Chapter 45 – Azaria
AZARIA
Two weeks into my punishment, and I’d fallen into a rhythm. The days blurred together—morning light through tall windows, dust motes drifting in warm bands across the stone floor, the soft scrape of quills and parchment, the constant hush of clerks trying to look important.
The scribes’ wing had its own rhythm, one that didn’t care who I was or what I’d done. To them, I was another pair of hands to pass stacks of parchment to, another name on a schedule, another body in a chair. For the first time in a long while, that felt acceptable.
My mornings were spent copying reports, organizing ledgers, and tracking inventory tallies that made my eyes blur. I learned which scribes preferred silence and which whispered gossip behind their hands.
And then there was Taeris.
The junior scribe had been trying to flirt with me since I was appointed captain. Five years of leaning too close and smiling too long, and the punishment detail had only made it worse. Now I was trapped at the desk next to his for six hours a day.
“Captain,” he’d said one morning, passing me a sheaf of reports with what he probably thought was a charming smile, “if you ever need help with anything, I’m very good with my hands.”
He’d brandished his quill like it might impress me. I didn’t look up. “I’m copying land deeds, Taeris.”
He tried again, undeterred. “Maybe we could work together sometime. Get to know each other better.”
I set my quill down carefully. “I appreciate the offer. I’m fine working alone.”
“Are you sure? Because I could?—“
“I’m sure.”
He retreated to his desk, smile faltering. He’d recover. They always did.
By midday my fingers ached, ink stained my nails, and my shoulders were tight from hunching over narrow desks. But there was something almost meditative about the work—the rhythm of copy, dip, copy, dip, until the motion became instinct and my thoughts could drift.
No one shouting orders. No rookies to correct. No missions to plan. Just the parchment and the quiet scratch of quills. It gave me space to think. To process. To realize that somewhere in the past two weeks, I’d stopped feeling hollow.
I’d been so empty for so long—after the breakdown, after the forest, after everything I’d done in those two weeks I couldn’t take back—that I’d forgotten what it felt like to be anything else.
But sitting here, hand moving steadily across the parchment, I recognized the shift.
It wasn’t happiness, but presence. Like I was inhabiting my body again instead of dragging it through each day.
I paused, flexing my writing hand. My grip on the quill felt different. More controlled than it had been even a month ago.
The head scribe—an older woman named Marra—glanced up from her work. “You look like you’re solving the kingdom’s problems over there, Sylvenhart.”
“Just copying tax records.”
“With an expression like that?” She raised an eyebrow. “Must be riveting tax records.”
I went back to copying and didn’t bother explaining.
The afternoons were a different kind of endurance. I welcomed the walk across the courtyard—the sun, the movement, the noise of recruits clashing steel. The training grounds were louder, hotter, and far less forgiving. Drilling rookies who thought “disgraced” meant “defenseless.”
They’d lined up in pairs the first day, eyes bright and arrogant, and the moment I stepped onto the sand, a hush fell. Some of them stared. Others whispered. A few looked eager, like they’d been waiting for the chance to test a captain who couldn’t fight back.
They learned quickly.
By the end of the first week, I’d corrected stances until my voice was hoarse, demonstrated the same basic forms until my arms burned, and endured the barely concealed smirks of recruits who thought landing a hit during sparring meant they’d earned something.
One of the younger recruits—a cocky kid named Aran—made the mistake of testing me during a demonstration. His tone was mocking and condescending, designed to get a reaction from his friends.
He got one.
Three seconds later, he was flat on his back, sword gone, my boot resting lightly on his chest. The training yard went silent.
“Anyone else?” I asked.
No one volunteered.
Word spread after that. By day thirteen, one of them—a lanky boy named Orin—approached me after drills.
“We asked around about you, ma’am,” he said, shifting his weight nervously. “Your squad has the highest mission success rate in the Palace Guard.” He paused. “We understand now why you’re so hard on us.”
“Good. Then get back to drills.”
But something about the way he said it—earnest, almost reverent—stayed with me longer than I expected.
By week two, the smirks had stopped entirely. They’d learned what Bortan had known all along: that punishment didn’t mean weakened, and that I’d earned my reputation for a reason. They were learning. And I found that teaching them felt less like punishment and more like purpose.
Despite the rookies, despite Taeris, despite the endless tedium of copying records and drilling the same basic moves until my muscles screamed—I was getting stronger.
Not the slow, grueling rebuild after Eris died, when I’d had to claw my way back from months of barely eating, barely sleeping, and barely existing.
This was different. This was recovering from something sharper and more recent—the two weeks I’d spent tearing myself apart, running on rage and grief until my body nearly gave out.
My arms were gaining definition again. My stamina was coming back. I could drill forms for hours without my legs shaking. And I was eating. I was ravenous in a way I hadn’t been in months. My body demanded fuel, and for the first time, I was giving it what it needed. Quinton made sure of that.
Every evening, like clockwork, he was there.
Waiting at the edge of the training grounds.
Leaning against the fence with his arms crossed, watching me work with that quiet patience that somehow never felt like pressure.
The first few days, I’d been surprised. Then touched.
Then, somewhere around day five, it became routine.
“You don’t have to wait for me every day,” I’d told him on day six, falling into step beside him as we walked toward my house.
“I know.”
“It’s a long wait. You could be doing other things.”
“I could.”
“So why?—“
“Because I want to.” He’d glanced at me, something warm in his dark eyes. “And because you look like you need someone to make sure you actually make it home instead of collapsing halfway there.”
I’d wanted to argue. Couldn’t. Because he was right.
We fell into a pattern without discussing it.
He’d walk me home. The wards would let us through.
They recognized me, and I’d long since added him to the threshold.
I’d given him a key on day four, and the weight of that gesture hadn’t escaped either of us.
He’d held it in his palm for a long moment, looking at me like I’d handed him something far more significant than a piece of metal.
I had.
He’d cook. I’d eat. We’d talk until exhaustion dragged me under.
Most nights, I fell asleep before I could finish my sentence.
He never complained. The first time he carried me to bed, I’d woken just enough to register it: his arms steady beneath me, the careful way he set me down, how he pulled the blanket up and brushed hair from my face before leaving.
I should have tensed. Should have felt the vulnerability of it like a blade against my throat.
Instead, I’d closed my eyes and let him.
And the next night, I didn’t wake up at all. Just drifted off on the couch, knowing he’d take care of the rest. That trust had crept up on me so gradually that I hadn’t noticed it forming until it was already there, solid as stone beneath my feet.
“You’re different,” I said one evening.
We were on the couch, my head on his chest, his hand moving slowly through my hair. The remains of dinner sat on the table—plates scraped clean, because he’d made that stew again, the one with the root vegetables and lamb that somehow tasted better every time.
“How so?” he asked.
“Most men would be frustrated by now. We’ve been doing this for days—you coming over, me falling asleep on you—and you’re not pushing.”
His hand paused briefly, then continued. “You think I should be?”
“Most would.”
“I’m not most men.”
I tilted my head to look at him. “Why aren’t you frustrated?”
He was quiet for a long moment, fingers still threading through my hair. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Because I’m getting exactly what I want.”
“What, me falling asleep on you every night?”
“You letting me take care of you.” His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “You trusting me enough to fall asleep in my arms. You letting me into your space, your routine, your life.” He paused. “Do I want more? Yes. But this is enough. For now.”
My eyes stung. I didn’t have the words for what that did to me—the way it reached past every wall I’d built and found the part of me that had been bracing for the demand, the pressure, the inevitable moment when patience ran out and someone asked for more than I could give.
He wasn’t asking.
He was just here.
I kissed him then, slow and unhurried, trying to put into it everything I couldn’t say. His hand slid to the back of my neck, holding me there, and for a long moment we stayed like that—lips barely touching, breathing each other in.
When I pulled back, he drew me against his chest again.
“One more week,” he murmured.
“One more week,” I echoed.
I was asleep before I could say anything else.
But my last thought, drifting somewhere between consciousness and the warm dark, was that Quinton wasn’t replacing anyone.
He wasn’t filling a space Eris had left.
Dain had been the first person I’d let close after Eris, in his own way, and I’d nearly destroyed that too.
This was something new. Something I hadn’t known I was capable of building again. And it terrified me as much as it steadied me.
The days kept moving. The rhythm of copying had become almost soothing, and I’d learned to let my mind wander while my hand worked, thinking through things I’d been too numb to process before.
Like how Quinton always knew when I needed space versus when I needed closeness. How he never pushed. How he’d built this careful routine around taking care of me without making me feel diminished for needing it.
My quill paused.
When had I started needing it?
No, that wasn’t the right question. I’d always needed it, needed someone to see past the armor. I’d just never let anyone close enough to try. Not for four years. Not since Eris.
“You’re smiling at tax records again, Sylvenhart,” Marra said without looking up.
I glanced down. Another land deed. Nothing remotely smile-worthy.
“Young love,” she muttered. “Disgusting.”
But she was smiling, too.
As the third week wound down, the rookies had stopped testing me entirely.
No smirks. No whispered comments. No celebrating when they landed a hit during sparring. Just focus and discipline and the kind of respect that couldn’t be demanded, only earned.
Sera, one of the bolder recruits, caught me after training one afternoon. “You look healthier, Captain. Less like you’re going to murder someone for breathing wrong.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You absolutely looked like that,” she said unapologetically.
“I’m still going to make you run laps if you don’t fix your footwork.”
She grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
They were learning. And I found that this—the teaching, the patience, the slow work of shaping raw recruits into something sharper—suited me in ways I hadn’t expected.
Three weeks down. One to go.
I was stronger now. My body was coming back: muscle and stamina and the bone-deep tiredness that came from honest work instead of hollow grief. My mind was clearer than it had been in months.
And every evening, without exception, Quinton was there. Waiting. Walking me home. Making sure I ate, rested, and slept. Asking for nothing more than I could give.
Part of me was counting down the hours until the punishment ended.
Part of me wondered what would change when it did. Whether this steady, careful thing between us would shift into something with more gravity. Whether I’d be ready for it when it did.
I pressed my forehead against his chest that last night before week four.
“Thank you,” I said. “For this. For everything.”
His arms tightened around me. “Always, Az.”