Laying in the soft, warm embrace of the cabin’s bed, Serah stirred as golden sunlight poured through the wooden shutters and danced across her face. She groaned lightly, her lashes fluttering before her eyes finally opened, adjusting to the morning glow. Slowly, reality began to settle in, and she recognized the familiar space—the wooden beams, the faint crackle of the hearth, the clean, pine-scented air. She was back in Marcus’s cabin.
With a soft grunt, she forced herself upright, sitting on the side of the bed. The motion made her temples throb faintly, a reminder of the battle etched into her mory. Images of blood-forged weapons, spikes tearing through the earth, and her clash with the Purebloods ca rushing back in a heavy wave.
"I guess I pushed myself too far in the Phoenix state," she muttered, rubbing at her tired eyes with the heel of her palm. Her voice carried a mixture of weariness and annoyance, like she was scolding herself for surviving so recklessly.
Her hand moved instinctively to her body, searching for wounds. To her surprise, there were none—at least, none fresh. Instead, her fingers traced over healed flesh marked with scars. Across her collarbone. Along her sides. A few carved into her shoulders. And then one on her right thigh, ugly and raw-looking, as though sothing had pierced clean through. She rembered that mont vividly—the blood spike skewering her leg before she’d unleashed her Phoenix form.
Her hands paused, touching where she rembered deep cuts and gashes had once burned with pain. Yet they were gone, smoothed over as if they’d never existed. She frowned, whispering under her breath, "How co only these scars remain...?"
Before she could ponder further, a fragnted mory surfaced—the final monts before she blacked out. Her breath caught. "Wait... I rember... a figure standing over . Right before I passed out." She clenched her fists, frustrated. "Annoyingly enough, I couldn’t make out a face. But... it had to be Marcus. I was probably too exhausted to recognize him properly."
The thought made her lips curve into a sly smirk. "I guess he didn’t really leave. He probably just stayed hidden, masking his presence so the Purebloods wouldn’t notice him and get spooked." Her smirk deepened, amused by the idea of him playing the mysterious guardian.
"I’ll just have to thank him later," she added, her tone carrying a playful edge.
But then, her nose twitched. Sothing rich. Savory. Mouthwatering. She froze, then turned her head toward the wooden dining table not too far from the bed. Her eyes widened, and she inhaled deeply. "That aroma slls even better than yesterday," she whispered reverently, closing her eyes as though the scent was divine incense offered by the gods.
Her stomach growled in agreent.
Without thinking, she sprang from the bed, feet carrying her toward the table. But the second she stood, sothing finally clicked in her mind—a detail she had ignored in her groggy haze. Sothing... off. Sothing terribly obvious.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
Her eyes lowered, slowly, hesitantly... and then widened in sheer horror.
She was naked. Completely naked from head to toe.
Not a single thread of clothing graced her body. No tank top. No trousers. Absolutely nothing. The realization slamd into her like a hamr.
Her jaw dropped. "Wha—?!" Her cheeks burned crimson, and she instantly dove back into the bed, yanking the sheets up and wrapping herself like a panicked burrito. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts scattering. ’So that’s why the sheets felt so damn comfortable—because I was literally bare as the day I was born!’
Eyes darting wildly, she spotted the wooden shelf against the far wall. She bolted from the bed, sheets still clutched tightly around her like armor, and stord over. "There’s no way... there’s no damn way this bastard dared—" she muttered furiously, shoving through the shelf with one hand.
There. Her clothes. The sa black tank top and leather trousers she had worn during the fight. Torn to shreds in several places, the fabric frayed and barely holding together. She held them up with an incredulous grimace.
"Seriously?!" Her voice cracked with equal parts rage and mortification. "He thought it was okay to strip butt naked just because I was unconscious?!" Her face burned redder, her embarrassnt warring with her indignation.
She tossed the ruined clothes aside with a huff, muttering a string of very colorful curses—all of them aid squarely at Marcus’s na. After rummaging through her luggage, she finally found a fresh black tank top, paired it with dark brown pants, and tugged on her boots with unnecessary force.
Once dressed, she tied her long red hair into a high ponytail, her expression sharpened into the face of a woman ready to march into war. Her eyes flicked to the door, then to her claymore resting in its sheath. She snatched it up with righteous fury.
"That bastard better have a damn good explanation for this," she growled under her breath, striding toward the door with the fiery dignity of a woman ready to end a man’s bloodline.
But then—her nose twitched again.
The aroma. That divine, intoxicating sll wafting from the dining table.
She froze mid-step, her eyes slowly swiveling over her shoulder, codic in the way her face shifted from vengeful wrath to pure, hungry temptation. Her mouth watered despite herself, saliva pooling shalessly.
"...I an," she whispered, licking her lips, "I can’t exactly chew Marcus out without so energy first."
Her stomach rumbled loudly in agreent, betraying her.
"Yes. I must eat first," she declared, spinning on her heel and marching straight back to the table. She set her weapon down almost carelessly and plopped into the chair, snatching up her fork with predatory intent.
Whatever Marcus had done, however much she wanted to kill him—none of that could overshadow the absolute truth of the mont.
Serah would not—could not—deny his cooking.
***
After Serah had absolutely devoured every single morsel on the table—leaving not even a hint of sauce on the plate, as though the food had been vacuum-sealed straight into her stomach—she pushed back from the table with a satisfied groan. Her belly warm, her strength partially restored, she rose from her seat with renewed determination. Now, finally, it was ti to confront Marcus.
With steady steps, she made her way toward the cabin door. The wood creaked softly as she opened it, and she stepped outside into the open air.
The nearly afternoon sun greeted her instantly, bright and golden, causing her to squint until her eyes adjusted. When they did, she found herself bathed in the familiar wilderness she had co to know so well during her stay. Towering trees stretched skyward, their leaves swaying in the faint breeze. Birds sang sweetly overhead, filling the forest with its lively song, while the distant murmur of the flowing river carried peace through the air. For a mont, Serah let herself smile and breathe in the beauty of it, exhaling in a soft sigh.
But her small mont of peace was soon interrupted.
The cheerful birdsong was abruptly cut by a sharp thunk!—the unmistakable sound of tal striking wood. Then another. Thunk!
Her brows furrowed.
Curiosity tugged her forward, guiding her steps as she followed the rhythmic noise around the cabin. She padded silently, every thunk growing louder until she turned the corner and found the source.
Not far from the cabin, there stood Marcus.
He was shirtless, his shirt tied lazily around his waist, his dark trousers clinging loosely to his lean fra. His long hair was pulled back into its usual ssy bun, several strands falling to fra his rugged face. An axe glead in his grip, each swing asured and precise as it split logs cleanly in two. The sound of splintering wood echoed in the quiet forest, almost like a heartbeat.
Serah froze.
From where she stood, she let her eyes linger on him. This wasn’t the first ti she had seen Marcus bare-chested—back in Caelmoor, she’d caught a glimpse—but now, in the full light of day, she noticed details she had missed before.
His body was a map of scars.
Thick, jagged ones clawed across his back. Thin, cruel lines etched his shoulders, his chest, his arms. So were old and faded, others fresher, still angry-looking against his skin. There were so many scars she lost count, each one speaking of battles and survival.
And then, her gaze caught on his right forearm.
A tattoo wound its way around the muscle there. The design wasn’t sothing obvious or aningful at first glance—it almost looked like random swirls and jagged strokes. But the longer she stared, the more it drew her in, captivating, as though the pattern had been etched to srize. It added to him, making his already rugged fra sohow even more magnetic.
Serah blinked and she swallowed. And before she knew it, she was lost in the sight of him, her earlier resolve temporarily slipping from her mind. She almost forgot the real reason she had stord outside: to demand answers about waking up stripped bare.
Shaking herself, she forced the thoughts away and steadied her expression. No. She wasn’t going to be distracted by this man’s scars or tattoos or... muscles. She needed to keep her focus. She marched toward him with asured steps, determination pushing away the trance.
Marcus, humming a low rhythmic tune as he chopped, paused mid-swing. The axe halted just before cleaving another log in two. His sharp ears caught the sound of footsteps behind him.
He turned his head slightly, and his onyx eyes locked onto the approaching figure.
There she was—the fiery princess herself, red hair swaying behind her as she walked with purpose. Imdiately, Marcus lowered his axe, a familiar grin spreading across his face. That damn grin he always wore, casual and infuriating all at once.
"Well, well," he drawled, voice smooth as ever, "seems sleeping beauty finally decided to grace with her presence once again." His smirk widened as she drew closer. "You know, you had worried, princess. I thought I’d have to—"
His words died in his throat.
A sudden flash cut the air, forcing Marcus to raise his axe instinctively. tal rang out as wood t steel, and his eyes widened slightly at what he saw. Serah’s sheathed claymore had nearly struck his face.
The heavy blade pressed against the haft of his axe, her strength behind it steady and unyielding. Marcus blinked, glancing from the claymore’s edge back to Serah’s face.
She looked dead serious.
Lowering his axe, he pushed the weapon away and let out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head with mock disappointnt. "Really, princess?" he said in a tone dripping with exaggerated hurt. "Is this how you thank your handso savior after he nursed you back from the brink of death? You wound , my love." He clutched at his chest dramatically, as though her betrayal had struck him deeper than any blade.
Serah wasn’t amused.
Her eyes narrowed, her grip firm as she pointed the sheathed claymore straight at him again. "You’d better start explaining yourself, you perverted bastard!"
The words hit the air sharp and hot, and for the first ti Marcus faltered.
He blinked at her, tilting his head, his brows knitting together in genuine confusion. His lips parted, and his voice ca out slow, baffled.
"...Huh?"
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