lifting the lid off the bowl.
"I really did."
He looked at . Then at the soup. Then back at .
"You know," he said. "I rember the first ti you ate with . You were terrified. You couldn’t hold the fork straight. You kept looking at the door like you were calculating how fast you could get to it."
"Nicolas."
"You wouldn’t look at ." His voice had gone softer. "You wouldn’t eat until I ate first. You were convinced I’d poisoned the food."
"I wasn’t—" I stopped. Reconsidered. "Okay. Maybe a little."
He smiled. A real smile. Small but real.
"And now you’re here," he said. "In my lap. Making soup."
"Things are—different now."
"Yeah?"
I nodded. My face was hot. I was sure I was turning red. "Yeah."
He looked at for a long mont.
Then he picked up the spoon. Dipped it in the soup. Brought it to his mouth.
I watched him taste it.
His eyes closed. Just for a second.
"Irina."
"Yes?"
"This is very good."
He ate.
All of it. The whole bowl. The bread. The apple slices Maria had sent. The water. He ate slowly, steadily, while I sat on his lap and tried to figure out how to be here without spontaneously combusting.
His hand kept moving on my waist. Small circles. Absent. Like he didn’t know he was doing it.
At so point, I relaxed. I don’t rember exactly when. But by the ti he’d finished the last slice of apple, I was leaning against his chest like I’d been doing it my whole life.
"Better?" I asked quietly.
"Much." He set the spoon down. Wrapped his other arm around . "I didn’t realize how hungry I was."
"You can’t just—skip eating."
"I know."
We stayed like that for a while.
I could hear his heartbeat through his shirt. Steady. Strong. Alive in a way that made sothing in my chest ache.
"I should let you get back to work," I said eventually. Reluctant.
He leaned in. Slowly. Giving ti to stop him. When I didn’t, he pressed his lips to my forehead. Soft. Long. Like he was morizing it.
"Thank you," he said against my skin. "For the food. For—this."
"You’re welco."
He sighed. Pulled back. "Okay. I really do need to get back to work. But—" He caught my hand. "Co see tonight? After dinner?"
"If you want."
"I want."
---
The courtyard was beautiful.
I’d forgotten what real sunlight felt like.
Slow enough that my legs didn’t protest. Around the edge of the courtyard, past the fountain, up the stone steps to the upper terrace that overlooked the gardens.
The view from up here was better.
I could see everything. The gardens spread out below, all geotric hedges and colorful flower beds. The palace rising behind us in pale stone. And beyond the gardens—
The training yard.
I stopped.
It was busier than I’d expected. Dozens of warriors in formation. Moving through drills. Sparring in pairs. The specific controlled chaos of a military training session.
"There are so many," I said.
Sofia followed my gaze. "Mm. Yeah. More than before."
"Why?"
"The Iron Thorn warriors." She gestured vaguely at the field. "The ones who chose to join the king’s forces. They’ve been integrating for the past week. Training with his personal guard."
Sothing shifted in my chest.
"How many?" I asked.
"I don’t know. A few dozen, I think? Maybe more." Sofia shrugged. "Roman would know. He’s been handling the integration."
I looked at the training field.
At the warriors moving through their drills. At the specific rhythm of it—the way bodies moved in formation, the shouted commands from the captains, the sound of wooden practice weapons striking padding.
Iron Thorn warriors.
n I might have grown up around. n who had served under Maxim. n who had—
My stomach tightened.
"Irina?" Sofia’s voice. Concerned. "Are you okay? You look pale."
"I’m fine."
"You don’t look fine."
"I’m fine." I tried to smile. It didn’t quite work. "Just—a lot of them, that’s all."
But I couldn’t stop looking.
I scanned the field. One warrior to the next. Their faces too far away to make out clearly, but their shapes—their movents—the specific way they carried themselves—
There.
A tall one. Broad shoulders. Dark hair cut short. He was in the second row, moving through the drill with the others. From this distance, I couldn’t see his face clearly. But the way he moved—
The way he held his sword arm.
The slight favor to his left side, like an old injury he’d learned to compensate for.
I knew that stance.
I didn’t know from where. Not exactly. It was just—familiar. The kind of familiar that hit you in the gut before your brain caught up.
"Sofia," I said quietly. "Who is that? In the second row. The tall one."
Sofia squinted. "I can’t tell from here. Why?"
"He just—looks familiar."
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