Four
Rhyse Pendragon
With a soft click of his tongue, he guided the horse to turn. Towards His Kingdom,leaving the weeping woods behind.
The grand gates of the obsidian palace groaned open, and a hush fell like a blanket. The bustling courtyard, a nexus of soldiers, servants, and courtiers, froze mid-motion. All eyes turned to their king.
Rhyse Pendragon
His expression was a mask of impenetrable ice, but his actions spoke of a terrifying, focused urgency. In his arms, bundled in the king’s own travel-stained cloak, was a small, unconscious form. One pale, limp hand, delicate as a fallen leaf, swung gently with each of his long, swift strides.
A path cleared before him as if by magic. Armored commanders, their faces etched with questions, dropped to a knee, fists thumping against chests in silent, bewildered respect. Servants bowed their heads low, eyes wide with shock and curiosity. Whispers rose like steam in the cold air, dying instantly as he passed, extinguished by the sheer force of his presence.
He did not break his pace, his voice cutting through the silence, low and resonant, each command a whip-crack that sent servants scrambling.
Rhyse Pendragon
“Summon the healers. To my chambers. Now.”
Rhyse Pendragon
“Hot water. Blankets.”** His golden gaze swept the crowd, landing on his stern chamberlain. The man, to his credit, merely bowed.
Rhyse Pendragon
“And find her clothes,”** Rhyse commanded, his voice softening almost imperceptibly as he glanced down at the fragile life in his arms. **“Something warm. Something… soft.”
He moved on, his focus narrowing to the corridor that led to his private wing. The stares, the bows, the murmured titles—“Your Grace,” “My King,” “Sire”—were nothing but distant echoes. The only thing that was real was the faint, shallow breath of the girl against his neck and the crushing weight of the vow he had silently made in the frozen woods. He carried her not as a king carries a subject, but as a sanctuary carries its most sacred secret, his every step a silent promise toward the warmth and safety that awaited behind the heavy oak door of his chamber.
Rhyse Pendragon
Rhyse knelt and carefully, so carefully, laid the fragile bundle in his arms upon the pillows. The black cloak fell away, revealing her pale, shivering form, so starkly small and vulnerable against the expanse of his bed. He brushed a strand of silver-grey hair from her icy cheek, his own blood-stained hands looking brutish and coarse against her skin.
The door opened again, and the royal healers entered, their faces pale with a mixture of duty and fear. They took in the scene: their formidable king on his knees beside the bed, and the unknown, near-lifeless girl. They moved with efficient, hushed urgency, their fear of his wrath making their hands swift and precise. They worked around him, their magic a soft, golden glow that hovered over her worst bruises and the deep chill in her bones. They checked her pulse, her temperature, murmuring to each other in low tones.
The head healer, an older panther with a greying muzzle and wise, weary eyes, approached the bed. He kept a respectful distance, his hands clasped before him, his posture bowed not just in respect, but in genuine trepidation. To deliver ill news to this king was to tread on thinnest ice.
“Your Grace,” he began, his voice a low, careful rumble, meant not to disturb the girl. “If I may…”
Rhyse Pendragon
Rhyse’s gaze, which had been fixed on the small hand clinging to his, lifted. The gold of his eyes was not angry, but it was intense, a silent command to speak.
The healer swallowed. “She is… exceptionally fragile, Sire. The cold has sunk deep into her marrow, and her spirit…” He hesitated, choosing his next words with the precision of a surgeon selecting a scalpel. “...it bears wounds far older than any chill. There is a… a *residue* within her. The echoes of many potent potions, forced upon a system not made to bear them. It has left her essence raw, like an open nerve.”
He gestured faintly to the gentle, opalescent glow still emanating from the vial they had administered. “We are not using a strong restorative. It would be like pouring fire into a cracked glass. This is a balm. A trickle of warmth and light, meant only to soothe, not to scour. It will not hurt her. We will… we will coax her back, Sire. Not force her. It is the only way.”
He awaited the king’s reaction, prepared for a storm, for the fury of a protector told he could not immediately fix what was broken.
Rhyse Pendragon
But the storm did not come. Rhyse’s jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processed the words *forced upon*.
His thumb, of its own volition, began to stroke a slow, gentle rhythm over the back of Sylvie’s hand. His voice, when it finally came, was low and quiet, a tone the healer had never heard him use.
" Yes.Do it.”
murmuring to each other in low tones before gently tipping a vial of shimmering, sky-blue potion between her lips.
As they finished, the maids entered with their arms full of the king’s command: garments of the finest cream-colored wool and the softest dove-grey velvet, alongside basins of steam- ing water and plush towels.
Rhyse Pendragon
Satisfied she was stable, Rhyse gave a stiff nod and began to rise, intending to grant them privacy. But as he started to pull away, a small, unconscious movement stopped him cold.
Sylvie Burrowes
Her hand, which had lain limp at her side, twitched. Her fingers, delicate and cold, found his. They didn’t grab, but rather *sought*, curling weakly around one of his rough, calloused digits with a trust that was utterly instinctual. A silent, desperate plea from the deepest part of her subconscious, begging her sole protector not to leave her in this strange, frightening place.
Every eye in the room dropped to the floor. The healers busied themselves with their kits. The maids froze, unsure of what to do.
Rhyse Pendragon
And Rhyse Pendragon, the King who had never hesitated in his life, found himself utterly paralyzed. A storm of conflict raged in his golden eyes—protocol warring with a primal, protective urge he could not name.
Rhyse Pendragon
He slowly sank back onto the edge of the bed, his large hand engulfing hers. He would not leave.
Author Bunny
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