Chapter 26
Cora POV
I sit on the floor beside Garrion, my back pressed to the side of the bed, his hand clasped tightly in mine. His skin is warm, too warm, and I fight back the tears burning behind my eyes as the doctor speaks. His voice feels distant, muffled, as though I’m hearing him through water.
He goes on about the care his wounds will need, the frequency of bandage changes, the salves to prevent infection.
I swallow hard and interrupt him. “You’ll come and do it,” I insist, my voice trembling despite my effort to sound steady.
“I’m not a doctor. I don’t want to risk doing something wrong.”
He nods, understanding, then adds that Garrion will likely develop a fever. Infection is almost certain with wounds this deep. The words hit me like a blow, but I force myself to stay upright, to breathe, to listen. I will do whatever it takes to keep him alive. Whatever it takes.
Soma arrives with a bucket of steaming water, the heat rising in soft curls. I glance at Garrion, his skin is streaked with blood, dirt, and sweat, the remnants of whatever horror he fought through to return to me.
“Thank you, Soma. You may go,” I say quietly.
She hesitates, giving me a weary, worried look, but she obeys and slips out, closing the door behind her.
I dip a cloth into the hot water and begin to clean him, starting with his hands. They’re rough, scraped, stained with dried blood. I work slowly, carefully, wiping away every trace of what he endured. My fingers tremble, but I force them steady. He needs gentleness now.
I move to his arms, his chest, the dirt clinging stubbornly to his skin. Bit by bit, I restore him to himself.
When I reach his face, I freeze. The mask is still in place, solid, unmoving, hiding everything beneath it. But I can see the smear of blood across his eyelids, seeping from underneath the edges.
My breath catches.
To clean him properly, I would have to remove it. But the mask is sacred to him, a boundary he has never allowed me to cross. Touching it without his permission feels like trespassing into a part of him he has never offered.
I hover there, cloth in hand, heart pounding.
Will he forgive me if I take it off? Or will he wake and see betrayal where I only meant care?
The weight of the decision presses on me, heavy and intimate. I want to help him. I want to protect him. But I also want to honor the trust he has given me, precious, and hard-won.
I swallow hard, a tight lump forming in my throat, and with trembling fingers I lift the mask from his face.
What I see steals the breath from my lungs.
No scars. No disfigurement. Just flawless skin, smooth and unmarked, as though the world has never laid a hand on him.
He is beautiful, striking in a way that feels almost unreal. A beauty he has hidden so fiercely, so completely, that seeing it now feels like witnessing a secret he never meant anyone to uncover.
Why would he hide this? Why bury something so extraordinary behind cold steel and silence?
The questions swirl, but I force myself to push them aside. This moment isn’t about my curiosity or my shock, it’s about him. About caring for him. About keeping him alive.
I dip the cloth back into the warm water and begin to clean his face with slow, reverent strokes.
I trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, the softness of his mouth.
I memorize every detail, committing each feature to memory, terrified that when he wakes he will shut this part of himself away again.
Terrified that he will never let me see him like this again.
So I take my time, letting my fingertips linger just a moment longer than necessary, holding onto this fragile, stolen truth while I still can.
I pull the furs up over Garrion’s body, tucking them around him to keep the warmth in. I’m fairly certain the doctor mentioned it, heat for the body, cold for the fever but my mind is a fog of fear and determination. I just need to keep him alive. That is all that matters.
I lower myself back onto the floor beside the bed, my fingers finding his hand again. His grip is limp, but I cling to him anyway, grounding myself in the faint pulse beneath his skin. Hours blur together as I sit there, listening to his uneven breaths, willing them to steady.
The doctor returns later, carrying fresh bandages and a jar of ointment. He works quietly, efficiently, peeling away the blood-soaked wrappings and replacing them with clean ones. I watch every movement, memorizing the way he handles the wounds, the way he checks for heat and swelling.
When he finishes, he straightens and looks down at me with a mixture of sympathy and sternness. “You should get some rest, my lady,” he instructs gently. “Exhaustion will not help him, and you’ve been awake far too long.”
His words barely reach me. I tighten my hold on Garrion’s hand, my voice hoarse from hours of silence. “I’m not leaving him.”
The doctor sighs softly, but he doesn’t argue. He simply gathers his tools and steps out, leaving me alone with the man I refuse to lose.
I must have drifted off on the floor, exhaustion finally claiming me. A low sound pulls me back, Garrion’s moaning. My eyes snap open, and I rise as fast as I can, heart pounding. The room is dim, lit only by the flicker of candles. Soma must have been here, tending quietly while I slept.
“Cora…” he murmurs, his voice weak, his eyes still closed. Sweat beads across his brow, glistening in the candlelight. Fever.
Panic surges through me. I rush out into the corridor, grabbing the first person I see. “Quickly, Lord Darkmoor needs a doctor now!” My voice is sharp, commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. Then I turn and run back to him.
At his side again, I seize a cloth and plunge it into the basin of clean, cold water.
I press it gently to his forehead, my hand trembling.
“It’s all right, Garrion. I’m here. The doctor will be here soon. Stay with me,” I whisper, leaning close, kissing his lips softly as though the touch alone might anchor him.
The door opens, and the doctor hurries in. He wastes no time, pouring a bitter liquid into Garrion’s mouth, coaxing him to swallow. “It will help with the fever, my lady,” he assures me.
He checks the wounds carefully, peeling back the bandages. Relief floods me when he says, “No bleeding. The skin doesn’t look infected.” His hands are steady as he replaces the wrappings, applying fresh ointment with practiced care.
I sit rigid beside Garrion, clutching his hand, watching every movement, every breath. My heart refuses to calm. He is alive, but fragile.
Garrion spent three long days lost in fever and delirium.
Sometimes his eyes fluttered open, just a sliver, just enough for me to see the confusion and pain swimming beneath but they always closed again before I could speak his name.
I stayed beside him through every moment, refusing to leave, my fingers laced with his as though my touch alone could anchor him to this world.
The fever finally breaks on the morning of the fourth day. His skin cools beneath my hand, the violent trembling eases, and the frantic rise and fall of his chest settles into something steadier. Relief floods me so sharply it almost hurts. But he still doesn’t wake.
The doctor is concerned. I can see it in the tight line of his mouth, the way he checks Garrion’s pulse twice, then a third time, as if hoping for a different answer.
When the doctor leaves, I climb onto the bed beside Garrion, careful not to disturb the bandages wrapped around his legs. I rest my hand on his chest, feeling the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. Strong. Certain. Alive.
“He’s still in there,” I whisper to myself, to him, to whatever gods might be listening. “You’re still in there, Garrion. You’ll come back to me.”
I close my eyes and press my forehead to his shoulder, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat guide my breathing. As long as that beat continues, I will not give up. I will not let him go.
Garrion POV
I open my eyes slowly, and for the first time in what feels like ages, the fog in my mind begins to thin. Everything is hazy, like waking from a nightmare I can’t quite remember. What happened?
I try to piece it together. I remember riding hard toward Nordvaar, pushing the men faster than was wise. We were behind schedule, and all I could think about was getting back to Cora. The ache of missing her had become a physical thing, sharp and relentless.
Then, nothing. Or almost nothing.
A blur of trees. Snow. The sound of howling, low, hungry, too close. Wolves. Yes… wolves.
My legs burn, a deep, searing pain that pulses with every breath. I try to lift myself, but my body refuses to obey. Panic flickers through me. Am I paralyzed?
Fragments return in flashes - Cora’s face hovering above me, pale with fear. Her lips moving, speaking to me, pleading maybe, but her voice had been muffled, distant, as though I were underwater. I couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t answer.
I force my eyes to focus on my surroundings. I’m in my room. Our room. The familiar stone walls, the heavy furs, the faint scent of pine and smoke.
I turn my head and see my mask resting on the table beside the bed, catching the soft glow of candlelight. Someone placed it there carefully.
I turn the other way and my breath catches.
Cora is lying beside me, asleep. She’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body, close enough that I can see the exhaustion etched into her features.
And then the realization hits me like a blow. She’s seen me. She’s seen my face.
The one thing I’ve hidden from the world for years. The one thing I never meant for her to witness, not like this, not without my choice.
A strange mix of dread and something softer twists in my chest. I don’t know what she thinks of what she saw. I don’t know if she’ll look at me differently now.
Was her devotion because she liked what she saw beneath the mask? The thought twists in my mind, sharp and unwelcome. My father always warned me—women will want you for your looks, boy; they’ll chase the face, not the man. I spent years hiding behind steel to make sure no one ever proved him right.
But Cora… Cora is different. She has to be.
She told me she would be waiting for me before I left on patrol. And I felt it, felt the truth of her affection in the way she touched me, the way she tried to ease the tension from my shoulders with her hands, gentle and unsure but full of care.
She didn’t know what I looked like then. She didn’t need to.
So maybe, just maybe, her devotion isn’t about the face she saw while I lay unconscious. Maybe it’s about the man she’s come to know. The man she stayed beside for days, refusing to leave even when I was lost in fever and darkness.