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The soft thud of her body against Cedric’s chest as he walked with her in his arms.

Spoonfuls of warm broth sliding down her throat.

Low murmurs, voices speaking gentle words. And some not-so-gentle ones too, though she’d never be able to recall exactly what was said.

Warm, soapy water cascading down her arms.

The distinct memory of lying on her stomach, her arms crossed under her chin, while someone examined her back.

Nimble fingers untangling her hair.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve awoken, is it?” she asked.

Cedric shook his head. “You’ve been in and out since we arrived.” He pursed his lips to one side. “Mostly out. And even when you were technically awake, you didn’t seem . . .”

“All there?”

“Fully lucid, is what I was going to say.”

Elyria scooted backward so she could lean against the headboard, leaving her legs draped over Cedric’s as he sat on the bed. If there had ever been a sign of the head injury she’d suffered before fleeing Castle Lumin, there certainly wasn’t one now. Her body felt surprisingly healthy as she took stock of herself. She felt almost . . . whole.

She looked down at the loose waves of her hair falling over each shoulder. No matted blood. No tangles or snarls. It looked . . . nice. Smooth and brushed and smelling faintly of lavender and merryleaf. “Did you bathe me?”

Cedric raked his fingers through his own hair, his hand lingering at the back of his neck. “Well, I—I mean, I didn’t think you’d mind if it was me, and—that is, I thought you wouldn’t want⁠—”

The corner of her lip twitched. “Calm yourself, Sir Flustered. It wasn’t an accusation.”

“The first time, it was simply to clear away the blood, so the healers could get a better look at your injuries. You fell back asleep mid-bath.” His scarred lip pulled into a soft smile, but it only lasted for a second. “When you awoke the next day, though, you were inconsolable. Like you’d had a nightmare. You were crying and thrashing and sweating, and I just . . .” He swallowed. “It calmed you.”

Elyria blinked. It was strange hearing about herself like this, so detached from what Cedric was describing. She thought hard, trying to dredge up the memories of these things happening, but they were disjointed, foreign flashes. So, in the spirit of keeping that dam inside her intact, she didn’t think particularly hard. She did her best, in fact, to push down those feelings, forcing a half-tipped smile onto her lips. “Ah, so you bathed me multiple times, then.”

Cedric offered a sheepish grin. “Just twice.”

“Here’s to hoping I remember the next one.” She gave him a wink, then let her eyes trail down his torso, lingering slightly on the still-present—and yes, still-impressive—bulge in his pants.

Well, if there’d been any lingering doubt as to whether or not this was real, that would’ve put paid to it.

There was nothing more real, in fact, than the choked sound Cedric made as he followed her gaze to the evidence of his morning desire.

“I—four fucking hells, Elle,” he sputtered. “You know I don’t have any control over it, and it’s not—I didn’t—I’d never—” His entire face had flushed the most adorable shade of pink. “You have to know that is truly the last thing on my mind.”

“Mmm,” she said. “That’s a shame.”

Elyria wanted to appreciate the way she’d rendered her knight speechless, but consciousness had rapidly caught up with her, and nature had a more pressing concern. She sat up, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, and stretched her arms overhead. “Speaking of the bathing room . . .”

“Oh. Oh! Of course. Right over here.” Cedric leapt up, took Elyria’s hand, and led her across the room to a wooden door centered on the opposite wall. “Take as long as you need.”

“Thank you for your permission, Sir Knight,” she said with a grin, then closed the door on a spluttering Cedric.

In the solitude of the small bathing chamber, though, Elyria’s face immediately fell. She leaned against the door, sucking in several slow breaths before she was ready to move again. Despite all evidence to the contrary, there was still something surreal about being here—or, more accurately, about not being there anymore. It was as though she half expected to be yanked from this dream—like if she closed her eyes for too long, when she reopened them, she would be back in that hallway, bound and helpless, watching Petra’s blood creep closer and closer while Malakar ran his wretched hands over her body.

Elyria shook her head. Then she pinched the underside of her wrist for good measure. Real, she reminded herself. This is real and you are free and he is here with you.

She relieved herself, then lingered over the washbasin, taking a moment to appreciate the smoothness of the wooden bowl, delighting in the whimsy of the water spout that seemed to be made of a living silveroak sprig. Sylvan magic really was something to marvel at. She washed her hands and braided her hair to keep it back before splashing water on her face. And then, finally, with some reluctance, she looked at herself in the simple frameless mirror that hung in front of her.

Elyria wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see. Wasn’t sure who she’d expected to see. She thought perhaps these past months would have left physical signs—dark circles under her eyes, a sallowness to her skin, hollows in her cheeks. And maybe those things were there—a touch of them, at least. Maybe she did look tired, looked like she still carried a heavy weight. But overall, she looked . . . normal.

Her face was not nearly as thin as she’d thought it might have gotten with how little she’d been eating. Her cheeks had a pleasant peachy flush, her lips rosy. She was dressed in a long white tunic and loose linen pants. Any thought that she might turn around and try to get a look at the state of her back was quickly squashed. She was sure she wouldn’t find anything but the original scars from where her wings had been anyway. And maybe even those would be gone now, given that Malakar had taken it upon himself to slice them open anew. Based on how good she felt physically, Elyria doubted there would be a single scratch to be found.