The sun had long sunk behind the mountains, leaving streaks of violet bleeding into the horizon. The road from Dewshake was narrow, lined with old trees that whispered secrets through the wind. The public carriage creaked along uneven stones, rocking softly as the last light faded.
Aurelia sat by the window, clutching her basket of cotton close to her chest. Malion sat beside her, unusually quiet, one hand resting lazily on his knee. The dim glow of a lantern swayed inside the carriage, painting golden light across his sharp features.
"You've been quiet," Aurelia said softly.
He turned, his lips curving faintly. "I'm only thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitated, eyes flickering toward her. "About how quickly this day passed."
She smiled. "It was a good day. Thank you for showing me your home, Malion. Your mother must have been lovely."
His gaze softened. "She was."
The carriage jolted suddenly, and the driver cursed from the front. The horses neighed sharply, hooves clattering in panic.
"What happened?" Aurelia asked, clutching the seat.
Malion's expression darkened. "Stay still."
A moment later, rough voices echoed from outside.
"Stop the carriage!" someone barked. "You've entered the wrong part of the road, strangers!"
The driver froze. "T-thieves!" he whispered.
Aurelia's heart leapt. "Thieves?"
Malion exhaled slowly, already sensing their presence — six men stepping out from behind the trees, faces covered with torn cloth and rusted weapons in hand.
"Hand over your coins and the goods," one snarled, pointing his blade toward the driver. "And no one gets hurt."
The driver was trembling, his hands up. "P-please, I have nothing! I only drive the carriage!"
The man sneered. "Then we'll take what your passengers have." His gaze fell on Aurelia's basket. "That'll do nicely."
Aurelia's fingers tightened protectively around the basket. "No! It's not mine—it's for my mother!"
The thief laughed. "Then your mother won't mind sharing with us."
Before Malion could speak, Aurelia opened the door and stepped down. "Wait! Please don't hurt anyone. I'll give you what little I have."
Malion followed her out, his expression unreadable, though there was a dangerous calm in his eyes.
"Aurelia," he said softly, "stay behind me."
"No," she said firmly, lowering her voice. "You could get hurt. Please… just be careful."
That small concern—so sincere, so unguarded—made something warm flicker in his chest.
The thieves advanced, circling them. Malion could have ended it in a heartbeat—he could see the pulse of each man, could hear the quiver of their breaths—but that would mean revealing who he was. So instead, he clenched his fists, preparing to fight like an ordinary man.
One of the thieves lunged. Malion sidestepped easily, his punch connecting with the man's jaw. Another swung a club, and Aurelia, quick and nimble, ducked and kicked the man in the leg, sending him stumbling backward.
Malion caught the brief flicker of fire in her eyes. She wasn't as fragile as she looked She fought with desperation, not grace, but she didn't yield.
"Not bad," he murmured between blows.
"Focus!" she shouted, throwing a handful of dust into another man's eyes.
He smirked. "Yes, ma'am."
The fight went on, clumsy and chaotic, the thieves more startled than skilled. Still, Malion decided to make his performance believable. He grabbed one man's arm, twisting it sharply before another slashed at him with a cutlass.
He didn't need to get hit—but he let the blade graze his hand, slicing deep enough to draw blood.
"Malion!" Aurelia cried, rushing to him as the thief staggered back. The scent of iron filled the air.
The sight of her panic was strangely intoxicating.
The remaining thieves, realizing they were outmatched, fled into the darkness, shouting curses that faded into the trees.
Aurelia turned to him, her eyes wide. "You're bleeding!"
"It's nothing," he said, though the wound throbbed.
She ignored him, tearing the hem of her gown with quick fingers. "Hold still."
Malion obeyed, watching as she wrapped the torn fabric carefully around his palm. Her hands trembled slightly, but her focus was unwavering.
"You shouldn't have jumped into that fight," she scolded softly. "You could've been hurt worse."
He tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "And let them touch you? Not a chance."
She looked up, startled by the raw sincerity in his tone. "You're reckless."
"Perhaps," he murmured. "But only for you."
She blushed, quickly looking away. "There. That should hold until we get home."
Her scent lingered on the makeshift bandage, soft and warm. He flexed his hand slightly, feeling her care like a mark burned into his skin.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She smiled faintly. "You'd do the same for me."
"Always."
The driver, pale and shaken, urged them back into the carriage. The rest of the journey was silent, broken only by the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the soft rustle of the cotton in Aurelia's basket.
When they reached the village, night had fully fallen. The air smelled of smoke and roasted corn, the faint light of oil lamps flickering through windows.
Aurelia climbed down first, her mother waiting by the door.
"You're late," her mother said curtly, eyeing the basket. "Did you get the cotton?"
"Yes, Mother," Aurelia said, setting it down. "But—there were thieves on the road—"
"Thieves?" Her mother frowned briefly, then sighed. "Are the cotton's safe?, that's very important."
Aurelia hesitated. "It's safe, really," she said softly.
Her mother nodded absently, already checking the fabrics. "Good. Go and rest; it's late."
Aurelia smiled faintly—she wasn't surprised. It was always the same. She turned to head to her room, but as she disappeared down the hallway, her mother's gaze lingered on her a moment longer—thoughtful, unreadable.
Outside, Malion stood in the shadows of the gate, his hand still wrapped in the torn cloth. The faint light from her home brushed across his face, and something in him stilled.
He turned and walked away, his cloak blending into the night.
The palace loomed silent as he entered. The marble floors gleamed beneath the torchlight, and the air carried a heavy chill.
Theron, his advisor, waited by the steps of the throne room. His eyes immediately fell to the blood-stained bandage on Malion's hand.
"My king," he said quietly. "Dare I ask what happened this time?"
Malion removed his cloak, his expression unreadable. "A minor inconvenience on the road."
Theron arched a brow. "That 'minor inconvenience' wouldn't happen to involve the girl again, would it?"
Malion glanced at him, and that was answer enough.
Theron sighed. "You realize you're bleeding because of a mortal woman who doesn't even know who you are."
"Perhaps," Malion said, his tone cool. "But she will. In time."
Theron frowned. "You're treading dangerous ground."
Malion ignored him, walking toward the window where moonlight poured in like silver smoke. His gaze darkened. "Theron, I need you to look into someone."
"Who?"
"Rowan," he said. "From Dewshake."
Theron blinked. "And who is he?"
"Someone," Malion said softly, "who smiled too easily at what's mine."
The words hung in the air like a quiet promise—a promise of ruin, if necessary.
Theron bowed his head slightly. "As you wish, my king."
Malion's gaze drifted to his bandaged hand, still stained faintly red. He smiled faintly, a mixture of pain and satisfaction.
"She tore her dress for me," he murmured.
Theron sighed under his breath. "And you nearly tore a kingdom for her."
Malion didn't reply. The moonlight carved across his face, revealing both the man and the monster behind the mask.
"She's mine," he said quietly. "And soon, everyone will know it."