Thank you so much @Jennifer_Goliah for the gift.
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Xandros did not slow down as he carried Rosaline through the silent halls of the mansion.
The doors had barely closed behind him when the butler, who had been standing rigidly in the foyer, let out a sharp gasp at the sight before him.
It was not difficult to understand why.
Rosaline lay limp in the duke’s arms, her pale face turned into his chest, her silver-white wings folded around them like so sacred cocoon. The feathers shimred under the chandelier light, alive with a faint glow, as though moonlight itself had decided to take form.
"Do not speak of what you have seen tonight," Xandros said, his voice low but cold enough to freeze the room solid.
The butler swallowed.
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Prepare her chamber."
He took two steps toward the staircase.
Then stopped.
His eyes dropped to the sleeping woman in his arms.
One wing shifted instinctively, curling tighter around his shoulder.
As though even unconscious, she had decided where safety was.
His jaw tightened.
"No."
The butler looked confused.
"My chamber," Xandros corrected quietly.
The butler looked even more startled.
But did dare to question him.
He climbed the stairs alone.
Each step felt heavier than the last.
Not because Rosaline weighed much...she did not.
But because his thoughts had beco unbearable.
He had seen blood, War, Death and Magic.
None of it had unsettled him the way this had.
Her scream still rang inside his head.
Her fingers clutching his coat.
Her voice whispering through pain—It hurts.
And those wings.
Gods.
Those impossible wings.
By the ti he reached his chambers, his shoulders felt carved from stone.
He pushed the doors open with his foot and entered.
The room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth still alive from earlier.
Warm, Quiet and Safe.
He crossed to the bed carefully and lowered her onto the mattress.
The mont her back touched the sheets, one of her wings flared sharply outward.
Xandros froze.
Rosaline whimpered in her sleep.
"No..."
Her brows pinched.
The wing folded halfway, then stopped.
He understood imdiately.
She could not lie on them.
He exhaled slowly.
"Of course."
Carefully...far more carefully than he had ever handled anything in his life...he slid one hand beneath her shoulders and another beneath her waist and turned her slightly onto her side.
The wings adjusted.
One folded behind her.
The other draped over the bed’s edge like flowing silk.
Her breathing eased.
Only then did Xandros allow himself to move again.
Her clothes were ruined.
Mud had dried across the hem of her gown.
Blood...all of it hers....stained the sleeves and the shoulder from the birth of her wings.
Her hair was tangled with dirt.
And there was no way she could sleep like this.
He stood there for a long mont.
Staring.
Not because he wanted to...but ecause he had no idea how to proceed.
He had fought assassins with more confidence than this.
But eventually he reached for the bell pull.
The butler entered almost imdiately as if already waiting for the call
"Prepare warm water," Xandros instructed. "And clean linen."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"You can now leave."
He nodded and moved to action imdiately.
Within minutes, steaming water had been brought.
Fresh towels.
A soft chemise.
And silence again.
Now it was only him and Rosaline.
He removed his coat first.
Rolled his sleeves.
Then returned to the bed.
"Excuse ," he muttered.
Though he wasn’t sure whether he ant it.
His fingers moved to the ruined laces of her gown.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He loosened the bodice.
Pulled the damp fabric down from her shoulders.
His hands paused.
Her skin was warm.
Too warm.
He frowned and pressed the back of his fingers lightly against her forehead.
No fever.
Just the lingering heat of whatever magic had nearly torn her apart.
He continued.
When the gown finally slid away, he turned his face instinctively aside...not from disinterest, but from discipline.
She was wearing only the thin shift beneath.
It, too, was dirty.
Soaked through.
There was no helping it.
He dipped a cloth into the warm water and began cleaning her skin.
Her arms first.
Then her hands.
Mud dissolved beneath the cloth.
Then her neck,
Her collarbone.
His jaw tightened harder.
This was ridiculous.
She was unconscious.
He was helping her.
And yet his pulse had started to betray him.
When he moved to her hair, it beca worse.
The long white strands slipped like silk through his fingers.
Beautiful.
Too beautiful infact.
He had never realized how long it truly was.
It spread across the bed like spilled moonlight.
He washed it carefully, drying what he could with a towel before lifting it over the pillow.
Then ca the chemise.
Sliding the clean garnt onto an unconscious woman while avoiding two enormous wings was an experience he never wished to repeat.
One wing fought him.
Literally.
As soon as he tried adjusting the fabric beneath her shoulder, the feathers flared and slapped him directly in the face.
He blinked.
Then stared at the wing.
The wing twitched.
As though warning him.
To his own surprise...he almost laughed.
"You are troubleso even asleep," he murmured.
Rosaline made a tiny noise.
Not quite a word.
More like a sleepy protest.
And suddenly the absurdity of the mont hit him.
He...a duke feared across kingdoms...was arguing with a sleeping girl’s wing.
He managed the chemise eventually.
Pulled the blankets up around her.
Then sat on the edge of the bed.
And stayed.
At first because he was making sure she was comfortable.
Then because every ti he stood, her breathing changed.
She seed to notice his absence.
Even unconscious.
So he remained.
Minutes passed.
The fire burned lower.
The mansion fell deeper into silence.
At so point, Rosaline’s hand found his sleeve.
And held it.
Not tightly.
Just enough.
Enough to tell him she wanted him there.
His eyes softened.
And for the first ti that night...
he let himself look at her.
Really look.
Without obligation.
She looked younger asleep.
Too young to have survived what she had.
Too young to carry whatever ancient blood had awakened inside her.
And yet...
she had endured.
She always did.
It unsettled him how much he admired that.
He did not realize when sleep began pulling at him.
Only that his head dipped once.
Then twice.
And eventually rested against the bed beside her.
Still holding her hand.
.....
Rosaline was standing in a forest.
At first she did not realize it was a dream.
It felt too real.
The air slled of pine and rain.
Birdsong echoed overhead.
Sunlight filtered through ancient trees, scattering gold over the mossy earth.
She looked down.
And froze.
Her body was wrong.
Small,
Tiny hands,
Short legs.
A child’s body.
Panic surged....
but when she tried to speak, only a little voice ca out.
"What?"
It was not her voice.
It was hers...
but younger.
Much younger.
She stumbled forward.
Ahead stood a beautiful wooden house tucked between towering trees.
Its roof was draped in ivy.
Its windows glowed warm.
Smoke curled lazily from its chimney.
It looked like sothing from a fairy tale.
Her little feet carried her toward it before she could stop them.
The front door stood open.
Inside...
laughter.
Soft feminine voices.
And then...
she saw her.
A woman kneeling beside a table.
Dark hair.
Warm smile.
Kind eyes.
Rosaline’s breath caught.
"Mother..."
It was her mother.
The woman she had mourned her entire life.
The woman she had been told died when she was two.
Emotion surged through her so suddenly her little chest hurt.
She tried to run toward her...
but couldn’t
And then she saw her mother was bowing.
To another woman.
A woman standing near the window.
White hair.
Long.
Brilliant.
Just like hers.
Rosaline went still.
The woman turned slowly.
And the world seed to tilt.
Green eyes.
Her eyes.
The sa shape.
The sa face just Older.
Regal.
Beautiful beyond reason.
And suddenly Rosaline understood.
No one told her.
No one needed to.
The knowledge struck her like lightning.
That was her mother?
Not the woman she had mourned.
This woman.
The white-haired woman.
And the woman she had called mother...
was only a maid.
A nice and beautiful at that...
Her knees weakened.
"What...?"
But her child’s body kept moving.
Little feet running forward.
Little arms lifted.
The white-haired woman smiled.
"My little moon," she whispered.
And lifted her effortlessly into her arms.
Warm.
So warm.
Rosaline felt herself shrink emotionally.
She wanted to cry.
Wanted to scream.
Wanted to ask a thousand questions.
But the body she occupied only giggled.
A child’s laugh.
She had no control.
"How is my little Saline today?" the woman asked softly.
Rosaline tried to answer as herself.
Instead ca a tiny voice.
"I chased butterflies."
The woman laughed.
It was the most beautiful sound Rosaline had ever heard.
Then the woman reached upward.
And removed a delicate veil from her own face.
Rosaline stared.
Gods.
They looked identical.
Not similar.
Identical.
The sa cheekbones.
The sa mouth.
The sa green eyes.
Only older, wiser and a little bit sadder.
The maid approached gently and accepted the veil.
Without a word, she placed it carefully inside a carved wooden box sitting on the nearby shelf.
Rosaline’s adult mind snapped to attention.
The box.
Sothing about it felt wrong.
Important.
Her heart began pounding.
She needed to see inside it.
Needed to know what was there.
She fought to control the little body.
Turn.
Move.
Go to it.
Slowly...
the child took a step toward the shelf.
Then another.
Her little fingers reached...
"Saline."
The white-haired woman’s voice changed.
Sharper.
Imdiate.
A hand caught her wrist.
Rosaline looked up.
Her mother was no longer smiling.
"Do not touch that box."
The words were calm.
But absolute.
Rosaline’s child-body blinked.
"Why?"
The woman’s face softened again.
Too quickly.
"It is not ti."
Then she lifted her away.
Holding her tighter.
But Rosaline kept staring.
At the box.
Even as her mother turned.
Even as the room faded.
Even as the forest began disappearing into silver mist.
She kept staring.
Because sohow...
she knew.
Whatever was inside that box...
was the answer.
And then...everything suddenly went dark.
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