The walls of Scion Hold had never looked so close—yet so distant.
Arasha clutched her side, each breath like swallowing broken glass. The corruption from Duke Vexen's blade flared again, hotter and deeper, threading black veins like creeping ink along her pale skin.
Her vision swam.
The cold sweat clinging to her brow soaked through her cloak.
She nearly slipped from the saddle.
But her horse—a dappled silver mare trained under her own hand—sensed her faltering. Loyal, steady, it shifted its gait to a gentle, rocking pace and pressed forward with careful urgency.
Ahead, Scion Hold's towering gates came into view.
"Commander approaching!" one of the gate watchers called, concern laced in his voice.
Another knight leaned forward, then his eyes went wide. "She's injured—open the gates! Someone fetch the medics!"
Sir Garran, just returning from a field assessment, turned at the noise. One look at Arasha slumped in the saddle, her cloak stained dark near her ribs, and he dropped his scrolls.
He ran.
"Arasha!" he called, catching her just as she began to slip.
Her body was fever-hot, trembling. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her lips nearly blue.
"Stay with me, Commander," Garran murmured, hoisting her into his arms with surprising gentleness. "You're home now. Hold on."
The infirmary was already prepared.
Leta had sensed something. She and Roen stood waiting, surrounded by glowing glyphs and carefully arranged instruments. When Garran burst through the door with Arasha in his arms, their worst fears were confirmed.
The black veins had spread—further and faster than anticipated.
"Set her down, now!" Leta barked, her usual calm sharpened by panic. "We don't have time for protocols."
Roen was already crushing purification crystals into a basin, his hands moving with practiced efficiency.
Leta tore Arasha's tunic open at the side and hissed at the sight of the spreading corruption—a dark, branching pattern that now reached her collarbone.
"She's burning up," Roen said grimly.
"She's on the edge," Leta whispered, placing both hands above Arasha's chest and channeling a soft cleansing glow that began to slow the blackening tendrils—but only barely.
"Her body's resisting the corruption but not purging it. The brand—it's interfering. She's fighting more than just Vexen's poison," Roen muttered.
As they worked, Arasha slipped in and out of consciousness.
She drifted in a place between light and shadow.
Unfamiliar voices whispered in her ears—not of this world.
"She must not fall yet…"
"The threads are still frayed… but not severed."
"She is not ready… not ready to remember…"
She tried to respond. Tried to understand.
But the voices faded like mist, and all she could do was surrender to the darkness.
Hours passed.
The corruption receded—for now.
Color slowly returned to Arasha's face.
Her breathing evened, though her body still twitched now and then, as if rejecting something unnatural.
Leta wiped the sweat from her brow with trembling fingers. Roen leaned back, exhaling a long, tired breath.
"She'll live," Leta said at last. "But this... this isn't over."
Garran, who had stood by the entire time, his knuckles white as he gripped the infirmary's doorway, closed his eyes.
"We'll buy her time," he said. "Whatever it takes."
And Arasha, sleeping deeply under the warded light, turned her head just slightly—toward the sun filtering through the infirmary window.
****
The light pouring through the infirmary windows was soft and warm—too warm, too still.
Arasha's lashes fluttered open, her breath slow, shallow. Pain was the first thing she felt—dull and deep, radiating from the wound at her side. The second thing she saw was Leta slumped over the foot of the bed, asleep on a stool, and Roen beside her with his head resting in his folded arms atop a stack of healing texts.
"…You two look like you fought a war."
Roen stirred, groaning. Leta blinked awake and straightened with a start. When she saw Arasha awake, her eyes welled with tears of exhausted relief.
"You're awake," Leta breathed, placing the back of her hand against Arasha's forehead. "Thank the heavens. I wasn't sure we could hold it back this time."
Arasha offered a small smile. "I'm afraid it's becoming a habit, waking up to the two of you looking like ghosts."
Roen snorted softly. "As if we can help it when you keep coming back half-dead."
Arasha let the silence stretch before speaking again, serious now. "Tell me. How bad is it?"
Leta looked at Roen, then sat on the edge of the bed. "The truth? We only slowed it down. The corruption from the rift wound—no one's survived it before. And your crest..."
"It's like they're battling," Roen finished grimly. "The twisted fate mark is resisting the rift's energy, but not out of mercy. It's like it's trying to claim your soul for itself."
Arasha's eyes narrowed slightly. "So... how long do I have before the next flare-up?"
Leta didn't sugarcoat it. "A few weeks if we're lucky. A month at most. You'll need proper rest, no strain. I mean it, Commander."
Arasha exhaled through her nose, gaze drifting to the window. "That's... not exactly possible. But I'll try."
Roen gave her a dry look. "That's what you said last time before nearly dying on your horse."
Leta leaned forward and gripped Arasha's hand. "We'll find a cure. We promise. I don't care what we have to do."
A flicker of genuine warmth crossed Arasha's face. "Thank you... both of you. I mean it."
Later that day, Arasha left the infirmary, cloaked and upright, though her steps were slower than usual. She passed by several knights who offered worried but respectful nods. At her private chambers, she was met—as expected—by John.
The ever-diligent secretary nearly dropped his bundle of scrolls when he saw her.
"You should be resting, Commander—"
"I will," she cut in with a tired smile. "But first, give me a quick rundown. Anything urgent?"
John, though still frowning, began reciting. "Supply lines to the western garrisons are stable. No new outbreaks of the plague have been reported. Patrols have noted movement near the Hollow Valley border, however."
"Hollow Valley," Arasha murmured. "I want every scrap of information we have about it—legends, sightings, anything."
John blinked but nodded quickly, scribbling the note. "Right away."
"Oh—" Arasha reached into her side satchel and pulled out the sealed parchment Agustus had handed her. "Funding update. Starting next month, Scion Order will have significant increases. Thanks to Agustus, and His Majesty."
John took the parchment and read it over, eyebrows lifting in surprise. "This... is more than generous. This will cover advanced training, expanded barracks, the infirmary—Leta and Roen will be thrilled."
Arasha gave a small smile. "Put it to good use. And give them both a day off when they ask. They've more than earned it."
John gave a nod, softening. "Understood, Commander."
By the time Arasha returned to her quarters, the ache in her ribs had worsened, the corruption pulsing faintly beneath her skin like distant thunder. She barely managed to unbuckle her armor before she collapsed onto the bed.
She stared at the ceiling, thoughts heavy. Hollow Valley... the crest... the dreams... That man's face again—familiar and sorrowful, whispering words she couldn't hear.
With a tired sigh, she closed her eyes.
And this time, sleep came fast. Not because she wanted it—but because her body had nothing else left to give.
****
The mists that whispered at the edges of Hollow Valley were still too thick to traverse—not literally, but politically.
Linalee had warned Arasha to wait before investigating the area in person. Too many powers still stirred around the Valley, and the presence of an Order Commander might provoke tensions prematurely.
So, Arasha waited, not idly, but with purpose.
Each morning, Arasha trained the squires in the inner yard of Scion Hold.
Though her ribs still ached with phantom fire and every movement had to be measured, her voice remained sharp, her eyes observant. The squires didn't dare slack in her presence.
But when training ended, Garran made sure her tasks were gentler.
"You are banned," Garran had said one morning, "from lifting swords heavier than a sparring stick and from holding court longer than thirty minutes. You will assist logistics and deliver personal items to the knights' families. That's an order from your second."
Arasha had opened her mouth to argue, but when she saw the worried looks from the infirmary staff, the kitchen hands, and even the grizzled blacksmith who had somehow caught wind of her relapse, she sighed in defeat.
"Yes, Sir Garran," she had muttered, much to his smug satisfaction.
And so, Arasha now found herself in simpler duties—overseeing letters, bundles, and parcels from knights to their loved ones.
On one such visit, she rode out with two squires and a cart of goods to a quiet hill village nestled in a sea of blooming heather.
She dismounted and approached the humble cottage, where a heavily pregnant woman opened the door, eyes widening.
"Lady Commander!" she exclaimed, bowing hastily, despite her belly. "Please forgive the mess—I didn't expect—"
"No apologies," Arasha said warmly, waving her hand. "I've just come to deliver some letters and dried fruit from your husband. He mentioned you liked them."
The woman's eyes shimmered. "He remembered…"
As she accepted the package, she lingered in the doorway, hesitating, then spoke.
"You know… sometimes I'm a little jealous of him. He gets to serve someone as noble and brave as you. And I—I'm just here, waiting."
Arasha blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then her gaze softened.
"Your husband tells me stories of how you waited for him during the worst of the plague… how you kept his family strong, wrote him every day, and made him a father. I'm certain he's more proud of you than of any battle he's fought under my command."
The woman's eyes brimmed with tears, and she clutched the letter to her chest, smiling like sunlight.
"Thank you," she whispered.
As Arasha walked back to her horse, she passed children playing in a garden, a smith sharpening a sickle, and elders sitting beneath an elm tree playing a quiet game of stones.
Peace had settled over the village—real peace, hard-earned and genuine.
She looked over her shoulder once more at the cottage, where the woman had gone back inside, humming now, the letter likely being read aloud.
A warm breeze tousled Arasha's hair as she whispered to herself, "This… this is why we fight."
She mounted her horse and looked east, where Hollow Valley slept beneath a blanket of distant fog.
She would wait, as Linalee advised.
But when the time came to uncover what lay in that cursed place, Arasha would be ready.
And she would face it not just as a commander of the Scion Order—but as someone who had seen, and preserved, the quiet triumphs of life worth protecting.