Five
The head healer gave a final, deep bow. “We will take our leave, Your Grace. I will return before nightfall to administer the next dose.” At Rhyse’s silent, grim nod, the healers filed out, the door clicking shut behind them with a soft, final sound.
Maids
The maids remained, hovering uncertainly with their basins of warm water, soft towels, and the simple, elegant gown of cream-colored wool. Their eyes were fixed on the king, awaiting a command. He had not moved from his perch on the edge of the bed, the girl’s hand still resting in his.
Rhyse Pendragon
Understanding the need for her modesty, yet seemingly unwilling to break the physical tether she had initiated, Rhyse did something that spoke volumes of a respect that ran deeper than protocol. He gave the maids a single, curt nod of permission. Then, without a word, he turned his head away and closed his eyes.
Maids
The maids set to their work with hushed efficiency, their movements gentle and reverent. They carefully bathed the grime and tears from Sylvie’s pale skin, their touches as light as moth wings. They patted her dry and gently dressed her limp form in the soft, warm gown, its fabric whispering against her skin. The entire time, the king did not look, his profile a statue of fierce patience.
Rhyse Pendragon
When they were finished, they gathered their things and slipped from the room as silently as shadows, leaving the two figures in the vast chamber—the mighty Panther , and the fragile girl he shielded, connected by the faint, unconscious hold of her hand. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the slow, steady rhythm of his breath, keeping watch over hers.
Sylvie Burrowes
On the bed, Sylvie lay peacefully, the frantic terror finally erased from her features. The deep, healing sleep brought a serene beauty to her face, making her look heartbreakingly young and innocent. The soft, light green gown of fine-spun wool complemented her silver-grey hair and pale skin, making her seem like a fragile blossom carefully placed amidst the dark furs and linens of his bed.
Rhyse Pendragon
Rhyse had not moved. He remained seated beside her, having shed his leather jerkin and boots. His eyes were closed, his head resting back against the soft plush of the headboard. One of his large hands still enveloped hers, a constant, warm anchor. The mountain of scrolls and missives awaiting his attention in his study meant nothing. The demands of a kingdom faded to a distant hum. In this silent chamber, the only duty that mattered was this: his presence.
A soft knock preceded the entrance of the head healer. The healer bowed deeply, his respect mingled with a lingering fear, before moving to Sylvie’s side. His examination was quiet and thorough—a check of her pulse, the temperature of her skin, the evenness of her breath. He nodded, mostly to himself.
“The potion is working, Your Grace,” he murmured, his voice barely disturbing the quiet. “The deep chill is receding. Her body is accepting the gentle healing. There is no fever. It is the best we could hope for.”
With practiced care, he administered the second dose of the opalescent potion, tipping it slowly between her slightly parted lips. Satisfied she had swallowed, he bowed again and retreated from the room, leaving them in their cocoon of silence.
The peace held for a time before another, more deferential knock sounded. The king’s butler, a stately old badger with impeccable posture, entered upon command. His eyes took in the unprecedented scene without a flicker of surprise.
Butler
“Your Grace,” the butler said, his voice a low, respectful murmur. “Might I bring you anything? Sustenance? A change of clothes? Perhaps the documents from your study to review here?”
Rhyse Pendragon
Rhyse’s eyes opened slowly, the gold of his irises glowing in the firelight. His gaze did not stray to the butler, but remained fixed on Sylvie’s peaceful face.
“No,” he said, his voice a low rumble that held no room for argument. It was not a word of dismissal, but of absolute focus. “Nothing.”
Butler
The butler bowed, understanding the finality in that single word. He retreated, closing the door with a whisper, leaving his king to his vigil.
The deep, resonant quiet of midnight had settled over the castle, broken only by the soft crackle of dying embers in the hearth.
Rhyse Pendragon
Rhyse could hear the soft whisper of snow against the windowpanes. He was a statue in the dim firelight, his body still but his mind a vigilant sentry, guarding the fragile peace of the girl beside him.
Then it came—a small, broken sound. A whimper that was more felt than heard.
Sylvie Burrowes
Sylvie’s peaceful expression twisted into one of silent distress. Her brow furrowed, and her body, which had been still, gave a slight tremble. Unconsciously, she shifted, curling inward toward the solid, warm presence beside her—toward *him*. Her head nestled closer against his side, seeking shelter from the unseen terrors plaguing her dreams.
Rhyse Pendragon
But it was her hand that truly stilled his breath.
Her small, cool fingers, which had been resting loosely against his palm, curled with a surprising strength, clutching his index finger in a desperate, vice-like grip. It was the grip of someone clinging to a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea, a silent, pleading anchor against the nightmare's current.
Rhyse’s eyes snapped open, their gold gleam instantly sharp in the dim light. He looked down at where she clung to him, her knuckles white with the force of her fear. The raw, unconscious trust in that gesture sent a jolt through him, more powerful than any challenge for his throne.
Rhyse Pendragon
He did not pull away. He did not try to wake her. Instead, his other hand came up, and with a tenderness that would have shocked his entire court, he carefully covered her clutching hand with his own, enveloping it completely in a shield of warmth and unwavering strength.
“Shhh,” he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling vibration meant to soothe the predator in him, now used to comfort the prey in her. “I am here. You are safe.”
Rhyse Pendragon
“Be still, little one,” he whispered into the darkness, his voice the softest rumble. “The shadows cannot have you. I will not allow it.”
Author Bunny
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