They were still lying where they’d landed.

  Trey stared up through the branches, watching the sky turn itself into darkness. His ribs protested every breath, but as long as he stayed very still, the pain stayed manageable.

  Luna was draped over him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, breathing shallow but steady. She hadn’t let go yet.

  He wasn’t sure either of them wanted her to.

  “…So,” he said hoarsely after a while, “If something eats us down here, I just want it noted that I died heroically.”

  She huffed weakly. “You fell off a cliff.”

  “Heroically fell off a cliff.”

  Her forehead bumped lightly against his collarbone. “Stupidly fell off a cliff.”

  “And yet,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth, “you jumped after me.”

  Luna shot him a look.

  “I’m never shutting up about this.” He added, delighted.

  Luna swallowed. “…Idiot.”

  Somewhere nearby, a branch snapped.

  Light spread into sight.

  “ATKINS! LANCASTER!”

  The shout tore through the trees like a blade.

  Luna stiffened.

  Trey murmured. “…That’ll be him.”

  Francis burst out of the tree line a heartbeat later, eyes wild, face drained of color. He skidded to a stop at the sight of them sprawled on the forest floor—broken, filthy, breathing.

  For half a second, relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.

  Then it curdled into fury.

  “Do you have any idea—” Francis’s voice cracked violently. “Damn you, I expected to dig two graves today!”

  Trey squinted up at him and managed a faint smile. “Aw. You’d make us matching headstones, right?”

  “Shut. Up.”

  Francis dropped to his knees beside them, hands hovering, breath coming too fast. His instinct screamed to check Trey first — the way he was lying, the way his breaths hitched, but before he could touch him—

  “Do Luna first,” Trey said quietly. “She’s shaking.”

  Francis froze.

  His jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.

  He turned to Luna, fury burning bright and ugly. “Of course you’re shaking,” he snapped. “You decided to jump off a—”

  Luna opened her mouth.

  “No,” Francis said sharply. “Do not speak. I am not finished yet.”

  But even as he said it, his Quanta slid through her anyway— a practiced sweep, clinical and fast. He checked her breathing, her spine, her veins, the screaming fractures in her forearms.

  “Do you even think before you jump?” he demanded, voice shaking now. “Or is it just—‘oh, Francis will fix it’?”

  His hands steadied as he began knitting her bones, careful, controlled, not daring to push too far.

  Trey shifted, wincing. “Franc—”

  Francis lifted one finger without looking.

  A warning.

  “No. You don’t get to joke this time.”

  Trey closed his mouth instantly.

  Francis’s voice spilled out then. Everything he’d been holding back.

  “After all the heroic acts you pull and expect me to clean up after,” he went on. “And no, climbing onto a roof and slinging yourself down was not heroic. And I am not reopening the fireplace incident.”

  Trey swallowed, then said quietly—no smirk, no deflection. “This time,” he said, “it wasn’t on purpose.”

  Francis let out a breath that sounded like a fracture.

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “The other times were.”

  Reid stood a few steps back, fire burning steadily in both palms, light flickering across their faces. Bridget hovered close, tense, ready.

  “It’s my fault. I’ve spoiled you,” Francis said. “I’ve made you think you can throw yourselves at death because I’ll always be there to drag you back.”

  His voice dropped. Quiet. Deadly.

  “But what if one day I can’t?”

  The forest went still.

  Trey swallowed, then smiled faintly anyway— softer this time.

  “I know you’ll try,” he said. “And that’s more than enough.”

  Something in Francis cracked.

  He exhaled hard, the worst of the anger bleeding out of him at last.

  “Bridget,” he said hoarsely. “Lock his neck.”

  Bridget did as she was told.

  “Luna,” Francis said, gentler now. “On my count, pull your arms free. Slowly.”

  She nodded.

  Together, they eased Luna off Trey. Francis kept his Quanta on her forearms until the last possible second, splinting and stabilizing them enough to prevent further damage.

  Then he turned back to Trey.

  His gaze lingered just a fraction too long on Trey’s pale face, on the way his breaths came shallow and uneven.

  He’d nearly lost him.

  “Tch,” Francis muttered, forcing himself back into healer mode. His hands hovered over Trey’s body, Quanta sliding in careful threads. “Broken ribs. Multiple leg fractures. Abdominal bleeding.”

  He frowned. “Where should I start?”

  “It hurts when I breathe,” Trey said, wincing. “So… ribs?”

  Francis’s mouth twitched. “Leg it is.”

  Trey’s eyes widened. “Wait. No. Don’t you dare—”

  Francis ignored him and reached for his satchel.

  “I’m using splints and herbs only. No Quanta.” he said calmly. “Then we drag you out of this forest. See if you learn.”

  Trey went pale. “That’s cruel.”

  Francis pressed a poultice into Trey’s ribs anyway — slowly.

  Trey groaned. “…What do I have to say? Please?”

  Francis leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “That would do.”

  He placed both hands on Trey’s chest.

  They shook.

  Just a little.

  The injuries were bad—bad enough to demand all of Francis’s Quanta and all of his self-control.

  Both of which he was dangerously close to running out of.

  And Trey mattered too much.

  One slip and—

  “It’s fine.” Trey said quietly.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “Trey,” Francis said sharply, voice cracking. “Tell me when it’s warm.”

  Trey blinked up at him, dazed, sweat-slick, but still smiling faintly. “Still cool, Doc. Like sticking my chest in the river. You’re fine.”

  The words grounded him.

  Francis exhaled, tension bleeding out of his shoulders by inches.

  Cool Quanta flowed — ribs first, then abdomen, then down to Trey’s legs. The pain dulled. Bones stabilized.

  Not fixed.

  Not finished.

  But stable.

  When Francis finally pulled back, he sat on his heels, chest heaving, sweat streaking his temples.

  Reid lowered her fire slightly. “How bad?”

  “…Better than I expected.” He swallowed. “They could’ve died.”

  His gaze shifted to Luna.

  “…How did you do it?”

  Luna stared at her hands. Quiet. Almost distant.

  “I was just trying to soften the fall,” she said.

  That was true.

  And at the same time, it wasn’t.

  Because beneath it — beneath the fear, beneath the pain — she knew she’d jumped because losing Trey was something she couldn’t bear.

  Because amateur or not, in that moment, she had been his only chance.

  Francis looked between them, exhaustion finally outweighing anger.

  “…Rest,” he said. “Both of you. We move when you can stand. Let’s camp here tonight.”

  Reid’s fire burned on, steady and watchful, as the forest settled around them.

  And for the first time, everyone breathed.

  They didn’t so much decide to sleep as collapse into it.

  By the time the fire burned low and the forest settled into its night sounds, exhaustion took over completely. No watches. No arguments. Just bodies dropping where they could, boots still on, weapons within reach out of habit more than intent.

  When morning came, it came gently.

  The smell of roasting meat drifted through the clearing first—sharp, smoky, unmistakable.

  Luna stirred, blinking against the light filtering through the trees. For a brief, disorienting moment, everything felt… normal. Birds calling. Warmth at her side. The ground solid beneath her back.

  She shifted—

  —and nothing happened.

  No sharp flare. No jolt of pain. Just a dull awareness, distant enough that it barely registered.

  Luna frowned.

  She lifted her arms slightly, testing them, then frowned harder. Both forearms were still wrapped and braced, clean and precise in that infuriatingly competent way of the grumpy medic Francis was.

  “…I feel fine,” she said.

  Francis didn’t look up. He turned one of the birds over the fire, expression unimpressed.

  “That’s because I did most of the work.”

  She blinked. “Most?”

  “Eighty percent,” he said. Then, after a beat, “Eighty-nine if I’d pushed my limits. Which I did not.”

  She flexed her fingers again, carefully. Still fine. Still steady.

  “Then why the splints?”

  “Because I don’t get to finish it,” Francis replied flatly. “Not like that.”

  He finally glanced at her. Just once.

  “I stabilized it. Knitted what I could. Took the edge off the damage. The rest is time, rest, and medicine.” He turned back to the fire. “If you take those off now, you’ll undo everything I did manage.”

  She stared at her arms, then slowly leaned back again. “…You’re still the best.”

  He paused. Just a fraction.

  “…Eat your breakfast,” he muttered.

  Reid smirked from where she sat nearby, tearing into her portion without ceremony. “She’s not wrong.”

  Trey, propped up against a tree with a blanket over his legs, shifted experimentally. Nothing screamed. Nothing collapsed.

  “I feel suspiciously okay.” He said.

  “That’s the problem,” Francis replied. “You’re not.”

  “See, that’s why you’re in charge,” Trey replied easily. “I’d already be doing something stupid by now.”

  They ate in companionable quiet for a while, the tension of the previous day finally loosening its grip. Even Luna relaxed, chewing slowly, gaze drifting through the trees as if she were just… camping. Like nothing catastrophic had happened at all.

  That was when Bridget cleared her throat.

  “Oh—right.” She reached into her pack and pulled something out with both hands. “I almost forgot. The relics.”

  A journal landed in her lap with a solid thud.

  It was thick. Leather-bound. Old enough that the edges had softened with time, but still intact.

  Trey whistled faintly. “That’s a weapon.”

  Bridget grinned. “It’s heavy because it’s important.”

  She turned it sideways so they could see the spine—reinforced leather, swollen pages, cramped writing bleeding faintly through the edges.

  “When I picked it up, the whole chamber shook. Had to grab a nearby rock and put it in the slot instead.”

  Francis went still.

  Reid’s head snapped up, eyes flicking to Trey. Her mouth opened on instinct.

  “Brid—”

  Trey shook his head.

  Just once.

  Small. Sharp. Absolute.

  Reid stopped mid-word, understanding immediately.

  Bridget, oblivious, continued. “Whoever built that place was paranoid. Every important item was trapped. You remove one without replacing the weight and—well.” She made a vague collapsing gesture with her hand. “You get architecture with opinions.”

  Luna’s fingers curled slowly into the fabric at her side. She smiled at Bridget, nodding along.

  “…Good thinking,” Trey said lightly. “With the rock.”

  Bridget looked up, smiling. “Right? Imagine if I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Francis nodded once. “You handled it well.”

  No one corrected her.

  No one blamed her.

  Because it wasn’t her fault.

  She hadn’t known.

  And some truths were better left unsaid — especially when the person who caused them would never forgive herself.

  They packed up not long after.

  Reid and Bridget split the heavier loads without complaint. Luna wasn’t allowed to carry anything sharper than her own thoughts, and Trey was only allowed to walk slowly.

  Francis reached for Trey’s pack, then paused.

  He looked at him, unimpressed.

  “I’m not encouraging anything,” he said flatly, “but if you’re going to fall off cliffs, at least take your backpack with you.”

  Trey frowned. “Excuse me? You just don’t want to haul my stuff down a mountain, do you?”

  Francis shot him a look. “No.”

  “Then why,” Trey demanded, clearly wounded, “is my pack suddenly so important?”

  Francis kept walking.

  “Because,” he said, “I put a med kit in there.”

  Trey blinked.

  “…You what?”

  Francis did not answer.

  Trey bit his lip, shifting his weight as he hobbled after him on the rough crutches Bridget had lashed together from fallen logs.

  “…Aw,” he added. “You care.”

  “Do not flatter yourself. It’s risk management.” Francis snapped, switching places with Bridget to escape.

  Trey managed to follow anyway.

  Luna glanced at him. “You’re smiling.”

  “I almost died,” he said happily. “And my healer packs for it.”

  She snorted.

  Francis muttered, “Next time I’m sewing it into your coat.”

  Trey brightened. “You’re thinking about my future already?”

  “…Oh, my headaches.”

  They walked for a long while after that.

  The forest thinned. The path widened. And eventually, the manor came back into view—stone walls catching the light, familiar and solid.

  The payer met them at the entrance, surprise written plainly across his face.

  “You returned,” he said, impressed. “And in one piece.”

  Trey lifted a hand weakly. “Define ‘piece.’”

  Bridget stepped forward and offered the journal. “Your relics, sir.”

  The man’s expression shifted instantly. “I… wasn’t expecting this.”

  He took it anyway.

  “Those villagers told me there were coins,” he admitted. “Ancient ones.”

  “You might want to be careful who you call villagers,” Reid said evenly, arms crossing. “What we found wasn’t a settlement. It was a stronghold.”

  That got his attention.

  She explained—succinctly this time. The traps. The hidden passage. The mountain dialect carved into the stone. The way the place was built to repel, not welcome.

  The payer opened the journal, flipping past diagrams and dense script until a folded page slipped free. The parchment looked newer. Out of place.

  He unfolded it.

  The dialect was old. Mountain-born.

  He read aloud, fluently.

  To the Heir of the Storm,

  If this letter has found you, then we have already gone.

  The winds turned against us at last.

  For the first time in generations, the threat before our gates outweighed the lives we were born to protect. We were outnumbered, and to stand would have meant the end of our line—not just of us, but of those who would come after. The end would have come swiftly.

  We do not mistake retreat for cowardice.

  We chose survival.

  We descended not to remain below, but to endure.

  The low ground was only a passage.

  Another height waits for us beyond it.

  Your path through our lands was no accident. When the bridge broke and our path sealed, your hand opened what ours could not.

  Because of your offering, our people were able to keep what is ours, and depart without surrendering our pride and dignity.

  For that, the debt between us stands.

  We leave this behind to keep our promise.

  When the time comes, do not search the world for us.

  Think instead of the place where you stayed among our people.

  We have carried that place with us.

  Open your path there, and our paths shall cross again.

  Until then, may the storm keep you hidden,

  and may your enemies never learn where you stand.

  —The Keeper of Skaravel

  When he finished, silence settled over the room.

  The smile faded from his face.

  “…This changes things,” he said quietly.

  Reid nodded. “The relics weren’t abandoned.”

  “They were evacuated,” Luna added.

  The man closed the journal, jaw tightening. “Then the people I thought I helped…” He exhaled sharply.

  “…were imposters,” Trey finished.

  The payer straightened slowly, resolve hardening.

  “Theodore,” he called sharply. “Five thousand Florets each. Escort them to the station.”

  He tightened his grip on his cane.

  “And sharpen the swords.”

  His expression went grim.

  “We have business to do.”