Aram’s eyes moved more than his head did as they rode, sharp glances flicking to either side of the dirt path with quiet consistency. His ears tuned to the cadence of the forest, listening for anything more within the gentle rustle of a morning breeze pushing through the treetops, the distant call of a jay, the soft thunk of hooves against earth. No crunching undergrowth. No second set of footsteps off the path. Nothing that shouldn't be there.

He wasn’t tense, but his attention never strayed far from the possibility of company. Riders moved early, and dawn and dusk were prime for robbers. Still, when Anastasia’s voice broke the morning quiet behind him, his posture changed slightly. He tilted his head to listen, though his heart sank before she even finished her question.

Of course she was still thinking about the night before. Of course she’d want to know more; he'd been a bit dramatic, after all. He had told her too much, let his guard slip too far, and now she was peeling at the edge of a wound he hadn’t meant to uncover. All for what? Some misguided attempt to comfort her?

He sighed, breath visible in the crisp morning air, and was silent for a stretch. The hooves continued their soft rhythm beneath them. Finally, he spoke. “Well... the story needs some background.”

His voice was resigned rather than defensive or irritated, though he still kept his eyes ahead on the winding path framed by the sleeping forest.

“Burren was sacked when my mother -- Elira -- was very small. I think a year or two old. She and a few of her maids and a stable hand escaped into the tunnels. Because she was so young and, frankly, unhealthy, she hadn’t been recorded yet as a daughter of Burren. No public announcements or feast-day proclamations, since they were worried she wouldn't make it that far. So when the king’s men razed the castle, they didn’t know they’d missed one.”

He shifted in the saddle, one hand adjusting the reins slightly, as if the act of storytelling needed to be grounded in motion.

“She was raised far from Burren by one of the maids who’d survived with her. Taught her to weave, to tend the sick as a nurse. She kept her head down and lived quietly, occasionally going to the tunnels to utilize the library and learning materials there. And she stayed that way until she ran into the same stable hand again years later.”

His voice had taken on a strange neutrality, like he was reading from a book he’d memorized long ago, not reciting the story of his own blood. “The stable hand had a younger brother. That brother had grown up in town while the elder one worked at the castle. He was poor, clever, and a little too fond of trouble. His name was Caelen Drogan. He’d been picked up by a mercenary guild by then, which was supposed to soothe his juvenile delinquency. Was ‘vacationing,’ if you can call it that, visiting his older brother when they met.”

Aram’s tone dropped just enough to suggest amusement. “Elira fell for him immediately. Head over heels, if the stories are to be believed. Caelen… didn’t. Not at first. She was a pestering, young, annoying shadow that followed him everywhere, and a sort-of noble at that.”

Aram finally glanced over his shoulder. Just a glance. Enough to meet her eyes, then return his gaze to the path.

“They married, eventually, probably a decade after they first met. Had me a few years later. By then, the tale of a surviving Burren heir was starting to pick up steam. Rumors turned to whispers among nobility, and that would surely lead to the king's ears. My father -- Caelen -- was a suspicious man, but not without cause. His wife had nearly been killed, and his brother, too, and our current ruler certainly did not fall far from his sire's tree. Caelen started training me as soon as I could stand straight with a blade.”

He lifted a hand and gestured vaguely toward his saddle where the weapons sat. “After that, it was probably around... oh, say, eight years old. That’s when I was formally apprenticed into the guild.”

There was a quiet finality to the way he said it; the way he saw it, any complaints or regrets he may have had about it all wouldn't do him any good. Survival was about taking what worked and going with it, anyway.

“So,” he added, after a pause that let the last words breathe, “I got thrown into the lifestyle by a paranoid, albeit well-meaning, father. I've never tried to be anything else.”

The road curved slightly to the left, and a cluster of old oaks created a shaded tunnel ahead. Aram didn’t slow. If anything, he pressed Marruk forward a bit more firmly, as if pushing through the telling of the story made him eager to be done with it.

Anastasia began to listen, at first wondering if she should have asked a question that would have of course needed backstory. She very well imagined people did not just fall into being mercenaries or sell swords, but knowing that she pressed where she shouldn't made her feel a little ashamed. Not enough to tell him to stop, but enough to feel the guilt when he told her all about his family. Neither of them had went into this journey thinking that the other would reveal their closest secrets, but there they were, speaking on things that otherwise should have been kept hidden. Regardless, she appreciated his attempt last night and his openness with her then. It made her feel a little less alone..

Though it wasn't her fault, Ana was even more surprised that he had decided to continue with their mission when he knew that her family was responsible for the demise of his own. Perhaps he had his own reasons for helping her, since she was running from the king anyways, and maybe he planned to kill her for revenge after gaining her trust. She doubted it, but it was a very apparent possibility in her mind. “Our current ruler certainly did not fall far from his sire's tree.” Those words made her grimace inwardly, her gaze cast downward at the reins in her hands. What if she didn't fall far from her sire's tree? She certainly didn't agree with many of the things he did or hold the same morals, but she was still his flesh and blood. Their tendencies were the same. Her face belonged to her mother, but her mind was a near carbon copy of her father. How long would it be before she spiraled into doing dastardly things? Would her ploy to kill her stepmother be the first of many horrors? Would that guard be the last person she ever killed? Or was she destined to go down a warpath of death and destruction, taking innocents and those with different beliefs down and wearing their blood on her hands?

It was at root, her father's fault that he'd became a mercenary, which made it feel like her own fault at the same time. Her heart ached, painfully, but she knew there was no point in overthinking what she couldn't change or help. He was still alive, surviving and thriving in his own way, and that was what mattered. The past was unchanging.

Ana looked up, her gaze running over the man and his cache of weapons. Eight. Eight years old and he'd been thrown into that life, all the while her father raised her in luxury. She was never in danger. Never had to fight to survive. She never questioned her life otherwise. Eight.

“I see...” she croaked after what had nearly been too long. No matter how much she wanted to get over it and accept it for what it was, his story had struck something inside of her that she didn't want to acknowledge. It bothered her to know how different things could have been... and when he pushed forward as if to move on from it all, she did too. Maybe personal questions were best left unanswered after all.

Anastasia fell silent after that, still stewing upon where the past was left and where the future may lie. She rounded the bend in the road, smoothing her hand over the gelding's neck when he began tossing his head about as they neared to oak tunnel, creating a touch more distance between herself and Aram. He seemed to be weary of something, but she assumed it was much like the tunnels underground and that he was only nervous or that there had been a startling animal or something of the sort. Nothing could have prepared her for what was actually about to happen.

Just as she was about to pass through the shaded tunnel, a group of roadside robbers flooded the trail, separating her from Aram, the four of them effectively surrounding her and a very antsy Balius. They had been hiding beneath the cover of brush, silent and meticulously watching on the off chance that someone would have been coming down that trail, and Anastasia being some distance behind Aram was the prime target. The gelding squealed, stomping and snorting as he tried to gain himself and his rider some space, but the men had began grabbing at reins and all to at least keep him still enough to get hands on Ana before Aram was to react to their predicament. They were working quickly, surprisingly so, that by the time she screaming for Aram, she was fighting to keep her seat in the saddle.

Aram’s focus had been split, half on the trees, half on the silence between them. The chill of the morning and the weight of memories made his attention drift a touch too long, thoughts lingering on old names and familiar regrets. His eyes scanned the horizon absently, but the bend ahead, cloaked in heavy shade and overgrown brush, received only a passing glance. It was a rookie mistake, one he never should have made.

Anastasia screamed, and Balius whinnied his own alarm. Aram’s head snapped around so fast it cracked his neck. He jerked Marruk to a full pivot, kicking the stallion hard in the sides as he rose halfway in the stirrups. From the darkness of the trees and brambles, shapes emerged. One man had Balius’ reins. Another was climbing up Ana’s stirrup, trying to drag her down.

Aram moved forward with minimal thinking. He yanked his bow from the saddle sheath, nocked an arrow, and let it fly in the same breath. The first man was lean, fast, and too eager. He was dead before he hit the ground, the arrowhead buried deep in his chest. The others flinched just enough to give Aram the head start he needed.

Marruk’s hooves thundered back down the path as Aram dropped the bow -- there was no time to stow it -- and pulled free both daggers. When Marruk plowed into the nearest man, the stallion wasted no time. With a savage bellow, the beast lunged forward, teeth flashing, and bit the attacker square on the shoulder. The large man howled as Marruk whipped his head like a predator, dragging him off his feet.

Aram launched himself from the saddle as the third man reached for Ana again. He hit the ground hard but rolled into his strike, plunging a dagger into the attacker’s thigh and slashing upward to catch his arm. Blood splattered, hot and close. Aram didn’t pause; he ducked low as the man’s blade swung wildly, clipped Aram’s upper arm, and embedded in a tree behind him.

He shoved the man back with a snarl, landing two brutal punches to the ribs and a knife hilt to the chin. The man fell, unmoving, but the third one, still holding Balius’ reins, refused to relent. Balius danced and snorted, lashing out with his hooves. The robber managed to hang on, barely, dragging Ana further from her seat. Aram barreled into the man like a thunderclap, dagger flashing, tackling him off the gelding’s side. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and fury. The robber slammed an elbow into Aram’s jaw, split his lip, and when Aram reeled back, the man grabbed a knife from his boot.

Steel flashed, catching Aram across the ribs in a shallow but deep enough slice that made his side explode with fire. Aram snarled a horrific string of uncouth words, jammed his knee into the man’s chest, and drove his dagger through the robber’s throat. Once the body fell still, he staggered upright, breathing hard. A screech drew his attention, and he turned just in time to see Marruk stagger, blood now streaming from a fresh wound in his flank. The massive stallion had finally let go of his prey and reeled back in pain, pawing the earth with fury and confusion.

The robber -- a large, heavyset man with wild eyes and bloodied clothes -- scrambled up from where Marruk had dropped him, spitting out bits of hay and saliva. His blade still gleamed red from the strike he’d just given the horse, and now his attention locked on Aram.

Aram’s balance wavered. His chest heaved, and now blood ran hot and wet down his side. He stumbled as he turned, grabbing Balius’ reins -- part to settle the gelding, part to keep himself upright, but there was no time to breathe. The last robber let out a guttural shout and barreled toward him. Aram ducked low just in time to avoid being tackled outright, but the man was relentless. They clashed in the dust beside Balius’ hooves, and Aram was already on the back foot. He struck out with a dagger, but the man grabbed his wrist mid-swing and slammed him backward into the dirt.

The air whooshed out of Aram’s lungs, and there was no time to catch it again before a weight hit him. The full-bodied force of a man nearly twice his size bore down on him, pinning his chest and stomach. Aram twisted, tried to throw a knee, but the robber punched him hard across the jaw. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and he tasted copper. The mercenary bucked, rolled -- now getting desperate -- but the man stayed on top of him, his free hand fumbling at his belt for a dagger.

No.

Aram grit his teeth, slammed his head forward into the man’s nose, and heard the satisfying crunch of cartilage. Never mind that he'd probably just given himself a goose egg. The attacker reeled back with a howl, and that was the opening Aram needed. He surged upward, forcing his dagger hand free. He gave one savage stab, then another, and another until the man slumped, dead weight pinning Aram for a breath longer before he shoved him off with a gasp. He lay there a moment, chest heaving. Blood smeared across his face, his side pulsed with fire, and his breath rasped through clenched teeth.

He rolled to his knees, swaying slightly as he forced himself upright. He caught Balius’ reins again, letting the gelding’s trembling strength ground him, and wiped a stream of blood from his mouth, spitting the rest into the dirt. His eyes flicked to Marruk. The black stallion stood still now, head low, flanks heaving. His back leg trembled beneath him, blood still running thick from the stab wound. Yet even in pain, his ears were forward, his eyes full of defiance.

“Easy, boy…” Aram coughed. The adrenaline was burning off fast, and the pain in his ribs was taking its place. The cut wasn’t life-threatening, but it was long and deep enough to need attention soon.

Still holding onto Balius, he turned toward Ana, chest still heaving.

“You alright?” he asked, voice rough with wear. His gaze traveled over her quickly for any signs of blood or injury. She really was a smart girl. Tough, too.

He swallowed a groan as he pressed a hand hard against the gash in his side. “I… I should’ve seen them. I let myself get distracted.”

There was a bitter self-loathing in the way he said it. “I knew better.”

He forced himself straighter, but a fresh trickle of blood ran down his hip “I need a minute to stitch this up. We’ll move after. But we’ll have to take Marruk slower; he’s not as bad off as he could’ve been, but he’s hurt. No galloping for now. If the Royal knaves pop up and you have to run, you'll have to do it alone."

He took a breath and then said, softer, eyes flicking to hers, "You did good, miss. I suspect you owe me a bag less after this fiasco."

Anastasia knew that her offer was kind but improper, yet she had offered anyways. If he wanted to continue quickly and get as far away from the bodies as possible, then accepting help really was the best option. Decency be damned. “I don't mind... A little indecency never killed anyone, I'm sure,” she confirmed, though she had to admit she was intimidated by the idea. She had stitched herself, once, when she didn't need anyone else knowing she'd been harmed, but never another person and certainly not a half naked man.

She stood aside, keeping Balius still and calm while also keeping an eye on Marruk while Aram drug away the bodies. She wanted to complain and tell him to quit before he hurt himself more, but it wasn't as if she would be strong enough to drag even the lighter three men out of the trail. So, she stood, watching and waiting for anything she could do to aid him.

That time came as they walked and reached the river, her mind replaying the previous events. It had happened so fast, yet at the same time it felt like she was rewatching it in slow motion. The fear she had felt was inexplicable in a way, her mind swirling with all the ways it could have ended. They were only on the first day of their travel, and already there had been life threatening trouble. Both of them could have ended up dead and it was a miracle that they hadn't, but Ana couldn't help but wonder if similar events would keep happening, if she'd continue feeling fear each time they rode in such areas. How many times would she see Aram near a kiss with death for her?

The thought made her shudder, so she moved on from it and instead led Balius to the water, allowing him to drink or graze as he pleased nearby after patting his shoulder. He was a good old boy, that she was sure of. Anastasia pushed up the sleeves of her gown before bending at the water and washing her hands while Aram tended to Marruk. A dark, nasty bruise had formed around her pale forearm, the finger prints of her attacker left behind. It would be sore for a while, no doubt, but she wouldn't dare to complain.

Instead she returned to Aram as he took off his shirt, revealing the gash she'd soon be fixing, as well as scarring from previous scuffles. She was sure her cheeks were as red as ripe tomatoes given the warmth that flushed over her face, and while he couldn't look at her, she couldn't bring herself to look away. Her gaze was not lustful, but something more intrigued and most definitely bashful. She wondered the stories behind each scar, but the last time she started asking personal questions, it nearly got them killed.

Chuckling softly, with perhaps just a hint of nervousness, Ana stood at his side, looking over the wound. “Fine. If it eases your mind, it's not my first time stitching skin,” she told him, picking up not the needle, but the bottle of alcohol that had been in his hands. There was no telling what had been on those knives, and she'd rather not let whatever germs or dirt had been get in there. “Ready then?” She murmured, her empty had placed at his shoulder. She waited until she felt him exhale before pouring a bit of the alcohol over the cut, watching how his muscles tensed at the pain. She did feel bad, but she felt it senseless to apologize for necessary pain.

She didn't wait long after that to replace the alcohol in her hands with needle and thread. “Alright. I'm starting now,” she warned him before beginning to pierce his skin with the needle. Despite the fact that he was shirtless and she could still feel the adrenaline faintly coursing through her veins, Ana's hands were surprisingly steady. She did her best to be quick, careful not to pull too tightly or leave any of his skin gapped and make a higher risk of infection. The last thing they needed was that happening with the chance of fever and sickness if it got too bad fast.

A few moments passed with Anastasia sneaking glances up at Aram to see how he was doing. She knew she could have just focused on the tensing of his body, but with the pain of stitches and the wound in general, it didn't tell her much. Thankfully, he had indeed sat still and she tied off the thread a moment later before setting the bloodied needle down. “There we are. I'll bandage you up and then we can be on our way if you're ready,” she breathed out, exhaling steadily. The hard part was over, but the awkwardness wasn't quite yet.

Anastasia grabbed the roll of linen after wiping off her bloodied fingers before returning to Aram. “How's your face? You took quite a bit..” she questioned quietly, recalling the blood he'd wiped away earlier. She mainly wanted to distract herself as she touched him in a more personal way, but she was a bit worried about his well being too. Ana unrolled a bit of the bandage, holding the cloth against his abdomen with her hand splayed lightly over it as she began to wind the bandage around him to cover up her handy-work.

Aram tilted his head when she said it wasn’t her first time stitching skin, a brow raising as he glanced sideways at her. His expression was subtle but quizzical, lips parting slightly as if to ask where a palace-raised princess would ever have learned how to stitch a wound. He left it unasked, not because he didn’t want to know, but because he figured if she was bluffing, he’d rather not startle her out of her concentration. The thought of her panicking with a needle in his side was more dangerous than letting a mystery lie.

He muttered a low curse when the alcohol hit the open wound, sucking in a sharp breath between his teeth as his muscles clenched on instinct. The burn was vicious, cold and hot all at once, as if it meant to punish him for getting injured in the first place. “Burns like hell,” he muttered under his breath, voice tight. “You sure you aren’t enjoying this?”

He tried to joke, but his voice was strained, the tension visible in the tight cords of muscle across his back. He didn’t flinch away, though, and didn’t move an inch from where he sat, true to his word.

Anastasia's hands moved with a careful kind of rhythm. She was meticulous -- not hesitant, but cautious. Precise. Each stitch was pulled snug but not tight, each puncture made with clean angles. She was no battlefield medic, but she knew enough about what she was doing. And Aram, for all his thoughts earlier about her being delicate, was now quietly reassessing. Who taught her this? Why would she need to learn it? Again, the questions crowded his mind, and again, he said nothing.

Still facing away from her, Aram stared out at the water and focused on keeping his body still. The pain was sharp, then dull, then sharp again with every tug of the thread. The injury itself didn’t bother him much -- he’d had worse -- but the proximity? Her hand brushing against his ribs? Her eyes on his back? The way her fingers lingered when she held the skin taut for the next stitch? That was harder to ignore.

When she finally tied off the thread and announced she was finished, Aram let out a low exhale through his nose and dropped his chin to his chest briefly in something like relief.

“Not bad,” he murmured again, quieter this time. “Could’ve made a passable field medic with hands like that.”

He stayed seated as she moved to bandage him, lifting his arms out of her way. Though he kept his face turned from her, his posture was notably more relaxed now, tension bleeding away with each beat of silence. Then she asked about his face, and he immediately tensed again.

“I-It’s fine!” he said, a little too sharply, voice rising with instinctual defensiveness. A beat passed before he cleared his throat, realizing how ridiculous that sounded.

“It’s… fine,” he repeated, more controlled. “Just a split lip and some bruises. Maybe a few scratches.”

He could feel the heat crawling up his neck again, the fresh wave of embarrassment that wasn’t tied to pain or pride -- well, maybe a bit of pride -- but the simple knowledge that he was sitting shirtless while she hovered close, patching him together like some wounded hound.

“I can wash it in the river,” he added quickly. “It’s not… that bad.”

Then softer, more to himself than to her, he added, “I might use some help, but only after I put a shirt on.”

As she finished securing the bandage, Aram reached slowly for his shirt, careful not to strain the stitches. It was stiff with dried blood in some places, and he frowned at it briefly before slipping it back over his head with a grimace. The cloth pulled tight across his side, but he didn’t complain.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

He looked at her -- really looked at her -- and for the first time since the attack, he seemed to study her properly. His gaze dropped to the bruises on her arms, the scuffs on her gown, the faint tremble in her fingers that only now, with the adrenaline faded, had begun to show.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low. “I know you said not to worry about you earlier, but… that was a hell of a fight.”

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing just slightly as the motion pulled at the fresh stitches. Moving slowly, he stepped down to the river’s edge and crouched there, rinsing his bloodied hands in the icy current. He splashed his face next, sucking in a breath through his teeth at the shock of cold, and rubbed away the dried blood at his temple and jaw.

“We’ll need to move on soon,” he said, glancing toward the trail, “but the horses could use the break. And you and I both. Ten minutes won’t kill us.”

He rubbed a bruise on his ribs absently, the pain familiar and grounding. His eyes drifted over to her once more.

“You did well, back there, keeping your head like that." He didn’t say I was worried about you, but it was there in the glance he gave her, in the way his jaw clenched just slightly. He'd be caught dead before uttering those words out loud. Besides, part of him still wanted to divert her attention away from whatever his face looked like at the moment.

Anastasia laughed softly and shook her head, but she didn't say anything. It wasn't exactly enjoyable to see him in and cause him pain, but sewing was something she always enjoyed. Doing so to human skin was odd, but intriguing nonetheless. When he mentioned that she would have made a decent field medic she smiled, chuckling again softly. “You flatter me. I'd hope to be somewhat decent at stitching. There isn't much else they want noble women to do,” she mused, not mentioning again that it hadn't been the first time she had to sew skin. She had taught herself with what she knew about stitching together ripped fabric, then done it to herself. There had been some error, but it had given her the knowledge to not make the same mistakes on Aram.

The sharpness of his voice when she asked about his face made her jump a little out of surprise. Had it been too much to ask about his face? Was she overstepping by bandaging him, perhaps? She was touching him rather.. freely. “Alright... Do that then,” she spoke softly, her tone warm and conveying the small smile she bore on her lips. Or perhaps, he was just shy... She calmly but quickly finished up securing his bandages, her hands lingering only a moment longer before she backed away, letting him have space to put his shirt back on.

“Anytime..” she responded, her tone genuine. It likely wouldn't be the last time they found themselves like that.

As he asked again if she was alright, she grimaced inwardly. Maybe a little outwardly too, but she controlled it well. “A bit rattled, I suppose, but I'll live. I promise,” she reassured him, pulling down her sleeves. It was endearing that he would worry for her over a couple of bruises and scuffles, but she didn't want him to be too concerned. It wasn't the worst thing that she'd ever experienced.. But he doesn't know that, now does he?

“Careful. I don't want to have to do that to you again,” she told him, her tone gentle but serious. The only thing worse than getting stitches was having to get them twice. While he cleaned his face, she joined him crouched at the rivers edge and rinsed the remainder of his blood from her fingers before drying them back off with a soft sigh. She looked to Aram, watching as the blood left his skin gradually, leaving behind scrapes and cuts. She frowned a little, but she knew such minor things didn't need her attention. Plus, her attention seemed to put him on edge a little. Nodding as he spoke of a break, she relaxed where she was, sitting back onto the bank. She wasn't very eager to get on the road again, but she wouldn't admit it. She couldn't bring herself to admit that she was still scared.

Anastasia clutched her hands, absentmindedly squeezing and curling her fingers, which still trembled. She couldn't get them to stop, her eyes meeting his almost instinctively as he looked to her.

“You did well, back there, keeping your head like that." The way he looked at her when he said that made her stomach flip, her breath ratchet in her chest. The way he looked was like the way she'd looked at felt when she saw him tackled each time, when she saw that large man nearly win against him. She was still staring at him for a moment, dumbfounded in a way. Did he mean it like that? He had to have...

Ana looked away and down at her hands when a moment or two more passed. “It was nothing...” she whispered, her hands clutching at her skirt. She took a deep breath, warmth creeping up to her cheeks as she thought over the words that she intended to say. “I was just thinking about... about what might happen to you if I didn't,” she admitted, telling him a part of the truth. “I was afraid that if I made any sudden noise that I'd distract you..” she added, shuddering at the thought of how many times she wanted to scream out and panic over the idea of him being hurt. It showed on her face right then, the furrow of her brow, the quiver of her lower lip as she pulled it between her teeth.

I was worried about you too.

Aram blinked slowly as she explained her skill came from the expectations of noble women -- stitching and embroidery. Of course it had. He felt almost foolish for assuming there was some secret history tucked behind her ability with a needle, some tale of tending to wounded revolutionaries in candlelit corridors or patching up traitors in hidden chambers. No. It was just sewing. Just quiet, ladylike embroidery that no one gave a second thought to… until they had to use it to keep someone breathing.

He pushed down the lingering worry about how well she’d managed it anyway. He told himself it didn’t matter. If she had secrets, they weren’t his business -- not unless they became a problem. And right now she’d helped him when she didn’t have to. That was all that mattered.

Still, when she spoke to him again in a voice more soft and kind, he felt the heat rise up the back of his neck and settle warm behind his ears. Her voice had a strange effect on him, something that tied his insides into knots. It wasn’t unwelcome, but it was extremely confusing.

Bloody hells, he thought. To call myself a hardened mercenary, trained since I could walk, survived a hundred fights, and I can’t even keep my wits when a woman looks at me for longer than a second.

He cleared his throat and shook the thought away, focusing instead on rinsing the last of the blood from his knuckles. Her fingers had been on him -- light, sure, delicate -- and now they were dipping in the river just beside his own, the air between them holding a charge he couldn’t quite name.

“Careful,” she said, and his hands stilled.

He turned, meeting her eyes with a pause. Her tone wasn’t teasing or scolding; it was genuine. Serious. It made something tighten in his chest, and he nodded, quietly.

“I will,” he said.

When she admitted she was a little rattled, he looked away again, watching the slow curl of the river where it lapped at the muddy bank. He let the silence settle, giving her space to say what she needed to. He could feel her beside him, close but not quite touching, and the way her voice changed, soft and uneven as she confessed what she'd feared, struck him harder than any blow he’d taken in the fight.

He didn’t look at her right away, letting her speak freely, but his eyes never left the water. He was listening. When she said she'd feared distracting him, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. She had understood, somehow, what that moment had needed. And she’d given it, even though her hands had trembled and her thoughts had screamed.

He turned his head then, just enough to catch her expression in the corner of his vision -- brow furrowed, lower lip drawn in, her whole body curled in on itself like she was trying to hide the worry still lingering in her chest. His jaw tensed at the implication that she was possibly worried about him, not completely from discomfort, but from the sheer weight of those emotions. He studied her for a moment longer, then finally asked, voice low, “Have you ever trained in combat? Ever had anyone teach you how to fight? Defend yourself?”

The question didn't come as a challenge. An invitation, maybe. His tone was mild, but there was something searching in his eyes. If she knew how to stitch wounds, then perhaps she had other surprises up her silk sleeves. He shifted slightly to face Anastasia better, folding his arms loosely across his chest and giving her his full attention.

“Even if you don’t,” he added after a moment, “it’s never too late to learn. Might do us both good if you could handle a knife without poisoning it first.”

He didn’t mean it cruelly. It was an offer, albeit one made with the slightest hint of teasing. She had shown she could hold her ground, at least mentally. He wondered if she could carry that into her hands too. "I suppose you didn’t ask for this life. Didn’t want it. But you’re in it now, and I’d rather see you bloodied and breathing than helpless and dead.”

He scrubbed a hand through his damp hair and shook his head.

“Not that you were helpless,” he added quickly. “Just less armed than I’d like."

His eyes flicked toward her again, more hesitant now. “I can show you some things, if you want. It's just, uh, very hands-on... That reminds me. Is your wrist okay?"

Though she was a princess, there was a reason that hardly no one knew her face or even if she was still alive. She was a "trouble child," something to be ashamed of, yet kept for the pure royal blood she bore. She had no siblings, no one to take her father's throne, and for it she was resented. Anastasia had been wild and free spirited, dancing to the beat of her own drum for a long time. However, when her mother passed and her father remarried, the fire in her soul was extinguished, stomped out by a woman who hated her for the mere resemblance she had of the late Queen, as well as for the importance and station would always have above her. Lies and manipulation tore Ana farther apart from her father and each cry for help had been brushed off as deceit and self neglect for attention. It worsened the older she grew, and the outcome of those years of fighting for her life still might be the one thing that got her killed.

Once, she might have flinched when asked if she had been trained in combat, but she was speaking so freely with Aram that she couldn't bring herself to hide from him. Had she known how to defend herself, she likely would have never found herself in a position as such. Unfortunately, any chance at being able to train was squashed by a woman who insisted that girls, let alone princesses, had no business hitting people or wielding weapons. What a hypocrite she had been. Ana might as well have been blacklisted by the royal guard, as the woman had her threads of destruction woven in everywhere that Ana had turned for help.

Shaking her head, Anastasia answered his question, “Never trained, no. I've tried learning, but I've never had a proper instructor.” There had been one time she went to a certain guard for help, and he had intended to teach her, but much to her dismay, the young solider had mysteriously disappeared before their appointment.

Anastasia let out a somewhat bashful, perhaps even nervous giggle at the mention of poisoned knives. That would be an interesting conversation to have, if they ever did. The guard she had killed had been taken out with poison and a blade, ironically. She wasn't proud of it, but it was all she'd been able to do in hopes of saving herself. Poison was dangerous, though. A single scratch or poke to the wrong person, and in the rare, best case scenario they'd only be sick and feverish for days, but at worst and more commonly they'd be dead before they ever saw it coming.

His following words resonated with her in a way she hadn't expected. She didn't ever expect him to care what happened to her. Yes, she may had been his paycheck and lifeline, but the way he spoke did not care about money or duty. It only sounded of genuine concern and care for her well being. He shouldn't care for her. It was dangerous and complicated to allow.. to allow emotions to get involved, but it would seem that neither of them were being given much of a choice. Even as she looked at Aram then, taking in the fine details of his rugged, yet handsome face, she found herself dreading the day she'd have to leave him before either of them found themselves too involved. Allowing him to guide her through travel and protect her along the way was bad enough, and she couldn't allow him to forever be caught up in the mess of her life, should it ever come to that. Her mind was programmed to run, to avoid the comfort and softer emotions of other humans, yet there he sat causing her to feel things she vowed to never allow in.

She didn't want to end up dead or helpless, but what if it was completely unavoidable? There was only so much she could do as a small and typically vulnerable woman, and he wouldn't be there forever. Death was inevitable. The only question was when.

Lifting her gaze to meet his, Anastasia felt her cheeks warm at the idea of taking a hands on approach to teaching her. She cleared her throat quietly and nodded, tugging up her left sleeve enough that he could see her wrist and the bruising that circled it. “A touch sore, but fine I believe. You're welcome to touch and feel of it yourself if it would ease your mind,” she offered, stretching her arm out to him hesitantly before addressing the idea of allowing him to show her a few things. “Even with it being hands-on, as you say, I do believe it would be beneficial for you to teach me a thing or two. Perhaps it would even bring us both peace of mind,” she told him, finding it to be the most logical decision. It may feel awkward to begin with, but it was better to be awkward than dead.