The inn room was still cloaked in pre-dawn shadows when a loud clatter from downstairs jolted Camelia awake. Her heart raced as she sat up, the unfamiliar bed creaking beneath her.
The air felt heavy, charged with something she couldn't quite name.
Atherion was already on his feet, his silhouette tense by the door, listening intently.
"Stay here," he whispered, his voice low but urgent. "Knights are downstairs."
Camelia blinked, confusion clouding her sleep-fogged mind. "How do you know?"
She remembered the serpent by the river—how Atherion had sensed it before it struck. His instincts were uncanny, almost unnatural.
"Their boots," he said, catching her wide-eyed stare. "Heavy, deliberate. Trained men move differently."
His gaze swept the room, sharp and calculating, before landing on her silvery-white hair—now a liability.
"We need to hide that," he muttered.
Moving swiftly, he grabbed the wash basin, pulling a small packet from his coat pocket. He emptied the fine powder into the water, stirring quickly until the liquid turned inky black.
"Wet your hair," he instructed, handing her the basin. "It'll mask the color."
Camelia hesitated, then dipped her hair into the water, feeling the cold seep into her scalp. She wrung it out, watching as the strands darkened to a glossy black.
"Hair dye," she murmured, a flicker of her modern world grounding her. "Smart."
"Dry it," Atherion said, already pouring the remaining water out the window in a slow, silent stream to avoid drawing attention. "Quickly."
A sharp knock rattled the door.
Camelia froze, her breath catching in her throat.
Atherion moved without hesitation, opening it to reveal three knights, their armor glinting under the dim hallway candlelight.
The lead knight, a broad man with a scarred jaw, spoke first. "Good morning. Apologies for the hour. We're searching for someone."
Atherion leaned against the doorframe, his posture deliberately relaxed, though his eyes remained sharp. "No trouble. Come in."
The knights peered inside, their gazes settling on Camelia, now black-haired, sitting on the bed's edge.
She forced herself to nod, though her pulse pounded in her ears.
'They're looking for me. For Camelia.'
But she wasn't Camelia—not really. The dissonance unsettled her, leaving her tongue-tied.
"Morning, ma'am," the scarred knight said, his tone polite but probing. "Just routine. We're done here."
He stepped back, and the others followed.
Atherion closed the door with a soft click, pressing his finger to his lips until the knights' footsteps faded entirely.
"Lie down," he whispered, nodding toward the far side of the bed. "Pretend to sleep. They might circle back."
Camelia complied, her mind racing as she slid to the edge, curling onto her side. Atherion lay beside her, close but not touching, his breathing steady.
The warmth of his body was unnervingly near, and a faint cinnamon scent—his scent—lingered in the air.
In her twenty-five years in the modern world, she had never been this close to a man, never dated, never felt this odd mix of fear and curiosity.
Her cheeks heated, but she stayed still, mimicking sleep.
Atherion rested his head on one arm, his eyes half-closed, tracking every sound beyond the room.
After a tense silence, he murmured, "They're gone."
He started to rise but swayed, collapsing to one knee with a muffled grunt.
Camelia shot upright, her fake sleep forgotten in an instant.
"Atherion!" She knelt beside him, her hands hovering over his shoulders, unsure whether to touch him or not.
His skin radiated heat through his shirt, far too warm to be normal.
"You're burning up," she said, concern tightening her voice. "What's wrong?"
"I'm fine," he insisted, though his voice was strained as he weakly brushed her hands away. His eyes, usually sharp, were glazed with exhaustion.
"You're not fine," she countered, grabbing his arm despite his weak protests and guiding him back to the bed. "Stay here. I'm getting medicine."
"You can't—" he started, but Camelia was already at the door, pulling the cloak over her dyed hair.
"It's not safe," Atherion warned, his voice rougher now.
"I'll be quick," she said, slipping out before he could stop her.
Her heart pounded—not just for him, but for the guilt creeping in.
'Is this because of me? All this running?'
***
Half an hour later, Camelia returned, clutching a cloth bundle from the market's apothecary—a packet of fever herbs, a small bowl, and a damp towel. She had also picked up a loaf of bread, her hands still trembling from the rush through the crowded streets.
The inn was quiet now, the knights had gone, leaving only the faint murmur of distant conversations downstairs.
"Atherion?" she called softly, setting the bundle on the bed.
His eyes fluttered open, his face visibly pale, beads of sweat clinging to his brow.
"Eat something," she urged, breaking off a piece of the bread and holding it out to him. "Then take these herbs. They'll help."
He shook his head, his voice barely more than a whisper. "No. It'll pass. Always does."
"You're burning up," she pressed, her voice cracking slightly with frustration. "You can't just—"
"No!" His sharp response cut her off, raw and unrestrained.
Camelia flinched, instinctively stepping back, her eyes wide with surprise.
Atherion's gaze softened almost immediately, regret flickering across his tired expression.
"I… I didn't mean that," he muttered, turning his head away to face the wall. His shoulders sagged, the fever visibly draining his strength.
Camelia stood frozen, uncertainty twisting in her chest. She wanted to help, but his outburst had shaken her.
Wordlessly, she dampened the towel and placed it neatly on the bedside table, then sank into the chair nearby, watching his back in silence.
'He's suffering. But why won't he let me help?'
***
In his fevered sleep, Atherion's mind churned with fragments of memory, hazy and relentless. A woman's scream echoed through the darkness—"Monster!"—her face blurred but unmistakably familiar.
He was eight, small and trembling, reaching out for her with desperate hands.
"I'm not a monster, Mother!" he cried, his voice raw with pleading. But she recoiled, stepping back, her eyes filled with disgust instead of warmth.
The dream shifted, dragging him through time. Faces surrounded him—villagers, former friends, strangers—each staring, their expressions twisted with fear and disdain. Their voices pierced through him like daggers.
"Monster."
"Cursed."
"Stay away."
Every word sliced deeper, isolating him further, suffocating him in their judgment.
"No… I'm not…" he mumbled weakly, his breath uneven, tears streaking down his face as he drifted deeper into the haze.
***
Atherion jolted awake, his breath ragged, clutching his forehead as a wave of heat pulsed through his body. The fever still burned, leaving his limbs heavy and sluggish, but the room was real again—solid, familiar.
His gaze flickered toward Camelia, slumped in the chair near the bed, her head tilted slightly, lost in sleep. Her cloak had slipped off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin beneath the loose fabric.
She had stayed, watching over him through the night.
His chest tightened. No one had ever done that—not without fear, not without hesitation. Everyone had always seen him as a monster, something tainted, something cursed by forces he couldn't understand.
But her? She had ignored his warnings, run into danger for him, standing firm even when he tried to push her away.
His gaze lingered, taking in the strands of black dye against her skin, hiding the silver hair beneath. The prophecy of the Light gnawed at the edge of his mind.
He had dismissed Camelia Valois as the chosen one, convinced she was nothing more than a sheltered noble unfit for such a fate.
But this woman—Kimi, not Camelia—was different.
Her actions, her stubborn care, sparked an unsettling suspicion within him.
'What if she is the true Light?'
The thought both unnerved and intrigued him, cutting through the fog of his pain like a slow, creeping realization.