Iris had been practicing with a wooden sword, on the seemingly quiet training yard that morning, determined to prove herself to the guards who watched from the walls. She was thirteen, big for her age, and fierce. Her strikes were precise, her footwork careful. She had been training for weeks, ever since arriving at the palace.
Then her foot slipped on a patch of wet grass.
She fell hard, her wrist twisting beneath her. The crack was audible even from a distance.
Lysa was crossing the courtyard when she heard the scream.
She ran.
Iris sat on the ground, cradling her arm, her face pale with pain. The wooden sword lay beside her, forgotten. Tears stread down her cheeks, though she was trying not to cry.
"Let see," Lysa said, kneeling beside her.
"I’m fine."
"Your wrist is bent at an angle. You’re not fine."
Iris tried to pull away, but Lysa was gentle but firm. She examined the injury; swollen, discolored, clearly broken.
"We need to get you to the healers."
"I don’t need—"
"You need to." Lysa t her eyes. "I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to help you. Let help you."
Iris stopped struggling.
The healing wing was quiet.
Bryn set the bone with practiced efficiency, her hands steady, her voice calm. Iris flinched but didn’t cry out. Lysa sat beside her, holding her good hand.
"You don’t have to stay," Iris said.
"I know."
"You’re not my mother."
"I know that too."
Iris was silent for a mont. Then her fingers tightened around Lysa’s.
"Thank you."
Lysa’s heart ached. "You’re welco."
The injury was minor; a clean break, no complications. But the healing would take weeks. Iris would need help with everyday tasks. Dressing. Eating. Writing.
Bryn gave instructions. Lysa listened. Iris stared at the ceiling.
"She can stay in the infirmary overnight," Bryn said. "Or she can return to her quarters with soone to assist her."
"I’ll stay with her," Lysa said.
Iris looked at her. "You don’t have to."
"I want to."
"You barely know ."
"Then this is a good chance to change that."
They walked to Iris’s quarters together.
Lysa carried Iris’s bag, opened doors, pulled out chairs. Iris moved carefully, her arm in a sling, her face still pale.
"I’m not helpless," Iris said.
"I know."
"You don’t have to treat like glass."
"I’m not treating you like glass. I’m treating you like soone who just broke their wrist."
Iris sat on the edge of her bed. Her good hand twisted in the blanket.
"My father used to carry when I fell. When I was little. He’d pick up and spin around and tell that falling was just practice for getting back up."
Lysa sat beside her. "That sounds like him."
"He stopped. After my mother died. He stopped picking up. Stopped spinning . Stopped... everything."
"He was grieving."
"He was gone." Iris’s voice cracked. "Even when he was standing right in front of , he was gone."
Lysa didn’t speak. She just sat there, close enough to touch, not touching.
"He’s trying now," Iris said finally. "I know he’s trying. But it’s hard. Letting him in. Letting you in. Letting anyone in."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
Lysa thought about her own father. About the beatings. About the silence. About the years she spent building walls so high no one could climb them.
"Because I’ve been where you are. Afraid to care. Afraid to hope. Afraid that letting soone in ans letting them hurt you."
Iris looked at her. "Does it get easier?"
"Not easier. Different. The fear doesn’t go away. You just learn to live with it."
Iris was silent for a long mont.
Then she leaned her head on Lysa’s shoulder.
"Don’t tell my father I did that."
"I won’t."
"He’ll get all emotional."
"Probably."
"I hate when he gets emotional."
Lysa smiled. " too."
They sat together as the sun set, two people who had been enemies, now sothing else. Not friends. Not family. Sothing in between.
Rowan found them like that.
He stood in the doorway, his face unreadable. Iris’s head was on Lysa’s shoulder. Lysa’s arm was around Iris’s back. They looked like they belonged together.
"Father." Iris sat up quickly. "I didn’t hear you co in."
"I can see that." He stepped inside. "How’s your wrist?"
"Broken. Bryn set it. Lysa helped."
Lysa stood. "I should go. Give you two so privacy."
"Stay." Iris’s voice was quiet but firm. "Please."
Lysa looked at Rowan. He nodded.
Then she sat back down.
Rowan knelt before his daughter.
"I’m sorry," he said. "For everything. For not being there. For not picking you up. For not spinning you around."
Iris’s eyes glistened. "You’re here now."
"I’m here now. And I’m not leaving."
Iris looked at Lysa. "She’s not leaving either. She said so."
Rowan followed her gaze. Lysa’s cheeks were pink.
"She’s not," Rowan agreed. "If she’ll have us."
Lysa’s breath caught. "Rowan—"
He turned to her, still kneeling.
"Lysa. I know we haven’t known each other for long. I know this is fast. I know there are a thousand reasons to say no."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring: silver, simple, with a blue stone that matched her eyes.
"But I also know that I love you. That Iris needs you. That I can’t imagine my life without you in it."
Iris gasped. "Father—"
"Lysa, will you marry ?"
The room was silent.
Lysa stared at the ring. At Rowan. And then to Iris, who was watching with wide eyes.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Yes?"
"Yes. A thousand tis yes."
Rowan slid the ring onto her finger. His hands were shaking. So were hers.
Iris threw her good arm around both of them.
"You’re both idiots," she said. "But I’m glad you found each other."
Lysa laughed through her tears.
"So am I."
That night, Seren found Lysa in the garden.
The fountain splashed. The moon was bright. Lysa sat on the stone bench, staring at the ring on her finger.
"He proposed," Lysa said.
"I heard." Seren sat beside her. "Iris told Elena. Elena told the kitchens. The kitchens told the guards. The guards told Kael. Kael told ."
"So much for privacy."
"Welco to the palace."
Lysa laughed. "I’m getting married."
"You’re getting married."
"To a wolf."
"To a good wolf."
Lysa looked at her. "I’m terrified."
"Good. That ans it matters."
They sat in silence, the fountain splashing, the stars wheeling overhead.
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