Chapter 2
– Sparks and Shards
“Don’t touch me.”
Draven’s voice was ice as Sepharine entered his chamber with a tray of fresh towels and morning tonic.
“I wasn’t going to,” she replied calmly, setting the tray down.
“You were thinking it.” He flung a silver comb at the wall. “Just like everyone else—hovering, waiting to see if the cripple needs help.”
“I wasn’t hovering,” she said. “I was working. Your hairbrush was tangled.”
“I don’t care.”
She didn’t flinch. “Your mother asked me to apply the poultice to your legs.”
“Then she can do it herself.”
Sepharine sat beside the fire, unwrapping the warm compress without another word. The silence was thick—until the sound of glass shattering against the hearth split the air.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said no!” he barked.
She turned, eyes calm. “And I heard you. You’ve said no every day for the past three weeks.”
“Then why are you still here?” His voice was almost a snarl.
“Because I remember who you were,” she said. “Before this room became your cage.”
Draven’s glare sharpened. “You think kindness will fix this? I’m not your pet project.”
“No,” she said softly. “You’re my husband.”
“That was a political decision.”
“For you. Not for me.”
He stared. “What does that mean?”
Sepharine didn’t answer. Instead, she knelt before him and unwrapped the bandages on his legs.
“Stop it.”
“No.”
“Sepharine—”
“Tell me you felt nothing when I massaged your foot yesterday,” she said. “Tell me the heat in your spine was a dream.”
His lips parted—then closed. “Even if I did, what difference does it make?”
“It means there’s still something worth fighting for,” she murmured. “Even if it’s just the ability to walk to the window without needing anyone.”
“You really think you can fix me with warm hands and bedtime stories?”
“I think you’re afraid I might.”
His fist clenched. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you carried a boy with a broken leg down a mountain during the Frostfall raid. I know you shielded a kitchen girl during a fire when you were fifteen.”
“Those were different days.”
“No,” she said gently. “You were different.”
Something sharp flickered in his eyes—then he grabbed a book from the nightstand and hurled it at her.
The spine grazed her cheek, drawing a fine red line.
Silence crashed between them.
Draven stared at the blood blooming down her jaw.
She didn’t move. “Still strong enough to throw.”
“You should scream,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Why?” She dabbed the wound with a sleeve. “You didn’t miss.”
His breath hitched.
She stood slowly. “Dinner is at six. I’ll be back.”
“Why?” he demanded again. “Why do you stay?”
She looked at him. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever chosen.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Draven looked down at his hand, still trembling from the throw. For the first time in weeks, he felt heat there. Not just rage—but shame.
Outside, he heard servants whispering.
“Did he hit her again?”
“She’s still going back in?”
“She’s mad.”
Maybe she was. But she was also the only one who hadn't given up.
Draven stared at the fire, then at the shattered glass across the rug. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, didn’t just feel trapped.
He felt afraid.
Chapter 3
– Little Fires of Care
*CRACK.*
“Roof’s iced over again,” muttered Thom, the butler, peering out the fogged window. “No supply wagons for at least a week.”
“I’ll manage,” Sepharine replied, rolling her sleeves up. “We have dried herbs and firewood.”
Draven’s voice echoed from upstairs. “If she so much as steps into my chamber today—”
“I heard that,” Sepharine called back, calm as ever.
She entered anyway.
“You’re persistent,” he muttered, not turning from the window.
“So is winter,” she said, setting a log into the hearth. “But it doesn’t mean we stop fighting it.”
“No one asked you to fight anything,” Draven snapped.
“No,” she agreed. “But someone has to keep you from freezing to death in your sulking corner.”
He turned sharply. “I’m not sulking.”
“You’re in the same shirt as yesterday.”
“I like this shirt.”
“You hate linen.”
He scowled.
She laid a warm compress along his calves. He flinched.
“You felt that,” she said quietly.
“No.”
“You did.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something.”
“I said—”
“I know what you said,” she interrupted, voice firm for once. “But I also saw your fingers twitch yesterday when I read the battle at Iron Hollow.”
He froze.
“That was your favorite, wasn’t it?” she added, opening the worn leather-bound novel. “You memorized half of it.”
“Shut the book,” he said. “It’s pathetic.”
“No. It’s hope.”
She began reading.
“‘And though his leg bled, the alpha stood, blade in hand, daring the shadows to come closer.’”
“Stop—”
“‘He stood,’” she repeated, looking up. “And you will, too.”
He shoved the book off her lap. “You’re delusional.”
She picked it up again. “Delusional is giving up before the fight starts.”
He stared at her. “Why do you even care?”
She blinked. “Because you don’t.”
Silence.
Later, she found him staring at the shattered mirror, glass littered across the floor.
“Another tantrum?” she asked.
“I overheard the council,” he muttered. “They want to name Roran as acting Alpha.”
“Your cousin?”
“They say I’m too weak. A symbol of failure.”
“What did you do?”
He held up his hands. Blood trailed down his palms, glinting where glass embedded his skin.
Sepharine rushed forward. “You idiot—”
“I needed to feel something.”
She guided him to the chair and began cleaning the wounds.
“You know,” she whispered, “some wars are won with waiting, not swords.”
He didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull away either.
Her hands were steady as she bandaged the cuts. When she finished, she looked up.
“You're still bleeding,” he muttered.
“Only on the outside.”
A long pause.
“You should hate me,” he said.
“Sometimes I do,” she replied.
That made him blink.
“But I love you more.”
He looked away, throat tight. “I don’t deserve it.”
“Maybe not,” she said, standing. “But you didn’t deserve the pain either.”
She left before he could answer.
That night, alone in the firelight, Draven opened the book to the battle at Iron Hollow.
And read until dawn.
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