Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone in the Hallow gathered on this, the holiest night of the year—the Blood Moon.

Lanterns swayed from tree branches, casting amber light across the packed earth. The scent of woodsmoke and spiced honeycakes curled through the air, mingling with the faint musk of wolf fur and sage.

Children chased each other around firepits, their laughter rising like sparks into the velvet sky, while elders murmured greetings and clasped hands, their shawls catching the moonlight in threadbare embroidery.

Closer to the altar, the crowd stilled. There was reverence in the hush, a quiet anticipation that crackled just beneath the surface. The altar had been washed clean and strewn with wild herbs and bone-colored blossoms. Silver bowls smoked with incense—juniper and myrrh—and the flames burned with a faint blue tinge, reflecting the glow of the rising moon.

Their parents stood farther back, leaning against worn stones and ancient trees, eyes fixed not on the ritual but on their children—watching the cycle repeat as it had in their youth.

Their people were no longer ruled by the phases of the moon, not in the way they once had been.
But still, the wolf's pull lingered in the blood of the strongest, running hot beneath their skin.
And the legends remained the foundation of everything they were.

One young girl, no more than four, sat cross-legged beside her older sister for her very first Moon Ceremony. She clutched a sticky half-moon cake in both hands, her fingers dusted with sugar and ash. Her face glowed with excitement and crumbs. Her wide eyes followed the flickering torches, then landed on the priestess as the courtyard quieted.

The woman seemed impossibly old. A younger priestess supported her as she walked, her bare feet silent on the stone path.  Her silver hair spilled down her back like water, and though her skin was creased with centuries, there was something luminous in her presence—

As if a god had once whispered her name and never stopped listening.

And then, the priestess began to speak.

⸻

"Before the world had shape, it had breath.
And before the breath, it had silence.
And from that silence, She opened Her eyes.

She was Elentha, the First Flame.
Before the world of alpha or omega,
She was bound nor wild—only becoming.
Her breath stirred the void, and from it, time began.

From her ribs she carved the Eldermade, the first gods:
Of stone and sky, of light and law, of hunger and harvest.
They rose singing, building the bones of the world.
But Elentha wept—for even in creation, She was alone.

So She took the silver thread of Her soul and split it three ways—
Not to rule, but to love.
And from that thread came Caelion, Vireth, and Selathi.

Caelion, the Flame That Stands.
The first-born, king of the gods, and the first of the Alphas.
He rose from stone as the sun kissed it—his hands calloused from holding sky.
He was strength without cruelty, protection without pride.
He built mountains to cradle light and gave his fire to all who lacked warmth.

Selathi, the Moonwell.
The youngest of the three, but fairest. The Omega born.
She was born beneath a still lake—her first breath rippling the stars.
She was healing and hope, gentle power wrapped in silence.
She spoke to seeds and wombs and ancient bones.
She sang life into being and called it sacred.
Caelion saw Selathi and bowed—not to worship, but to walk beside her.

Between the two stood always Vireth, the Ash-Sister.
Born not of breath, but of a scream. Neither Alpha nor Omega.
She came from shadow and ember—memories no longer welcome.
Her gift was memory. Her curse was longing.
She did not sing. She howled.
But she, too, loved.

For a time, the three were whole.
Selathi planted.
Caelion guarded.
Vireth burned back the rot.

They danced across the world, weaving time into stars, and stars into stories.
They were sisters.
They were bound.
They were balance.

But love does not always come in equal measure.

The Fracture was bound to come.

Vireth loved them both—Selathi for her light, Caelion for his stillness.
She whispered to them in dreams, danced too long in their fires.
But when Selathi and Caelion joined as one—
When moon and sun kissed at the eclipse—
The world tilted.

Vireth shattered, alone.

She tore herself from the dance.
Ripped her heart from her chest and cast it into the void.
From her grief, the Devourers were born—gods of shadow, decay, unmaking.

She became Ash-Sister.
Not evil. Not forgotten. But divided.

The world cracked, and the Age of Blood and Ruin began.
Storms rose. Oceans drowned the land.
The plants Selathi had sown shriveled in fire.
Caelion fought to protect the innocent.
Selathi wept rivers, trying to heal what burned.

But Vireth would not return.
Not unless she was chosen.
Not unless she was seen.

They speak of the Prophecy of Three:
When the moon forgets her name,
And the sun breaks his blade,
And the ash learns to bleed once more—
Then the world shall begin again.

Some say the gods died.
Others say they walk the earth still, wearing mortal skin,
Reliving their story again and again,
Until one of them chooses love over ruin.
Until the dance is whole again."

⸻

The little girl sat spellbound, her mooncake forgotten in her lap, eyes wide and shining with wonder.
She didn't notice how the shadows had lengthened, or how the air had cooled with the priestess's final word.

Above them, the Blood Moon had risen in full—
a great red eye hanging in the sky, watching.
It cast a ruddy glow over the altar, the crowd, the girl's upturned face.
The flames danced lower. The hush deepened.

She was too young to understand the weight of the tale,
too small to know prophecy when it brushed against her skin.
But the moon knew.
And it would remember her.

For long after the songs had faded,
after the priestess stepped away and the feast began,
the Blood Moon lingered—full and heavy—
marking not just the turning of the season,
but the quiet beginning of something far more ancient.

It would rise again for her.
It would shape her days and call her dreams.
It would rule her life.

And she, in time, would change the world.

Chapter Text

Twenty-four years later…

The last of the raiders scattered into the woods, their war cries swallowed by the morning wind.

Smoke still clung to the edges of the valley, rising from burned carts and trampled grass. Blood soaked into the thawing earth. Steve wiped his blade on the hem of a torn banner, then sheathed it with a slow exhale, hanging his shield across his back. Spring always brought them—hungry men, half-mad with frostbite and desperation, testing the borders like the wolves they were.

Sam rode up beside him, his falcon on his arm. Nightwing’s wings folded tight against his body as he perched, sharp-eyed and still.

“No more movement east,” Sam said, breath short but steady. “The last of them dropped their weapons and bolted.”

Bucky approached from the ridge, helmet tucked under one arm. “The village is clear. Civilians shaken, but alive.”

Steve nodded, scanning the wreckage one last time. The wind was shifting. Too warm for this early in the season.

He barely had time to register the scent of the rider before the hooves thundered into view.

A crown-marked courier raced down the slope, his cloak streaming behind him like spilled ink. His horse nearly collapsed as he slid from the saddle, dust and panic in his wake.

“Captain—no, my lord—” He bowed low. Too low. Too long. Steve’s stomach turned cold.

“Get up,” he said. “What happened?”

The rider’s hand trembled as he held out the sealed parchment. Steve knew the wax before he saw the crest—dark blue, stamped with a flame-ringed crown.

Joseph.

He broke the seal without ceremony. His eyes scanned the lines once.
Then again, slower.

The wind stilled.

“He’s dead,” Steve said quietly. “My father’s dead.”

A silence rippled through the valley. Even the wounded stopped groaning.
Bucky’s jaw tightened. Sam stepped closer.

“What do you need?” Bucky asked.

Steve didn’t answer at first. His gaze lifted to the men behind him—their battered armor, the blood on their faces.
One by one, they dropped to a knee.

Not in fear.
Not in victory.

In allegiance.

He took a step back, shaking his head.

“No,” he said, voice hoarse. “Don’t bow. Not to me.”

But they already had.

Sam was the last to lower his gaze, fist pressed over his heart. “Long live the king,” he murmured.

Steve turned back to the letter. His hands curled around the parchment, still warm from the courier’s grip. One more line waited at the bottom, written in the clean, practiced hand of the Crown Secretary:

By decree of the Royal Council, the Choosing will begin by the next full moon. The realm must not wait.

You must choose, my king.

Steve stared at those words until they blurred.

A crown.
A throne.
A stranger’s future laid across his shoulders.

And somewhere far to the north,
the moon was already rising.

______

The scent of bloodroot and milk clung to Grace’s hands.

She had washed twice, but the delivery had been long—the second twin breech. It lingered in her nails, the creases of her palms, the soft folds of her sleeves. Beside her, Lydia stumbled a little on the front step, her dark hair half-tamed, the sleeves of her healer’s smock rolled to the elbows.

“Forty-eight hours,” Lydia mumbled. “We were in there for two whole days.”

Grace passed her a waterskin. “They’re all breathing. That’s what counts.”

Lydia drank gratefully and leaned against the fence, watching the twin newborn pups stir inside the cottage. Their mother slept curled around them, skin slick with sweat and amniotic sheen. The sun was just cresting over the trees—soft and golden, like a blessing.

For a breath, there was peace.

Then Matthew burst through the trees, nearly tripping over the stone path.

“Grace! Gracie!” he shouted, waving one arm, the other clutching a rolled parchment. “The Elders—Elder Tamsin’s calling for you. They sent for all council-bound.”

Grace turned sharply. “What happened?”

He skidded to a stop, eyes wide. “The king is dead.”

The world seemed to narrow.

Lydia’s waterskin hit the dirt with a dull thud. She reached instinctively for Grace’s hand, like they already knew what was coming.

“They said it came by royal courier—same crest as the old missives. Elder Mirin read it aloud. They’ve already begun Choosing summons. You’re expected.”

Grace didn’t speak. She looked past him, up the slope where the ceremonial fire pit stood cold and black. The moon had barely faded from the night. Her body still felt pulled thin by it—like her skin remembered something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

She glanced at Lydia. “Can you stay with the mother?”

Lydia nodded, dazed. “Go. Matthew, my love—go with her. Please.”

⸻

The Council’s circle had already gathered by the time Grace arrived—seven stones arranged around the ceremonial ash bowl, their faces half-shadowed by the rising sun.

Her mother, Elder Sarah, was already speaking quietly to Mirin. Tamsin stood straight-backed, arms folded, while Corvin scowled in the corner, pacing like a caged dog. Nicola stood behind him, awkward and alert, her eye narrowing as she spotted Grace.

Cassia sat at the edge of the clearing, fingers curled into her skirts, pale with worry.

When Grace stepped into the ring, they all turned.

Elder Tamsin’s voice was the first to break the silence.

“The king is dead,” she said. “And by royal decree, the Choosing will begin by the next full moon.”

Corvin muttered, “Of course it will,” too low to be called a challenge—but loud enough to mean one.

Elder Sarah stepped forward, her voice gentle but iron-edged. “You were summoned, Cassia and Grace, because you are both unmated omegas of age.”

Grace’s jaw clenched. She glanced toward Nicola, trying to understand why she was here. “I know.”

Cassia whimpered. “I don’t want to go.”

“You won’t get a choice,” Corvin snapped. “You are of age, omega, and unmated. That brands you as clearly as any crest.”

“They should have every right to decline,” Mirin interjected calmly.

“One won’t,” Tamsin said—not unkindly. “Because we have to send someone. You all know what’s at stake.”

Grace stood silent in the center of them all, the air thick with incense and expectation.

The king was dead.
The Choosing had begun.
And the blood in her veins had started to stir.

The circle fell quiet again.

Then Corvin laughed—dry, sharp, ugly.

“Of course the council would leap at prophecy. Never mind the other candidates. Never mind that the kingdom burns at the edges and the Choosing has become a spectacle.”

“Would you rather we send no one?” Tamsin snapped. “And have our village disowned—banished?”

“We should send someone ready. Willing.” He gestured to the tall young woman behind him. “Nicola may not meet every qualification on parchment, but she’s strong, trained in court custom, respected by three provinces, and wants the role.”

“She isn’t omega,” Sarah said evenly. “You know the candidate must be omega.”

“That tradition is dead, and you know it,” Corvin barked. “The Choosing was never meant to be a bride auction. It’s political theater to soothe a fractured realm, and Grace—” he turned to her, “—isn’t suited for it. She’s a healer. Untrained in court affairs. Look at her. She’s covered in blood as we speak.”

Grace didn’t flinch. She met his eyes.

“I came from a birth. Can you say the same?”

“Then you’re needed here. You are our next healer,” Corvin countered. “Unless you plan to disappear—like your sister?”

The air thickened.

“Enough,” Tamsin growled.

Elder Mirin raised a hand, voice quiet. “We must acknowledge what she is. The prophecy speaks of a moon-born Omega. A child of ash and light. Grace was born under the Blood Moon, and she returned beneath it. She is bathed in the blood of the people—by saving them.”

“Prophecy isn’t a crown,” Corvin snapped. “It’s a myth for those too afraid to rule without ghosts behind them.”

At the edge of the circle, Cassia’s voice broke in softly.

“I… I qualify too. I can go, I guess.”

All eyes turned.

She shrank, but didn’t look away. “I’m seventeen. I’m omega. I meet the requirements.”

“You’re a child,” Sarah said gently.

“And Grace is too old,” Nicola fired back. “At twenty-eight, she’s an old maid. What king would want her?” She paused, then added, sharper: “Besides—her sister was the beautiful one. Grace? The irony of your name.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any argument.

Grace stepped forward, jaw tight.

“Yes. My sister was the beautiful one. But Hope is dead. And at thirty, if she were still unmated, would that not make her an old maid too?”

Sarah inhaled softly. The others stilled.

“She was supposed to go,” Grace said. Her voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “She trained for it. Studied. Prepared. Everyone knew. She had the look, the bond, the heart.”

She looked at no one.

“And then she was gone.”

Another breath. She turned to Corvin—not in challenge, but in resignation.

“I didn’t study to rule. I studied to serve. To heal. To protect this place and its people.”

“But you are going,” Tamsin said quietly.

Grace nodded. “I am.”

Corvin scoffed. “Just like that?”

“No,” she said. “Not just like that.”

She looked around the circle—at Sarah’s pain, at Cassia’s trembling hands, at Mirin’s watchfulness and Tamsin’s fire.

“I was born under the Blood Moon. My sister was supposed to be our Chosen. But fate chose differently. And I’ve known since the moment the moon turned red again that it would fall to me.”

She looked toward the northern sky, where the smoke of distant torches curled upward.

“I will go. Because it’s my duty. Because our people deserve a voice. And because if I don’t… someone worse will stand in my place.” She pointedly looked at Nicola.

There was no more argument. They knew she was right.
They felt it on the wind, and in the long shadows of morning.

______

They rode in silence for most of the first day.

Steve kept to the front, reins loose in his hands, the wind tugging at his cloak. Behind him, the escort formation moved like a whisper through the trees—Sam on his right, Bucky to his left, the rest spread in a loose, reverent formation. Even the horses seemed to understand the shift.

The missive hadn’t lied: the council had already moved.

When they reached the halfway mark, a second courier was waiting—breathless and pale, with new orders sealed in deep red wax.

All arrangements are in place.
You will be crowned immediately upon arrival.

Steve folded the parchment without reading it twice.

⸻

By the time the spires of the capital breached the horizon, twilight had fallen.

Torches lined the road to the southern gate, flickering in rigid symmetry. The banners had already been changed.

His father’s crest—a sun-ringed mountain, bold and unyielding—was gone.

In its place flew the new sigil:
a silver star ringed by three concentric circles—each etched in the colors of the Old Gods.

The inner ring burned gold, for Caelion—the Flame That Stands.
The second shimmered silver, like moonlight on water—for Selathi, the Moonwell.
The outermost ring glowed a deep ash-blue, nearly black—for Vireth, the Ash-Sister.

A crest that matched the old shield he still carried.
A symbol of protection and prophecy.
And now, a crown.

He didn’t remember approving it.

But he did like it.

As they passed beneath the gate, people knelt. Some cried. Some just watched.

He thought of his mother. Of his brothers in arms.
Of the girl in the orchard he’d kissed once at seventeen—before duty took her name away.

But mostly, he thought of his father—cold and quiet on the pyre now, his voice gone, but his legacy still everywhere.

⸻

The Great Hall was full by the time he arrived.
The old priest waited at the head of the chamber, dressed in ceremonial white, his palms stained with ash and wine. The council stood beside him, silent and composed.

Steve didn’t break stride.
He walked between them like a man approaching trial.

When he reached the steps of the dais, he paused—just once.
Eyes on the empty throne his father had held for four decades.
Then, he knelt.

The priest spoke the old words.
Sam and Bucky flanked him in silence.
Steve answered with a low voice, steady despite the storm in his chest.

The crown was lighter than he expected.

But the weight came after.

“Stand, Stephen of House Brooklyn.
By blood, by will, by vow,
You are king.”

He rose to his feet.

The room bowed.

But he didn’t feel powerful.

He felt alone.

Chapter Text

The trees blurred into shadows, the path worn from years of use but suddenly unfamiliar. The moon hung low, dull and red-gold near the horizon. The edges of her hands were still stained with birth, and her chest ached with something she didn’t have the language for—not grief, not fear.

Weight.

Just as she reached the porch of their cabin, the floorboards creaked behind her.

“You always walk too fast when you’re angry,” her mother said softly as she jogged to catch up.

Grace turned.

Sarah stood just outside the tree line, wrapped in a shawl that had once belonged to Grace’s grandmother, her braid half-loose. Her expression was unreadable—one of those healer masks made of stillness and long years.

“I’m not angry, Mom,” Grace said.

Sarah raised a brow. “Then you’re terrified, my darling. Which is fair.”

Grace said nothing.

They stepped into the cabin together. Grace lit a beeswax candle without thinking, the warm scent of honey and smoke rising to meet her. Her movements were automatic—set the kettle, fingered the jars of dried herbs, stirred the banked coals in the hearth until the embers breathed red again. The rituals of the Hallow clung to her like second skin.

But it was already slipping. All of it.

“I have to leave in two days,” she said finally.

Sarah nodded. “The moon goddess waits for no one.”

Grace laughed, but it cracked at the edges. “You think she’ll wait for me to pack a second dress?”

“Only if it’s got armor stitched into the bodice.”

Grace snorted. “They’ll be expecting silk.”

“They’ll be expecting a naïve pup,” Sarah corrected. “Pretty, soft. Scared enough to obey, but clever enough to impress. What they’ll get is a wolf with a spine full of bone and a mouth full of questions. They will get my daughter.”

She moved to the hearth, the floor creaking faintly as she poured the water into waiting mugs. Steam rose in delicate spirals, carrying the sharp scent of nettle and lemon balm.

“You’ll be surrounded by snakes in bejeweled dresses, cunning and cruel,” she said. “Fluffy peacocks with no brains but big colorful distractions. Court girls with titles they didn’t earn and fathers who paid for their lineage in blood and favors. Nicola is a pup compared to what waits at the capital.”

Grace sat slowly. “What if I don’t know how to do this?”

“You do,” Sarah said. “You just don’t want to. That’s not the same thing.”

The candlelight flickered between them. Grace reached for her tea with both hands, the mug warm against her palms, but she didn’t drink. For a long while, neither spoke.

Then Grace whispered, “I thought it would be Hope.”

Sarah closed her eyes.

“I know.”

“She wanted it so badly. She trained for it. She would’ve ruled like fire—hot and fast and beautiful. And they would’ve loved her for it.”

“She would’ve burned herself out too fast,” Sarah said gently. “You… you’re made of something that lasts. Stronger. Tempered.”

Grace finally sipped the tea. It was bitter. Familiar.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” she said, voice smaller than she meant it to be.

Sarah smiled faintly. “I was going to, whether you asked or not. One of the Chosen or the future queen of the realm, you will always be my pup.”

They curled up in Sarah’s bed by the window, the old quilt worn soft and smelling faintly of lavender and cedar. Grace lay with her head tucked under her mother’s chin, her braid trailing down her back. The candle burned low.

Outside, the moon drifted through the branches.

And inside the little cabin, for a little while longer, Grace was still only a daughter.

_____

The sun broke low and soft over the ridge, the trees silvered in early mist.

Grace woke with a crick in her neck and her mother’s arm draped protectively across her waist. For a moment, she lay still—watching the morning light filter through the window lattice, striping the worn floorboards with gold. It was a quiet thing, waking in her childhood bed. Familiar. Fleeting.

She slipped out gently, so as not to wake Sarah, and laced her boots in silence.

She didn’t take the main path. Her feet found the old back trail to the birthing cottage by instinct—winding between tree roots and over damp moss, her fingers trailing through dew-heavy branches. The scent of rosemary and wet bark clung to her clothes.

She reached the small home just as the birds began to stir. Smoke curled from the chimney in lazy spirals. Inside, the mother lay dozing, one cub curled against her chest, the other nestled in the crook of her arm. Grace stepped in without a sound and crouched by the hearth, checking the broth, the poultice, the bloodroot paste.

Everything was as it should be.

She exhaled slowly.

A voice behind her, soft as the fire’s crackle:
“You should be sleeping.”

Grace turned.

Lydia stood in the doorway, hair tousled, cloak crooked at her shoulders, eyes already brimming.

“I couldn’t,” Grace said simply.

They stood a moment, saying nothing.

Then Lydia moved forward and wrapped her in a fierce, breathless hug—bone-tight and trembling. Grace held her as steady as she could.

“I don’t want you to go,” Lydia whispered. “I know you have to, I know you will. But I—gods, Gracie—I’m scared.”

“I am too,” Grace said. “But I need you here. I need you to stay.”

Lydia pulled back just enough to look at her. “I’ll stay.”

Grace nodded, then reached into her satchel and drew out a bundle of folded cloth and a worn leather ledger.

“This is everything,” she said. “My notes. My remedies. Fever guides, birthing herbs, even the ash-burn salve. If I don’t come back—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—you’ll be the one they turn to.”

Lydia clutched the bundle like a blessing. “You’ll come back.”

Grace smiled, though her throat burned. “If I can.”

“I’ll keep everything safe,” Lydia promised. “Even Cassia.”

That name made them both turn.

Cassia stood just inside the doorway, half in shadow. Her eyes were wide, her lips pressed tight. Grace braced for a sharp word—but instead, the girl blinked quickly and stepped forward.

“I came to help,” she said. “I figured… someone should.”

Grace studied her, then nodded. “Thank you.”

Together, they checked the bedding, the mother’s pulse, the cubs’ breathing. Cassia worked in silence. Grace noticed the way her hands shook when she reached for the linen, how she kept glancing at Grace like she wanted to speak.

When they finished, Grace turned to her.

“Cassia,” she said gently. “You’re strong. And kind. And brave enough to admit when you’re scared. That’s more than most queens could say.”

Cassia’s mouth wobbled. “I was awful yesterday.”

“You were seventeen,” Grace said. “That’s allowed.”

And finally, Cassia hugged her.

Lydia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and muttered, “This is going to be awful.”

Grace nodded. “Yes. But it might also be worth it.”

⸻

She didn’t go home right away.

Instead, she followed the long stone path down to the edge of the Hallow, where the orchard thinned and the glen opened into the orphan’s yard. A low fence ringed the property, and the paint on the gate was peeling again—Grace made a mental note to remind Matthew to fix it before she left.

Before she could even knock, the door burst open.

“GRACE!”

Two blurs—one silver-haired, one red—crashed into her legs in a tangle of laughter and limbs.

“Did you bring treats?”
“Can we braid your hair?”
“Can we cut your hair?”
“Are you bleeding again?”

Grace laughed, kneeling to catch them both. Rain, the redhead, was missing another tooth. Ryanna had tied yellow ribbons in her curls and one around her wrist like a bracelet.

“No sweets today,” Grace said, smoothing back their wild hair. “But I came to talk.”

They froze.

“Are you sick?” Rain blinked up at her, terror in her eyes.

Grace shook her head, voice soft. “No. Nothing like that. I promise.”

She saw the panic in Rain’s face and felt it echo in her own chest.

A year ago, she’d held that same child through fever and blood-soaked sheets, whispering lullabies while the plague took half the valley—including Rain and Ryanna’s parents. She had stayed long after the others left, refusing to give up. And when the worst had passed, it was Grace who’d carried them—half-starved and orphaned—into the Hallow’s fold.

They didn’t remember all of it.

But they remembered her.

“Is someone else sick?” Ryanna asked.

“No. I just… I have to leave for a while.”

The twins exchanged a look.

“Where?”

“To the capital. It’s far.”

“Are you coming back?”

Grace didn’t answer right away. She pulled them into her lap and held them tight.

“I want to. I’ll try with everything I have,” she said. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. And I needed to make sure you were safe.”

“Who’s gonna braid our hair?” Ryanna whispered.

Grace kissed her brow. “Lydia will. And Matthew, too—though he’s terrible at it.”

Rain’s eyes widened. “Lydia’s staying with us?”

“Every day. And soon…” She hesitated, then smiled. “They’ll be your family. All official.”

Gasps.

“You knew?!” Ryanna demanded. “And didn’t tell us?!”

Grace laughed through tears. “I’m telling you now, aren’t I? But keep it secret—they want to tell you themselves.”

They clung to her like ivy, arms and hearts tangled.

She wasn’t their mother. But she had loved them like one.

And that would have to be enough.

“I’ll write,” she promised. “Even if I can’t sign my name. Lydia will help me send letters. But you have to write back, or I’ll send Matt to tickle your feet at night.”

Rain giggled. Ryanna sniffled.

“Swear on the moon?”

Grace touched her finger to Ryanna’s chest. “On the moon and all the stars.”

The light had shifted—sharper now, gilding the path with gold, but brittle at the edges like the snap of frost. Grace tucked a small yellow ribbon into her pocket, a parting gift, and turned for home.

She didn’t get far.

A voice broke the quiet like a thorn slicing skin.

“Well, if it isn’t our Chosen One.”

Grace stopped with a frustrated sigh.

Nicola stood just off the main path, arms crossed, posture casual in that calculated way that always felt too deliberate to be anything but a performance. She was dressed in soft leathers and court-trained smugness. Elias hovered just behind her, shoulders cocked like a blade waiting for use, mouth twitching like he was trying to swallow a sneer and failing.

Grace didn’t move. “Nicola. Elias.”

“You must be thrilled,” Nicola said sweetly. “Your little prophecy finally coming true. Born under a blood moon, praised in every circle, beloved by Elders… you must feel untouchable.”

“I feel exhausted,” Grace replied evenly, shoulders square but pulse thudding against her throat. “And I have things to do before I have to leave.”

Elias stepped forward. “Going to say goodbye to every mongrel pup before you leave? How noble.”

Grace’s jaw tightened. “They’re children.”

“And you’re still pretending to be something you’re not,” Nicola said, tilting her head. “You’re not ready for the court. You’re not elegant. You’re not diplomatic. You’re not even particularly well-trained. You’re just… the one with the most convenient birthdate.”

“Convenient?” Grace echoed. “I watched my sister die under the weight of that moon. I was buried under every expectation of what she should have been. Don’t talk to me about convenience.”

Nicola blinked, caught off guard—but not for long.

Elias leaned in slightly. “You’ll be eaten alive at court.”

Grace’s gaze was ice now. “Then I’ll let them choke on the bones.”

She stepped past them without another word, her boots crunching against gravel with every steady step.

Nicola called after her, voice syruped with disdain, “Better pack more than herbs and rags, Grace. You’re not going to a healing circle. You’re going into war.”

Grace didn’t turn around.
But her silence was louder than anything she could have said.
Even the birds seemed to hold their breath.

⸻

By the time Grace returned to the cabin, the sun was dipping behind the western ridge. Shadows stretched long across the clearing, and the air carried that sweet, sharp edge of evening.

She expected silence. Maybe a quiet moment to breathe, or to finish packing alone.

Instead, she opened the door to chaos.

Lydia was perched on the table, sorting bundles of herbs with stained fingers and a pencil stuck behind her ear. Sarah knelt by the hearth, brushing out the hem of one of Grace’s travel dresses, her braid pinned in a crown. The cabin smelled like sage and soap—and something sweet, maybe honeycake.

Grace blinked. “What—?”

“Sit,” Lydia ordered, without looking up. “You’re late.”

“I was—”

“Sit.”

Grace obeyed, half-laughing, half-stunned.

Lydia held up a deep blue bundle and shook it out with a bit of flair. “Ta-da. Your capital debut.”

It was the most beautiful dress Grace had ever seen. Simple linen, but finely made—structured bodice, long sleeves, and delicate hand-stitched flowers at the hem and neckline. Midnight blue, so rich it looked like ink in the candlelight.

“I didn’t think we had anything like this in the village,” Grace murmured.

“We don’t,” Sarah said, smiling faintly. “We had Matt rush to get it from the pass. Lydia’s not marrying an idiot—he has good taste. It might not be court silk, but it’s dignified. And it’s you.”

Lydia handed her a small satchel next. “Medicines. Wound balm, fever tonic, ginger lozenges, two packs of moon-leaf, and something that might stop a nobleman’s boasting—if thrown hard enough.”

“And this,” Sarah said softly, holding out a modest wooden box.

Inside: her mother’s few jewels. A garnet ring. A brooch shaped like a star. A pair of tiny crescent-moon earrings Grace hadn’t seen in years.

“For ceremony,” Sarah said, her voice just barely steady.

Lydia added one final item—a journal, bound in rough leather, a strip of blue ribbon tied to the spine.

“In case you forget who you are,” she said, quieter now. “Write it down. Hold onto it.”

Grace reached out, then paused. “You did all this today?”

“We’ve been ready,” Sarah said gently. “We just prayed we wouldn’t need to be.”

Lydia pointed to the corner, where a tidy stack of mended dresses and polished boots waited. A pair of soft leather slippers peeked out beneath the pile.

“Even your wedding shoes, Mom?” Grace whispered.

“You can’t stomp into court like a stable girl,” Sarah said. “But you can walk in like the woman you’ve become.”

Before Grace could reply, a knock sounded at the door.

Lydia opened it, revealing a young boy—barely twelve—out of breath, with reins clutched in his hands.

“Elder Mirin sent this,” he panted. “Said she’s too old to ride herself, but it’s time someone gave you a proper mount.”

Outside waited a weathered, sturdy mare with a coat the color of tarnished silver and the gentlest eyes Grace had ever seen.

Tears pricked behind her eyes.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Dawn,” the boy replied. “Said she’s a bit slow, but steady. And always finds her way home.”

Grace laughed, the sound cracking through her chest like sunlight after a storm.

She turned back to the cabin—to the carefully folded dresses, the food parcel from Maeve, the polished boots, the ribbon still tucked in her pocket. Every piece of her life had been gathered into a single offering. Not riches. Not armor.

But love.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered.

Sarah stepped forward and pressed her hands to Grace’s cheeks. “You never will be. That’s how you know it matters.”

Grace didn’t need to ask. They knew what she needed.

Once the fire was banked and the cabin dimmed, Sarah slid into the narrow bed by the window. Lydia hesitated only a moment before curling up on the other side, arms folded beneath her head.

Grace lay between them.

No one spoke.

Sarah’s breath was slow and steady, rising and falling in time with the wind outside. Lydia’s fingers twitched occasionally, like she was still counting herbs in her sleep. The room smelled of cedar smoke, mended cloth, and lavender salve.

Grace stared at the ceiling.

She didn’t sleep.

She didn’t cry.

She just lay there—still and silent—her shoulder pressed to her mother’s, Lydia’s foot tucked against hers beneath the covers. The two people who had kept her anchored all her life. The ones who had patched her back together every time the world tried to unravel her.

The bed was too small. The night too short.

But for now, it was enough.

Outside, the waning moon rose toward fullness.

And inside the little cabin, Grace listened to the rhythm of home, committing it to memory.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

The Hallow was still asleep when Grace rose.

The moon had dipped low, the sun not yet broken over the trees. But inside the little cabin, all three women were already moving. The hearth crackled gently, chasing the chill from the floorboards. A kettle steamed, and the scent of frying herbs and morning cakes wrapped through the room like a blessing.

Lydia stood at the counter, hair in a quick braid, flipping bannock in a cast iron pan. Sarah was slicing dried fruit into a bowl of steaming oats, her hands steady, her expression unreadable.

Grace stood in the doorway, her hair damp from the basin, a towel slung around her shoulders.

“You’re both ridiculous,” she said quietly.

“Eat first, cry later,” Lydia replied without turning.

Sarah gave a quiet hum of agreement. “And if you try to leave on an empty stomach, I will send a hawk after you with hard-boiled eggs and shame.”

Grace smiled despite herself. She retreated into the back room, slipping into her travel clothes: fitted leather leggings, soft tunic, and her worn boots—freshly oiled and quiet on the floorboards. She pulled part of her hair back into a long braid, weaving a strip of blue cloth through the strands like a warding charm. Her pack sat on the bed, half-full.

She paused beside it and ran her hand over the flap.

One last time.

She tucked in her journal. The star brooch. The moon-leaf. The yellow ribbon. Hope’s old floral shawl.

When she emerged, fully dressed, the table had been set—bannock stacked on a plate, honey and smoked butter nearby, sliced fruit and boiled greens in clay bowls. Three mugs steamed, and one place at the table had been left open for her, its chair turned slightly outward.

Sarah looked up. “Sit, pup.”

Grace did.

They didn’t speak much as they ate, and they didn’t have to. Every bite was a goodbye. Every glance a prayer.

The sun finally crested the trees as they finished.

They all knew today, she would leave.

Grace finished her tea slowly, letting the warmth settle low in her chest. When the last dish had been washed and dried, Lydia pressed a wrapped parcel into her arms—more food from Maeve, tucked with care—and Sarah tied a leather cloak lined with wool around her shoulders with hands that lingered just a moment too long.

Outside, the mare waited patiently, reins looped over the post.

Dawn.

She looked up at Grace with soft, knowing eyes, and Grace pressed her forehead to the horse’s for a heartbeat before saddling her. The bags were light—just enough to travel, just enough to return. Lydia tightened the straps, double-checked the satchels, then gave the mare a gentle pat.

“All set,” she said.

And then… it was time.

The three women stood in the clearing, morning light just beginning to filter through the trees. Grace mounted slowly, boots settling into the stirrups with a finality that caught somewhere between her ribs.

Sarah stepped forward and laid a hand on her leg. “Ride steady. Speak carefully. Trust your instincts.”

Lydia blinked fast, then held up a wrapped cloth. “One last thing. For when the road feels long.”

Inside: a tiny carved fox and a flat, smooth stone painted with the Hallow tree.

Grace swallowed. “Thank you. I love you both, and I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

Then she nudged Dawn forward—and began the ride through town.

She expected silence. Maybe a few curious glances. A half-hearted wave.

Instead, the road was full.

The entire village had turned out.

They lined the path in twos and threes—elders with walking sticks, children clutching wildflowers, apprentices still in their ash-smeared tunics. Some waved. Some wept. Some simply watched in silence, expressions unreadable.

There were those with tears in their eyes… and those with barely hidden smirks. But even the skeptics had come. Even the ones who had muttered behind their hands for years.

She was their Chosen now.

A blacksmith’s apprentice stepped forward and handed her a pouch of nails and horseshoes. “For the journey,” he said, cheeks red. “Never hurts to have a few.”

An herbwife offered a sprig of hawthorn and a small blade. “Protection,” she murmured.

A girl she didn’t recognize pressed a dried braid of rosemary into Grace’s palm. “You helped my mother last winter.”

Some gave her coins. A few of the Elders pressed jewels into her hands—tokens to ensure she could represent them properly when she reached the capital.

The road felt endless. Grace nodded, murmured thanks, accepted trinkets and food and notes and folded cloth. Every face was a thread in the tapestry of her life—and now they were here to stitch her into something larger.

She reached the edge of the village with her chest aching and her satchels a little fuller.

There, in the middle of the road, stood the old priestess.

The Woven One.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. Just stood, veiled and motionless, blocking Grace’s path.

Grace slowed, then dismounted with care. She approached warily.

“Priestess?” she asked.

The woman nodded once and turned, walking toward the spiritual house without a word.

Grace hesitated. Then she tied Dawn to the fence and followed.

She had never been inside the spirit house before.

It was dark. The air was thick with incense and age. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with jars—some filled with herbs she recognized, others with things she couldn’t name. Roots and resins. Bones and blackened petals. The whole place felt wrong somehow, or just too much. Heavy. Unsettling.

And still, the old woman said nothing.

Until she did.

The Woven One turned.

And spoke.

“Child of Hallow,” she said, voice low and layered—like wind through trees, like the hush between thunderclaps. “Born under a blood moon. Sister to fire and heir to silence.”

Grace froze.

No one had spoken of Hope that way. Not in years.

The priestess stepped forward, raising her hands. Her fingers brushed Grace’s brow, then her lips, then her heart—each touch sparking something beneath her skin, like embers catching light.

“You walk the path alone—but you are never alone. The mothers walk behind you. The stars chart your bloodline. The wolves know your name.”

Then her hand dropped lower—resting flat over Grace’s abdomen.

And the air changed.

A low pressure rolled through the chamber, thick and pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the stone. Grace swayed, catching herself against the altar. Her vision blurred at the edges—just for a moment—but in that sliver of distortion, she saw flashes:

A child’s cry.
A crown of twisted light.
A cradle, empty and burning.

She blinked hard.

The priestess’s hand was still there—firm, unmoving, over her womb.

“And your womb will carry more than blood. It will carry the turning of the age.”

A sharp cramp twisted through Grace’s belly—deep, ancient, not of this world. She gasped, knees trembling. Nausea coiled in her throat like smoke. It wasn’t pain, not exactly.

It was knowing.

Too much. Too fast.

Her powers flared, unbidden—just a flicker beneath her ribs, like something ancient rising to meet the words.

Three shall rise.
One to rule. One to break. One to return.

From your body, a kingdom will bloom.
And from your sorrow, a future will take root.

The silence that followed was absolute.

Grace’s hands were shaking. Her breath came short and shallow.

Then the priestess pulled a jar of ochre dust from the altar, dipped her fingers, and anointed Grace’s forehead, her chest, her palms.

“Blessed be your journey. Blessed be your name. Blessed be your womb, and all that it may bear.”

As the dust touched her skin, a heat bloomed in her chest—then low in her belly, a weight that settled like stone and refused to lift. Grace pressed her lips together, but her fingers trembled. Something ancient had been stirred.

And it wasn’t done with her yet.

When the Woven One stepped back, her veil fell again.

She said no more.

And Grace, pale and shaking, stepped back out into the morning.

She mounted Dawn with unsteady hands, swallowing the bile in her throat.

Behind her, the Woven One stood unmoving.

Before her, the forest opened.

And with a single breath, Grace began to ride.

Chapter Text

The forest opened before her, wide and golden beneath the early light.

She nudged Dawn forward, barely aware of it.

Her hands were still unsteady on the reins, her breath shallow. The Woven One’s words echoed beneath her ribs like a second heartbeat—one that didn’t belong to her. Every part of her felt stretched thin, like skin pulled too tight over too much knowing.

She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision.

The dust on her palms had turned tacky with sweat. The pendant at her throat pulsed warm, as though it too remembered. Her belly felt weighted, thick with something unseen that refused to lift.

She was halfway to panicking when she saw the figure at the edge of the trees.

A man on horseback waited just where the path dipped into shadow again.

Sunlight caught the dull sheen of his chestplate. A sword hung at his side, worn but well-kept, and his horse stood saddled and ready. As she approached, he lifted a hand in a lazy wave—like they were just meeting for an afternoon ride.

Grace pulled Dawn to a halt, frowning. “Matt?”

He grinned. “Morning, princess.”

“What… what are you doing here?”

He tilted his head. “Keeping a promise to Lydia. And keeping my favorite ‘sister’ alive long enough to get crowned—or rejected. Whichever comes first.”

“You’re coming with me?”

“To the capital? Yes. To your wedding? Absolutely not. I’m riding back the moment I deliver you.” He smirked. “Lydia would kill me if I missed ours.”

A laugh escaped her—shaky but real. “She would.”

Matt looked her over more carefully, his smile dimming. “You look pale. You okay? What did that old bat do to you?”

“I’m fine,” she lied. “Just… blessed by a terrifying ancient priestess in a bone-scented cave, that’s all.”

Matt raised a brow. “Ah. A normal morning, then.”

She gave him a weak smile.

“You really don’t have to—”

“I do,” he cut in, gentle but firm. “You’re an unbonded omega, Grace. You shouldn’t be traveling alone. Not through the borderlands. Not with a crown possibly hanging over your head and strangers watching every road.”

Grace snapped her jaw shut. Hard to argue when he put it like that.

He clicked his tongue and nudged his horse forward. “Besides,” he added lightly, “if you do become queen, I want the stories. And the first piece of gossip.”

Grace exhaled slowly and guided Dawn into step beside him.

The road was quiet. The wind was cool. And for the first time that morning, Grace didn’t feel entirely alone.

She also didn’t speak for the first hour.

The road beneath Dawn’s hooves was soft with loam, muffled by layers of pine needles and fallen leaves. Mist clung low to the ground, veiling the world in pale silver. Everything felt suspended—like even the birds were holding their breath.

Matt rode just ahead, silent save for the occasional jingle of tack. His gelding, a lean gray with a jagged scar along one flank, moved like water—fluid, efficient, alert. Grace had seen Matt in armor before, but never like this: every motion was deliberate, coiled with quiet readiness. A soldier’s stillness.

But the vision still clung to her skin.

Her belly felt swollen with something she couldn’t name. Her fingertips buzzed faintly—residue of power, of prophecy, of something half-awake inside her.

“I’m not going to ask,” Matt said eventually, voice low and even. “But you look like you saw the inside of the world and didn’t like what it showed you.”

Grace didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “She touched me, Matt. And I saw… I don’t know what I saw.”

He nodded once, like that was enough. Like he knew what it meant to carry something alone.

“The Woven One’s words get under the skin,” he murmured. “That’s why she doesn’t use them often. I know she’s a conduit to the goddesses or whatever—but she’s terrifying.”

They rode on.

By late afternoon, they stopped beside a narrow stream—clear and cold, singing softly over rounded stone. Dawn drank deeply. Matt unsaddled both horses while Grace knelt at the water’s edge, splashing her face and cupping the chill against her cheeks. She filled their flasks with shaking hands.

That night, they built a small fire between two trees. Its glow flickered weakly against the trunks, barely pushing back the dark.

Grace ate in silence—chewing dried bread and strips of smoked meat that tasted like ash in her mouth.

Matt didn’t press. He didn’t ask about the vision or her silence. He just handed her a blanket and told her to rest.

She started to argue.

But then he looked at her—really looked. Not like her childhood friend, but like the soldier he’d become. His expression was calm, immovable, quietly commanding.

So she didn’t argue. She just lay down on her bedroll and curled toward the fire.

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

But sometime after midnight, she jolted upright—sweat slicking her brow, a cry caught in her throat.

Matt was already there.

“You’re safe,” he said, his hand firm and steady on her shoulder. “I’ve got you. You’re here.”

Grace stared into the dark woods, eyes wide and unfocused. “The cradle was on fire—flames licking up the carved edges, devouring the blankets,” she whispered.

Matt didn’t ask for more.

He just stayed beside her, breathing steady, until her heartbeat slowed again. Until her fingers stopped trembling.

Somewhere far off, a single wolf howled—long and low, a sound like sorrow carrying across the trees.

The next morning broke too bright.

Grace blinked into the light, eyes aching, head pounding. Her stomach twisted as she packed up camp, the cloying scent of damp leaves and last night’s ash making bile rise in her throat. She said nothing.

Matt noticed anyway.

“Still sick?”

Grace nodded. “It’ll pass. Just nerves.”

They rode in silence for a while—just the shuffle of hooves and the distant caw of morning birds. The path narrowed, climbing into fog-laced foothills. Ferns grew thick and high, brushing their boots. The air shifted—cooler, wilder, edged with stone.

By midday, the road twisted through a narrow, rocky pass. Matt raised a hand.

“Quiet,” he said, voice low.

Grace slowed Dawn, pulse spiking.

Then—movement.

Two figures stepped into view just ahead. Not villagers. Not travelers. The wrong kind of stillness clung to them. One had a blade strapped across his chest. The other smiled too quickly.

“Traveling far?” the taller one asked.

Grace said nothing.

Matt’s voice cut clean through the air. “Far enough that you don’t want to slow us down.”

The man’s smile widened. “Pretty little omega like that—bet she’s sweet when she begs. And such a Small guard. Bit of a risk, don’t you think?”

Before Grace could flinch, Matt dismounted in one smooth motion. His sword cleared its sheath with a sound like finality.

The men hesitated.

Grace stayed frozen—but her body hummed. Power thrummed beneath her skin, the same heat that had bloomed in the spirit house now flickering again—unfocused, unwanted, alive.

Matt stepped forward, calm and cold. “I’d rethink your odds.”

The shorter man swore under his breath and stepped back. The taller one lingered a moment longer, then spat at the ground.

“Whore. We don’t need her.”

And then they were gone—swallowed by the trees.

Matt didn’t move until the silence held steady.

Then he turned, face grim. “Bandits don’t normally come this far north.”

Grace slid from her saddle, her legs unsteady as she glanced toward the trees. “Something’s shifting.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “And we’re not even halfway there.”

They camped early that night in a thicket of birch and thistle. Matt set a perimeter with quiet precision. Grace built the fire with shaking hands.

Later, she sat staring into the flames as they curled skyward.

“They could’ve taken me,” she said softly.

“They didn’t.”

“I don’t mean today,” she added. “I mean in general. If I didn’t have you. If Lydia hadn’t—”

Matt shook his head. “An unbonded omega traveling alone, especially in spring, when the raiders move north?” His voice was low, but firm. “Lydia was right. It isn’t safe.”

Grace pressed a hand to her abdomen. It still felt too full. Too heavy. A prophecy waiting to wake.

“Doesn’t feel safe either,” she whispered.

Matt glanced at her—something flickering in his eyes. Not just concern. Something older.

But he didn’t press.

And Grace was grateful for it, as she lay down next to him that night.

They found him just after dawn on the third day.

If Grace had to guess, the bandits found him first.

A man—no, a boy—slumped against a tree, cloak torn, face bloodied. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle, and the dirt around him was rust-colored with half-dried blood. At first glance, he looked dead.

Grace was off her horse before Matt could stop her.

“Careful,” he warned, hand already on the hilt of his blade. “Could be bait.”

“It’s not,” she said, already kneeling. “Look at the wound. He’s been here since yesterday—maybe longer.”

She tore into her pack, fingers already seeking moon-leaf, feverroot, clean bandages. Power stirred low and steady, like it had been waiting for purpose. She pushed it down, focused on her hands.

“Bandits?” Matt asked, crouching beside them.

Grace nodded. “Likely. Or wolves. Doesn’t matter. He’s septic.”

“We’ll lose half the day.”

“Then we lose half the day,” she snapped.

Matt didn’t argue. He knew that was a fight he wouldn’t win.

She worked quickly, but not carelessly. Splinted the leg. Cleaned the cuts. Packed the worst with woundwort and ash-honey. The boy moaned once but didn’t wake. His fever burned high—dangerously so—but his pulse was steady.

“He’s young,” she murmured. “Younger than he looks. Maybe sixteen. Seventeen, tops. He’s just a kid, Matt. We can’t leave him.”

Matt lifted the boy onto his own saddle, tying him into place so he wouldn’t fall. Then he took the reins and walked beside Dawn while Grace rode, one eye always on the unconscious rider behind her.

It was slow going.

The gelding didn’t like the stranger.

The sun crawled overhead—too hot. Too still.

Around midday, Grace felt it again. That subtle pressure behind her eyes. Not quite nausea. Not quite power.

Just… knowing.

They were being watched.

She tightened her grip on the reins.

They reached a shallow glade before nightfall—tucked into the woods, soft with moss and shaded by ash trees. Matt built a fire. Grace checked the boy’s wounds again. The fever had broken—barely—but some color had returned to his cheeks.

As the boy slept, Matt handed her a mug of bitterleaf tea.

“You could’ve left him,” he said. “Anyone else would’ve.”

Grace shook her head. “Then anyone else shouldn’t be Chosen.”

Matt didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s going to cost you.”

She met his eyes across the fire. “I almost feel like it already has.”

He nodded once and took first watch.

Grace sat beside the flames, the boy’s shallow breathing steady behind her. She sipped her tea and stared into the embers until the sky turned dark.

The sky had turned strange by midday of day four.

That sickly green-yellow color that meant only one thing: a storm was coming. A bad one, if Grace was interpreting the winds correctly.

Clouds moved fast overhead, wind snapping through the trees with the scent of rain and lightning. She kept her hood up, eyes narrowed against the gusts. Behind her, the injured boy rode tethered to Matt’s horse—still half-conscious, but healing.

They were making good time again.

Until they weren’t.

A lone rider appeared just past a bend in the trail.

He wasn’t dressed like a trader or a traveler. His horse was too well-fed, his boots too clean. A dark cloak hung over reinforced leathers, and his posture—loose, but alert—put Matt instantly on edge.

Grace pulled Dawn to a halt. Her hand tightened around the reins.

“Afternoon,” the man called, voice smooth and pleasant. “Didn’t mean to startle.”

Matt didn’t lower his hand from his blade. “Strange place for a ride.”

“Strange time for it,” the man agreed. “Storm’s coming in behind me. Thought I’d get ahead of it. Mind if I ride with you until the fork?”

Grace didn’t answer right away.

Not because she sensed danger. But because the air changed the moment she looked at him.

Something ancient stirred low in her chest. Her stomach flipped. Her vision rippled—not from fear, but recognition. The pressure in her belly eased for the first time in days.

But that wasn’t possible.

She blinked.

And in that breath of distortion, the man shimmered—not visibly, not physically, but to her.

Crowned in gold light.

Hands dripping with blood not his own.

Behind him: a throne of antlers. A shadowed wolf. A child with fire in its eyes.

Grace swayed in the saddle.

“Grace?” Matt’s voice was sharp. His hand reached for her.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just… tired.”

But her knuckles had gone white.

The stranger tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “You alright, miss?”

“She’s fine,” Matt said flatly.

“I’m fine,” she echoed, a little too fast.

The man lifted his hands in easy surrender. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

But he rode with them anyway.

For hours, they traveled in uneasy silence—three horses and one barely conscious passenger. The man asked no questions. Offered no stories. But Grace could feel him watching.

Not with hunger. Not with threat.

With knowing.

When the fork in the road appeared—one trail leading toward the capital, the other curling toward the southern wilds—the man reined in his horse.

“Safe travels,” he said.

Then, to Grace alone: “And good luck in your journey.”

A slight nod. Almost a bow.

Then he was gone, swallowed by the trees and the rising wind.

Grace didn’t breathe until his silhouette vanished.

And the moment he did, the heaviness in her belly returned—like gravity had snapped back into place.

Matt was staring at her. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

Grace laid a hand low across her abdomen.

“No,” she whispered. “But I think we just met someone important.”

They reached the village by midmorning the next day after riding through the night in hope of outpacing the storm, but managed only barely.

It was little more than a handful of stone cottages nestled against the base of the hills, but smoke curling from the chimneys meant warmth—and help.

Matt rode ahead to speak with the elder. Grace stayed behind to ensure the injured traveler was received properly: clean bandages, fresh broth, a soft place to recover. When the healer started to protest, Grace pressed two coins into her palm and closed her fingers around them.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “He wouldn’t have made it without you.”

The healer blinked. “We should be thanking you, my lady.”

Grace’s stomach turned at the title. But she didn’t correct it.

They left the village under a sky that was no longer just dark, but angry—thick with the weight of a storm ready to break.

Thunder rumbled across the distant ridge.

“We won’t beat it,” Matt muttered, scanning the horizon. “Not on this trail.”

Grace squinted through the rising wind. “There’s a cave ahead. I think. West side of the pass. We found it on that mapping run three years ago—remember?”

Matt shot her a look. “Yeah. I remember. Let’s move.”

The first cold drops hit just as they found it.

The cave wasn’t large, but it was dry and deep enough to shield them. A small fire could be built near the entrance, tucked back from the wind. Matt led the horses inside and unbuckled their tack with quick, practiced hands. Grace pulled off her damp cloak, shaking it out with chattering teeth.

The storm struck in full within minutes—lightning tearing across the sky like the world was cracking open, rain hammering the earth so violently it made the trees moan.

Inside, it was quiet.

Matt lit a small fire. They shared what was left of the food Maeve had packed—dried meat, crumbly cheese, rough travel bread. Grace sat cross-legged, shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders, but she couldn’t stop shivering.

Not from the cold.

From something else.

Visions flickered at the edge of her mind:
A child in her arms.
Blood on snow.
A crown at her feet—then stolen by hands cloaked in shadow.

Matt looked up from his meal. “Talk to me.”

Grace blinked, startled.

He raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t said ten words since that fork in the road. What happened with that traveler yesterday?”

She hesitated. Then: “I saw something. In him. I think.”

Matt didn’t scoff. Didn’t push. Just waited.

“I don’t know if it was magic or fate or madness,” she whispered. “But I saw a crown. Blood. A child. I think it was mine.”

Matt’s jaw tightened. “Prophecy?”

“Maybe. Or warning.”

Thunder rolled again—louder this time, closer. Grace closed her eyes.

Matt shifted closer. Without a word, he handed her his blanket. She took it, wrapping it around her legs, then scooted closer to him and leaned her head on his shoulder like she used to when they were kids.

For a long moment, there was only the firelight and the sound of the storm.

Then Matt kissed the top of her head and said, softly, “You won’t be alone, you know. Not ever. Even when it feels like it… we’re still there. All of us. Right here.” He tapped her chest, just over her heart.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut.

“I know,” she said quietly. “I just don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

Outside, the rain poured on.

Inside, they waited.

Tomorrow would be Day Six.

And the next day—the capital.

The storm had passed by dawn.

The forest was rinsed of the earlier violence—wet earth, crushed pine, petrichor rising in soft curls from the mossy ground. Grace woke to the rhythm of water dripping from the lip of the cave, the steady breath of Dawn beside her, and the warmth of Matt’s cloak still draped over her legs.

They broke camp in silence, their movements easy with routine. The sky was pale and cloud-dappled, the worst of the storm swept eastward. The road ahead gleamed damply, rutted with tracks but welcoming.

By midday, they were riding through fields edged with wildflowers, the forest slowly thinning as the terrain opened up. The air was cool, the sun veiled just enough to make the journey pleasant.

No threats. No injuries. No visions.

Just motion.

Grace rode with her shoulders loose for the first time in days, hands light on the reins. Dawn’s pace was smooth beneath her, steady as always.

Matt whistled something low and off-key beside her, and when she looked over, he grinned.

“You’re awful,” she said.

He kept whistling—louder now, completely off tempo.

Grace rolled her eyes and tossed a small pinecone at his chest. He caught it with mock seriousness. “Weaponizing forest debris? How unladylike.”

“I’m practicing for court,” she replied dryly.

They shared a soft laugh.

Later, they rode in easy silence. Grace watched sunlight flash through the trees, dapple over her hands. She thought of her mother. Of Lydia. Of the girls in the orphanage and the babies born in the birth house.

Of Hope.

She thought about the weight the Woven One had placed on her—on her body, her bloodline, her future.

But for now, the wind was gentle. The air was cool. And nothing ached except the saddle beneath her.

That night, they made camp near a winding stream, not far from the rise that overlooked the capital. The water sang nearby, and the leaves overhead whispered instead of roared.

Grace curled her fingers around her cloak, watching the fire flicker low. “Tomorrow.”

Matt nodded. “Tomorrow.”

She didn’t ask if he was nervous. He didn’t ask if she was ready.

They just sat with the quiet between them—a final stretch of peace before the city swallowed them whole.

Chapter Text

The stream wound gently past their camp, its surface catching the early light like strands of silver thread. Mist clung to the rocks and pooled in the hollows of the mossy bank. Birds stirred in the trees, their song quiet, reverent.

Grace crouched beside the firepit, hands working in automatic rhythm as she rolled up the blankets and tucked the last of their food into her satchel. Matt emerged from the trees with a yawn and a stretch, his tunic rumpled and armor loosened.

“Stream’s clear,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “Cold as the goddesses’ breath, but it’ll do.”

Grace didn’t look up. “Go ahead. I’ll follow in a bit. I have… more to prep before I’m ready.”

Matt paused, then smiled faintly. “Right. Because we’re not ten anymore.”

She did look at him then. “Exactly. Although, technically, the answer should be that I’ve seen more of you than Lydia has, since our mothers used to bathe us together. But we both know that’s not the case anymore, is it?”

He gave a smirk and a small, mock bow, grabbing his towel and soap pouch. “Try not to disappear into a vision while I’m gone. I don’t want to come back to a prophecy floating downriver—Lydia would kill me.”

Grace rolled her eyes but didn’t answer.

Once he was gone, she finally let herself pause.

Her fingers hovered over the edge of her pack. Her stomach still felt heavy, but her chest… lighter, somehow. The storm had passed. The capital was only hours away.

And between here and there—only rolling hills and water.

She stood slowly, pulling out what she needed to become who she was expected to be.

When Matt called that he was out of the water and changing in the trees, she made her way toward the stream. Her hands shook slightly as she stepped onto the narrow path and down toward the running water, like she was about to wash away her past.

The trees closed behind her.

And ahead, the water waited.

Matt was right—it was cold. But that was expected this time of year, the flowers only just beginning to bloom along the riverbank as she submerged herself. She gasped when she surfaced, the shock of the water making her scrub quickly. Her body. Her hair. The last of the blood under her nails.

The last of who she had been.

She stood slowly, wrapped herself in a towel, and stepped out of the water. A branch snapped nearby. The sensation of being watched crept across her skin.

Then, just as suddenly—it was gone.

She looked around, finding nothing.

So she dressed.

Not in a tunic.

But in the dress.

The one Matt had bought under Lydia’s and Sarah’s instructions, handed over with teary eyes.
The ink-blue linen dress Maeve had insisted on hemming by hand—before they even showed it to her.
The one Grace had refused to look at.

Until now.

She unfolded it carefully, smoothing the fabric between her fingers. She was grateful they’d thought about the corset ties in the front, the ease of getting it on by herself.

She combed through her curls, braiding the top section and threading a blue ribbon through as she went. But when she looked at her reflection in the water, it felt too simple. So she twisted the braid into a crown around her head, leaving the rest to curl freely on her shoulders.

Then she opened her small wooden box—hand-painted, cracked at the corners.
Inside: a stub of kohl, a sliver of beeswax balm, and the faintest trace of perfume on a faded cloth.

She used the mirror to line her eyes, to darken her lashes. Dabbed a bit of perfume at her throat.
Along the bank, she spotted a patch of early berries and mixed them with her balm, giving her lips a hint of color.

Her skin, kissed by sun and weather, held a golden undertone. Freckles danced across her cheeks, giving her a softness that often made people think she was younger than she was.
But with the extra touches, the reflection in the water didn’t look like a girl anymore.

She looked like a woman. Proud. Pretty. Her stormy grey eyes seemed to glow in the sunlight.

At the bottom of the bundle, wrapped in a linen scrap, were her mother’s wedding slippers—worn at the heels, still dusted with rose ash.
Probably a bit out of style.
But they fit. And they were still nicer than her boots.

She opened the last box—the one with the jewelry.

Grace sat on the mossy bank and stared down at it for a long moment.

Across the stream, something rustled again.
She froze.

Then—just a squirrel. Darting up the trees.
She exhaled and shook her head. Nerves, she told herself.
But that heavy feeling in her belly was gone again.
Maybe she really was losing her mind.

She looked back at the box.

She’d told Matt she needed more time because she had to prep.

But the truth was simpler.

She had to become someone else.

Someone who looked like she belonged in a hall of thrones.
Someone who could sit in a circle of nobles and not be laughed out of it.
Someone who could wear this dress and not feel like an orphan girl in borrowed silk.

She was no one’s princess. Not really.

But today—she had to look the part.

She reached into the box, sliding on her mother’s ring. Hooked in the earrings. One of the village women had given her a comb, and she tucked it into the back of her braid.
Nothing matched.
But it was what she had. And she would make it work.

When she was finished, she didn’t recognize the girl staring back from the water’s edge.

She didn’t look like Grace of the Hollow.
She didn’t even look like Grace the Woven One.

She looked like a stranger.
Like a lady.
Like one of the Chosen.

She gathered her things.

Then—crack.

Something large crashed through the brush on the far bank. Much louder this time.

Grace froze, her breath catching.

She scanned the trees, but whatever it was had already vanished.

Still, the hairs on her arms stayed raised.

She tightened the towel around her shoulders and walked back to camp.

Back to Matt.
Back to the road.
Back to whatever came next.

When she stepped into the clearing and saw Matt, he didn’t smile.
Didn’t laugh.
Didn’t speak at all.

He just stared.

And for once—Grace didn’t flinch.

He had stopped cold, his eyes sweeping over her from the hem of the blue dress to the kohl lining her eyes.
His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“Wow,” he said finally. “You’re… terrifying. You actually look like a woman. Not my quasi-little sister.”

Grace arched a brow. “Terrifying?”

He nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. Like a noble lady who might poison my wine if I insult her embroidery.”

She rolled her eyes, but smiled despite herself. “You’re an idiot.”

“And yet,” he said, grabbing his saddle, “I’m the idiot escorting a goddess through the front gates.”

They mounted up in silence, nerves crawling through her body with every step Dawn took.

The road sloped gently down through a break in the trees, and the scent of hearth smoke drifted faintly on the wind. In the distance, a ridge curved up like a protective hand, cradling the land beyond it—where the capital waited.

Matt cleared his throat. “Listen. Before we get there…”

Grace turned slightly in the saddle, brows raised.

He didn’t look at her. Just kept his eyes on the trail.

“I trained here,” he said. “For three months. Ten years ago now. Just after I was first sworn in.”

Her stomach tightened. “I remember. I don’t think I ever heard Lydia whine as much as she did when you were gone.”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t ready to be what she needed yet. But that’s not the point.”
He hesitated. Then: “Look. The capital—it’s not like the rest of the kingdom. It’s older. Sharper. Everything moves faster. People speak in circles and smile with knives.”

“Sounds lovely,” Grace muttered.

Matt’s mouth twitched. “It’s not all bad. The market’s beautiful. The food’s good. And if you know where to look, the people still remember the old gods. The real ones.”

Grace fell quiet.

Ahead, the trees thinned.

Matt’s voice dropped. “The minute we pass through those gates, you’re no longer a traveler. Or a healer. Or even a girl from the borderlands. You’re one of the Chosen. Every person you meet will already think they know who you are.”

She didn’t answer.

He looked at her then, gaze steady. “So show them who you are.
Not who they expect.
Who I know you are.”

Grace nodded once.

And together, they rode toward the city.

Toward the future.

Toward the crown.

It was only a few hours later when the city gates loomed ahead—tall stone, weather-worn but still proud, flanked by guards in crested silver and blue.

Grace kept her chin high, her hands steady on the reins.

Matt leaned closer in the saddle. “Deep breath,” he murmured. “And don’t look at the guards. They’re trained to spot nerves.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Liar.”

The gates opened slowly, with a groan of iron.

And then they were inside.

The capital unfolded around them like a map unrolled: narrow streets veined with cobbled alleys, bright flags hanging from iron balconies, shopkeepers calling out wares beneath striped canopies. The scent of fresh bread mingled with smoke and horses and salt.

Grace tried not to gape.
She failed.

Matt smirked. “Alright. Quick tour while we ride.”

He gestured right with his chin. “Healer’s Row is down there—don’t go unless you need something, and bring coin if you do. Which I know you will, so go to the apothecary at the corner with the red shutters. That’s the good one.”

He pointed left. “Market Square—pickpockets everywhere, but the best spices you’ll ever find. The baker on the south side makes honey tarts Lydia would stab me to bring home. I’m stopping to get some as part of her wedding gift.”

She smiled faintly.

He nodded toward a narrower lane just off the main road. “That’s the place to avoid after sunset. Not dangerous, just… full of interest. If you’re into perfume, propositions, and diseases you can’t wash off.”

Grace wrinkled her nose. “Duly noted.”

They passed a small fountain, a boy chasing a dog through the spray. A woman sold pressed flowers from a cart beside a pair of tired-looking guards. Laundry fluttered overhead, strung between windows like pennants of ordinary life.

Matt kept narrating—street names, good inns, where the best smith worked, which alley had the fastest exit routes.

It helped.
The knowing.

Until it didn’t.

Because the road began to widen.
The crowd thinned.
And the castle rose ahead.

Grace felt it before she saw it—an invisible pressure curling in her chest. The gates were wrought iron and gilt, carved with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly in the sun. Beyond them: the sprawl of stone and slate, turrets climbing into cloud.

Her heart kicked hard.

Matt slowed his horse. Grace did the same.

Neither spoke.

Because this was it.
The end of the road.
Of shared fires and pinecone wars and whispered confessions in the dark.

She turned to him, throat tight, as they both dismounted.

Matt met her eyes. “You’ve got this.”

Her jaw trembled. “What if I don’t?”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, gently. “Then you come home. But I think… I think you’re about to show them all exactly who you are.”

Grace nodded.
Once.
Then again, blinking back tears as he pulled her close in a tight hug, kissing the top of her head.

“No matter what—I am proud of you, Gracie. We all are. If you don’t make the cut, if they don’t give you an escort—send for me. I will bring you home. Promise me.”

“I love you, Matty.” She sniffled, trying not to cry. “And I promise.”

He lifted her back onto her saddle, giving her hand one last squeeze as he passed her the reins.

Then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, and rode forward—toward the gates, toward her future, toward the crown.

Matt didn’t follow.

He just mounted his horse at the edge of the path, just beyond the reach of the castle’s shadow. His hands rested lightly on the reins, but his eyes never left her.

He watched as Grace approached the outer gate—posture steady, dress straight, hair caught neatly beneath her cloak. She looked every bit the lady her village had hoped she’d become.

Until the guards bristled.

He saw it in their body language—a shift of weight, a skeptical glance. One of them stepped forward, blocking her path with his halberd lowered just enough to be insulting.

Matt straightened in the saddle.

He saw Grace say something—heard the edge in her voice even from here. The guards didn’t move. Another muttered something that made the first one smirk.

Matt’s hand moved toward the hilt of his sword.

But Grace didn’t flinch.

She reached into her pack and pulled free a sealed parchment—the missive from the village elder, stamped with wax and sigil. Then another: the letter from the Borderlands Council. Her credentials. Her proof.

The guards read them.

Slowly.
Grudgingly.
The halberd lifted.

She led Dawn forward with a quiet dignity Matt doubted many queens could muster.

Just before she passed beneath the archway, she turned.

Her eyes found him across the distance—clear and bright, full of more weight than any girl should have had to carry.

She didn’t wave.

Didn’t smile.

Just looked.

Like it was goodbye.

And then she was gone.

The gates closed behind her with a deep, echoing thud.

Matt let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The wind shifted through the trees. Somewhere behind him, a crow called once—and then fell silent.

The road ahead was empty.

Matt turned his horse toward home.

His future was waiting for him there.

Chapter Text

The council chamber stank of polished wood, burnt oil, and old men clinging to relevance.

Steve sat at the head of the table, only half-listening as Baron Zemo droned on about tradition and ceremonial structure and the sanctity of Choosing Season—like it wasn’t just a gilded cattle market for noble daughters and ambitious houses.

He resisted the urge to grind his teeth. Barely.

He’d been on the road for nearly a month. His father’s body had barely cooled before the missives were sent, and by the time he arrived in the capital, half the Chosen were already waiting—embroidered, perfumed, and eager. Just in time for his coronation.

It was bullshit.

He shouldn’t have to marry just because tradition demanded it. Because some archaic system insisted the crown required not just a ruler—but an omega. A match. An heir.

Zemo was still talking. Something about bloodlines and the Spring Trials.

Steve’s jaw twitched. His fingers tapped once against the carved arm of his chair.

He was about to interrupt—about to tell them all exactly what they could do with their ancestral obligations—when something shifted.

The wolf woke.

Restless. Reverent. Like it had waited lifetimes for this.

It surged to the surface like it had caught a scent on the wind. Not a threat. Not danger. Not fear.

Something older.

Something soft. Sacred. Familiar.

Something his.

Steve went still. Every instinct honed by years of silence, of discipline, of pretending—flared awake in a single breath.

His omega was out there.

She had just come into power.

And he felt it.

He didn’t know how. Didn’t know where. But she was real.
Awakened. Blessed. Woven.

And the bond—long dormant—had just struck like a match behind his ribs.

Zemo kept talking.

But Steve was already elsewhere.

Not physically. Not yet. But his mind had left the room.

The Choosing had begun.

But it would not go as they expected.

Not now.

Not with her in play.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

He kept his spine straight. Kept his hands still. Kept his breathing even.

Zemo continued. Others joined in—House this, Dowry that, alliances and sacred rites. They spoke of omegas like trophies. Bloodlines like livestock.

Steve didn’t hear a word of it.

He felt the wolf pacing under his skin. Felt his senses sharpen. His pulse slow. The ancient part of him straining toward something real.

She was out there.

His omega.

And the bond—the one he thought he’d never feel—had finally stirred.

He clenched his jaw and waited.

Waited until the final parchment was passed.

Waited until the High Steward rang the old brass bell to signal adjournment.

Then Steve stood.

No royal speech. No diplomatic close.

Just this:

“I have one week before the Choosing begins. I’m taking it.”

A few nobles looked up, startled. Zemo raised an eyebrow.

Steve kept his tone cool. Controlled.

“I’ll be back for the opening ceremony. Lord Wilson will hold council in my place. Don’t summon me unless the city’s on fire.”

And before anyone could object—before Zemo could launch another monologue, or Lady Thorne could flash that sugar-sweet smirk—

He was already gone.

Boots echoing down the corridor.

⸻

Bucky and Sam caught up before Steve reached the end of the hall.

“Steve!” Sam called. “Hey—what the hell just happened in there?”

Bucky fell into stride beside him, brow drawn. “Did you finally snap, or was that something else?”

Steve didn’t slow down. His cloak swept the stone behind him, boots striking with purpose. He didn’t have time.

“She’s out there,” he said, voice low but electric.

Bucky blinked. “Who?”

“My omega,” Steve said. “I felt her. She just came into power. The bond lit up like fire and she’s—” He broke off, chest heaving with the weight of it. “She’s real. And she’s not in that godsdamned council chamber.”

Sam exhaled like he’d been punched. “Holy shit. You’re serious.”

“I’ve never been more.”

“You sure it wasn’t a false stir?” Bucky asked, but gently. “A phantom flare? You’ve waited a long time, Stevie.”

Steve looked at him then, eyes sharp and clear and burning with something older than grief.

“I know the difference,” he said.

That was all it took.

Bucky nodded once, sharp and sure. “Then we’re leaving. Now.”

Sam rubbed both hands over his face. “You’re both insane.”

“Probably,” Bucky muttered.

“But I’ll hold the fort,” Sam added, cutting across his own protest. “You’ve got six days. After that, I start making excuses.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, pausing just long enough to clasp his shoulder. “I’ll be back before the ceremony.”

Sam’s reply was gruff but fond. “Yeah, yeah. Go fetch your damn destiny, Cap.”

They were out of the palace by sundown.

Out of the gates by moonrise.

And the moment they crossed the city perimeter—

Everything shifted.

The world tilted sideways, like it had been waiting.

The air snapped clean. The trees sharpened. The wind carried something raw and pulsing and ancient.

Steve stumbled once.

Then he let go.

The wolf surged forward—not a violent transformation, but a surrender. A yielding. A welcome home.

Magic threaded through him like breath, warming his veins, sharpening every sense. His spine flexed as the wolf took lead—not tearing through skin but weaving through muscle and instinct, letting the beast run ahead with his body still intact.

His boots hit the dirt, hard.

His cloak fluttered once, then fell behind.

He was faster than wind, eyes blazing gold.

Beside him, Bucky exhaled sharply.

And shifted.

His bones reshaped, fluid and brutal.

His form compressed, then stretched—tendon to fur, breath to growl. Where a man had stood, a massive wolf now ran. Broad-shouldered, deep gray with streaks of black along the ridge of his back.

And his front left leg gleamed.

Vibranium.

Not metal bolted onto flesh, but a seamless blend—magic-forged, rune-etched, and deadly.

The Winter Wolf had come.

Not a myth.

Not anymore.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

The bond pulled like a beacon, low and pulsing and impossible to ignore.

She was out there.

And they were coming.

⸻

They ran all through the night, under a sky choked with stars.

The wind tore past them, cold and wild, but Steve barely felt it. Not with the bond humming raw against his ribs. Not with the echo of her presence thrumming in his chest like a second heartbeat.

She was awake.

Not just awake—but startled. Afraid.

It hit him all at once.

A jagged pulse of energy—fear, grief, something primal—ripped through the tether between them. His lungs seized. His footing faltered.

She had woken from a nightmare.

Or worse—into one.

Steve howled.

Long and low, the sound bursting from his chest before he could stop it.
A call laced with instinct and warning.
Need and fury.
Recognition and ache.

Where are you?

Somewhere beyond the hills, she answered.

Not with sound. Not with a voice.
But with a flicker in the bond.
A quiet press against his senses.
A tremor of startled power, soothed just enough to tell him—

She was still breathing.

Not safe. Not quite. But alive. Enduring.

She hadn’t seen him. He hadn’t reached her.

But he felt her.

And she—whatever state she was in—had felt him back.

The connection steadied. Just a little.

Like a hand on the spine. A whisper in the blood.

Not near enough to touch.

But enough to know she was holding on.

And he would find her.

Even if the world burned on the way.

⸻

He tracked her until dawn.

Her scent was faint—new, not fully awakened—but his wolf followed the threads like starlight caught on branches.

She moved through the forest with quiet purpose. Not alone.

A man walked beside her.

A beta.

Not a threat. Not even uneasy. Just alert. Protective. Familiar.

Steve didn’t growl. Didn’t bare teeth. Just watched.

Tracked.

His instincts pulled tight until he caught a clearer glimpse—and recognized him.

Matt.

Royal Guard. Born in the Healer’s Hollow, if Steve remembered right. Loyal to the bone. One of the few men Steve had ever trusted with stories from the old ways.

He’d die before letting harm come to her.

That made it easier.

Not easy.

But easier.

Still, Steve didn’t stray too far.

Couldn’t.

Every time the distance grew too wide, it hurt—like something inside his ribs was unraveling. A bone-deep ache that twisted with each step away.

And he could feel it in her too.

Even if she didn’t understand it yet.

Whenever he drew near again—just a wolf in the shadows—her body responded.

He saw it once from the cover of trees.

She paused mid-step, brow furrowed like she’d forgotten something. Then her hand moved—soft, absent—across her lower belly.

There was no change in her posture. No outward sign of awareness.

But her touch lingered.

Tender. Curious. Knowing.

Like something in her had stirred.

Like some part of her knew.

Her omega was awakening.

And it knew it’s mate was near.
____
The bandits made their move around midday.

Steve and Bucky had sensed them long before—clumsy movements, breath patterns wrong for prey animals, the sour stench of fear and opportunism laced through the wind.

They didn’t intervene.

Not immediately at least.

Steve stayed low along the ridge, eyes trained on the narrow pass below. He wanted to see how she moved. How she responded. How the world reacted to her now.

The path twisted between outcroppings of rock and bramble. Grace and Matt moved cautiously, too exposed in the open corridor.

Matt felt it first—his posture tightening, his hand drifting near the hilt of his blade. He threw a hand up in signal, body angling just enough to nudge Grace’s horse behind him as the first bandit stepped from the shadows.

Two emerged in the open.

Three more in the brush. Maybe four.

Steve’s jaw clenched.

Then came the words.

“Pretty little omega like that—bet she’s sweet when she begs.”

The wolf rose instantly.

But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Matt was faster than the insult. Steel drawn. Posture wide. Voice low and steady as he warned them once.

And then—

Grace ignited.

Not in flame, not in light—but in presence. Power shimmered at her fingertips, raw and half-formed, crackling through the air like static before a storm. The scent of magic bloomed around her—undeniable. Inborn. And she didn’t even know.

One of the men faltered.

They might have been outnumbered.

But not outclassed.

Matt stepped forward, blade arcing just enough to force them back. Grace stayed behind him, still radiating energy she didn’t she didn’t realize she was controlling.

The bandits hesitated.

Then turned.

Retreating, spitting curses.

One of them hissed over his shoulder, “Whore.”

That was the last mistake he ever made.

Steve moved.

No roar. No sound. Just motion—precise and brutal.

The shift took him mid-leap—muscles stretching, paws landing silent on damp earth. He cut through the trees like smoke, targeting the flank.

He wasn’t aiming for the loudest one.

He was aiming for the one sneaking behind the ridge. The one circling toward Grace’s exposed side. The one thinking no one had noticed.

Claws sank into flesh.

Teeth locked around bone.

It was over before the man could scream.

Bucky flanked the others—just as silent. Just as fast.

No cries. No warnings. Just chaos buried in silence.

The forest swallowed the violence whole.

By the time Matt turned to check the shadows again, the bandits were already gone—scattered or dead.

He didn’t question it.

He simply sheathed his blade and muttered something low to Grace. She exhaled slowly, her power ebbing, shoulders tense but steady.

They kept walking.

But before she moved, she paused.

Fingers brushed across her stomach—light, uncertain.

Her brow furrowed. She glanced toward the trees.

Steve froze where he crouched, half-shrouded in undergrowth, the taste of blood still on his tongue.

Her gaze passed over him—but didn’t linger.

She hadn’t seen him.

Not fully.

But something in her knew.

He could feel it in the bond—a soft flutter, like a whisper behind the ribs. An instinctual question not yet formed.

He stayed still.

Watched her go.

And when the path was clear again, he turned to Bucky.

The other wolf stood silent nearby, coat streaked with dust, his vibranium leg catching faint light.

No words passed between them.

They vanished back into the trees—ghosts with teeth.

___
They followed her for the remainder of the day until just after sunset when they set up camp.

A thicket of birch and thistle, smoke rising soft and steady against the darkening sky. The scent hit first—cinders, dried herbs, something sweet beneath it. And her.

Steve crouched low behind a moss-covered log, breath tight in his chest.

She was close. So close he could hear the crackle of her fire. The rhythm of her breath. Her voice—low, uncertain—carried on the breeze.

“They could’ve taken me,” she murmured.

Steve flinched.

“They didn’t,” came the reply. A man’s voice. Calm, grounded. Protective.

Steve’s wolf snarled low in his gut.

He shifted forward, silent as shadow, just enough to glimpse her through the undergrowth. She sat curled near the fire, arms wrapped around her knees. Her hair was loose. Her eyes too tired for someone so powerful.

His omega.

She didn’t know.

Not yet.

She pressed a hand to her abdomen—slow, uncertain. As if she was afraid of what she might find there.

“Doesn’t feel safe either,” she whispered.

Steve’s hands clenched into the earth. The bond ached like a bruise.

Beside her, the man—Matt—watched her with a strange mix of worry and reverence. His body was relaxed, but his senses weren’t. Steve could see it. Smell it.

Matt knew something was off.

The wolf in him was stirring.

Steve dropped lower into the brush, pulse heavy in his throat.

They hadn’t been spotted.

But they were known.

Bucky crouched beside him, wolf-form barely visible in the shadows. His breath was even, but his muscles were coiled tight.

Not yet, Steve thought.

They couldn’t rush in—not like this. She was unsteady. Raw. Her magic still new and humming with uncertainty.

But gods—he wanted to go to her. Kneel at her feet. Press his forehead to her belly and promise she would never be alone again.

Instead, he waited.

Watched.

Listened.

Until the fire burned low and she lay down beside the man, curled into herself.

The wolf inside Steve snarled again.

But the man in him held still.

Tomorrow.

⸻

They found the boy just after dawn.

Steve smelled the blood before they crested the ridge. Feral. Metallic. Wrong.

He and Bucky paused, crouched in the cover of tangled pine. Below, a figure slumped at the base of a tree—limp, broken, forgotten. Barely more than a kid. The copper scent of sepsis hung thick in the air.

Steve’s gut twisted.

He could feel her before he saw her.

Grace slid from her horse with barely a sound, movements swift and certain. Matt called after her—protective, wary—but she didn’t pause. She was already kneeling, fingers unfastening her satchel, voice low and calm and focused.

“She’s going to help him,” Steve whispered.

Bucky shifted beside him in the brush, wolf-form tense.

“She shouldn’t,” he replied.

“She will,” Steve said. “She already has.”

Grace worked in silence, hands practiced and sure. Steve couldn’t look away. Not from the way she mixed feverroot without measuring, or the way her power hummed in the air—low and steady, like a song only he could hear.

She pressed her hand to the boy’s chest. Magic stirred beneath her skin.

The wolf inside Steve howled.

She was healing a stranger.

Giving her strength to someone who couldn’t repay it.

He gritted his teeth. The bond ached like a pulled muscle—longing, warning, need.

“She’s going to cost herself,” Bucky murmured.

“I know,” Steve whispered.

And yet he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She was radiant in her mercy.

And he was already hers.

They trailed behind as she and Matt continued—slower now, with the boy tied into Matt’s saddle. The gelding didn’t like it. Kept shifting, snorting, uneasy.

Smart animal. It knew they weren’t alone.

So did she.

Steve saw it in the stiff line of her shoulders. The way her fingers tightened on the reins. The way her gaze drifted toward the woods even when she tried not to look.

She felt them.

Not clearly. Not yet.

But enough.

By the time they reached the glade, the sun had dropped low behind the trees, turning everything gold and gray. Bucky stayed to the north, running the perimeter. Steve kept to the shadow of the ash grove, close enough to hear the crackle of their fire.

Grace checked the boy’s wounds again. Her touch was gentle. Intent. She murmured something Steve couldn’t hear, but her energy had softened.

The fever was breaking.

Steve let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Matt handed her tea. She curled around it, palms cradling the mug like a hearthstone.

“You could’ve left him,” Matt said.

Steve froze, body taut.

She didn’t.

“Then anyone else shouldn’t be Chosen,” she replied.

Steve’s heart cracked open.

There. That.

That was why he had felt her in his soul before he ever laid eyes on her.

She was power.

She was grace.

She was his.

And he was going to earn her.

No matter how long it took.

He slipped further into the shadows, the scent of bitterleaf and moss clinging to the edge of his memory.

The fire burned low.

She stared into it, quiet and steady, as if she already knew she was being seen.

_____

The sun hadn’t quite broken through the clouds, but the scent of rain was already in the air.

Steve crouched at the edge of a rocky outcropping, watching as Grace packed up camp. She moved slower than the day before—tired, cautious. Her hands trembled slightly as she tied down the saddle bags.

Matt was watching her. The boy slept fitfully, tethered to the other horse. Bucky lingered just out of range, half-shifted—wolf eyes, human form, quiet as smoke.

“She didn’t sleep much,” Bucky said softly, stepping up beside Steve. “Neither did he.”

Steve didn’t respond right away. He was watching the way Grace’s fingers hovered over her abdomen before she caught herself and moved on.

“She’s unraveling,” Steve murmured. “Still trying to hold everything together.”

“You going to keep hiding behind tree branches forever?” Bucky asked, arms crossed. “You look like a half-feral stalker.”

Steve exhaled. “There’s a villa about a mile and a half east. Royal property. Still in use, if the reports were right.”

“You’re going to it,” Bucky said flatly.

Steve nodded. “If I’m going to show myself… I can’t look like I’ve been crawling through the woods for four days.”

“She won’t care.”

“I will.”

Bucky eyed him. “You’re serious.”

“I’m going to ride out and intercept them at the fork. Clean. Armed. In control.”

“And if she recognizes you?”

“She won’t. Not fully. Not yet. But I need her to feel it. I need her to see me and not know why she can’t breathe.”

Bucky gave him a long, low look. “You’re a damn romantic, Rogers.”

“I’m not going to claim her,” Steve said, adjusting the strap across his chest. “Not yet. But I’m not hiding anymore.”

“You’re ditching me. Let me guess I’m staying with her,” Bucky warned.

“That’s why I’m telling you.”

Steve stood, finally turning from the sight of her. “Don’t let them out of your sight.”

Bucky tilted his head, expression softening for just a moment. “You really think this is it?”

Steve nodded. “I know it is.”

Bucky let out a breath. “Go. I’ve got them.”

Steve pressed a hand to his friend’s shoulder—a quiet thank you—and then melted into the trees, already angling east.

______

By the time Steve had cleaned, changed and had the horse saddled the sky had soured.

The kind of green-yellow haze that made animals bolt and mothers pray. The wind moved too fast. The trees bent too low. Steve tasted copper in the air. Lightning was coming. Big. Wild. The kind that didn’t care who it broke.

He’d scouted ahead early that morning, following the bond like a taut string through the woods. It pulled sharper now. Clearer. She was close—so close he could feel the rhythm of her breath beneath his skin.

And then he heard the horses.

Three. Two awake. One tethered.

He slowed his mount just before the bend.

And then he saw her.

Grace.

Sitting tall but worn, hood up against the wind, a streak of hair blown loose across her cheek. She pulled her horse to a stop with practiced calm, but her shoulders stiffened the moment she laid eyes on him.

Their eyes met.

The bond hummed.

A lightning strike in his chest—swift and scorching and holy.

Her hand tightened around the reins.

Steve kept his posture loose. Nonthreatening. Cloak drawn. Leathers clean.

“Afternoon,” he called, voice smooth despite the roar in his blood. “Didn’t mean to startle.”

The man beside her—had his hand on his blade. Good instincts.

“Strange place for a ride,” he challenged.

Steve nodded once. “Strange time for it. Storm’s coming in behind me. Thought I’d get ahead of it. Mind if I ride with you until the fork?”

He kept his gaze steady—but not locked.

It was agony.

She was staring at him like she was seeing something through him. Like her body recognized him before her mind could catch up.

And gods help him, he felt it too.

Not just the bond. But something deeper. Prophetic. Her aura was flaring at the edges, magic cracking like static around her frame.

Then it hit.

A pulse of power. A shimmer behind her eyes.

She saw something.

Not him exactly—but something woven through him.

She swayed.

Steve’s heart stopped.

“Grace?” Matt’s voice was sharp.

“I’m fine,” she said. Too fast. Too thin.

Steve tilted his head slightly. Forced only mild concern into his voice. “You alright, miss?”

Matt cut him off. “She’s fine.”

She echoed it like a reflex. “I’m fine.”

But her knuckles were white.

Steve raised his hands in apology. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

But then he stayed.

He rode beside them in silence, every breath a war between stay and speak.

He didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t tell her that he’d dreamed of her voice since the day the bond flared awake.

Instead, he let her feel it.

Not fully.

Just enough.

When the fork finally came—one road curling toward the capital, the other south—he reined in.

“Safe travels,” he said.

Then, just for her:

“And good luck in your journey.”

He bowed his head. Slight. Deep enough to mean something.

Then turned his horse and rode into the trees.

The storm cracked open behind him.

He didn’t look back.

But he felt it.

The moment the pressure returned. The weight in her core. The ache.

She had felt him.

She just didn’t know what to call it yet.

Not yet.

But soon.

They reached the village by midmorning.

Steve circled wide through the trees, staying downwind, soaked to the bone and silent as stone. Bucky had rejoined him briefly at sunrise before falling back again—scouting a southern route, watching for threats, giving Steve space he hadn’t asked for but clearly needed.

They’d ridden hard through the night, but the storm still hunted them.

He watched from the ridge as Grace dismounted, cloak snapping in the wind. She didn’t rest. Didn’t seek shelter. She went straight to the boy—checking his bandages, smoothing his fevered hair, speaking in that low, steady voice she used when she thought no one was listening.

Steve was always listening.

He followed them again when they left—riding straight into the jaws of the storm.

By the time she found the cave, Steve was drenched and half-feral with restraint. The sky had cracked open above them. Lightning streaked like a blade across the hills. The rain fell sideways, sharp and cold.

But inside the cave, it was still.

Steve didn’t enter.

He curled beneath the thick branches of an overgrown pine just outside, body low to the ground, watching through the downpour with amber eyes.

He saw her shake out her cloak. Saw Matt tend the horses, build the fire. Saw her sit and try to eat—but she barely touched the food.

She was shivering.

Not from the cold.

He felt the shift in her—magic rising, memory flickering.

She’s seeing something, he thought. Something true.

Her voice was soft, almost lost to the rain, but Steve heard it.

“I saw something. In him. I think.”

He went still.

“A crown. Blood. A child. I think it was mine.”

The air punched out of his lungs.

He lowered his head, closing his eyes against the ache.

She saw the child.

She saw the crown.

And yet she didn’t know it was him.

Not yet.

He opened his eyes again. Watched as Matt handed her a blanket. Watched her lean against him like she’d done it a thousand times.

Steve didn’t move.

Didn’t growl. Didn’t shift.

Just watched.

Watched and burned.

Matt kissed her head. Whispered something Steve couldn’t fully hear—but Grace’s answer came clear:

“I just don’t know if it’ll be enough.”

He could almost feel her weight against his chest. Hear her heartbeat. Taste the truth of her scent without wind or rain between them.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t breach the cave.

Didn’t claim what wasn’t his to claim.

Not yet.

Instead, he lay in the mud and the dark, letting the storm soak through his coat, his skin, his soul.

Because she didn’t need a stranger in the night.

She needed a king who could outwait the storm.

A mate who could burn without touching.

A wolf who knew the difference between hunger and honor.

The rain beat down like war drums.

And still—he watched.

Every breath he took was a vow:

Soon.

Soon.

The storm had passed by dawn.

The forest gleamed with quiet aftermath—wet earth, broken branches, silvered leaves still trembling from the night’s fury. Steve padded silently through the underbrush, paws sinking into soft moss. Petrichor curled thick in the air, mingling with the faintest trace of smoke.

She had slept.

Not deeply, not long. But enough to soften the lines around her mouth.

He’d watched her stir awake to the sound of dripping water and the low sigh of her horse beside her. Watched her fingers curl around Matt’s cloak before she even opened her eyes.

They moved with practiced ease—packing, brushing down the horses, folding damp wool and tightening saddles. Grace never rushed, but never lingered either. Her hands were steady again.

By the time they rode out, the wind had calmed. The storm had swept east.

And Steve followed, no longer hiding his trail.

He kept his distance. Close enough to watch. Far enough not to be noticed.

They passed through open fields by midday—wildflowers at the edges, tree shadows striping the grass. The air smelled clean. New. The kind of day that could almost make a man forget war, prophecy, and obligation.

She rode with her shoulders loose for the first time in days.

It nearly broke him.

No visions. No injuries. Just motion. Just sunlight on her skin and laughter in her voice.

Matt whistled something terrible. She laughed—actually laughed—and tossed a pinecone at him. Steve’s wolf ears twitched at the sound. It was so normal. So human.

So far from the weight she carried.

He watched her eyes go soft later, turned toward the sky. Watched her thumb brush the saddle horn like she was holding a memory in her palm.

He wondered what—or who—she was thinking about.

Her mother, maybe. Her fallen. Her future.

Him?

He’d give anything to know.

But he wasn’t part of her thoughts yet.

He was still just a shadow on the wind.

That night, they camped beside a winding stream.

Steve lay curled in the bracken on the ridge above, camouflaged by dusk and the slope of the land. He watched her fingers twist into her cloak. Watched her stare into the fire, lips barely parted like she was about to ask something—but didn’t.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

Matt nodded. “Tomorrow.”

Steve swallowed hard.

The capital waited just beyond the rise.

So did duty. So did legacy. So did everything he’d spent years trying to avoid—until she made him want to walk straight into it and tear it down if it meant earning her trust.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t close the gap.

Didn’t speak.

He just watched.

Listened.

And waited.

One more night.

And then—

The Choosing.

But not in the way they planned.

The stream wound gently past their camp, catching the first light like strands of silver thread. Mist rose in soft curls from the moss and pooled in the hollowed banks. Birds stirred in the trees, singing as if they, too, understood this day would not be ordinary.

Steve waited in the brush beyond the far bank, paws sunk deep into wet earth, breath still as stone.

Grace crouched beside the firepit, rolling blankets with careful precision, movements practiced and quiet. No visions today. No fear. But something in her was pulling taut.

She was preparing.

He felt it like a shift in gravity.

Matt emerged with a yawn, muttered something about the cold, and disappeared toward the water. Grace lingered. Then rose, slowly. Her fingers hovered over her satchel like it held something sacred.

Steve watched her walk toward the stream—alone.

She stepped into the shallows like a rite.

And when she submerged—shoulders vanishing beneath the current, curls dark with river water—Steve felt the moment break.

She was washing something away.

He crouched lower in the brush, heat thrumming through his limbs.

He should look away.

He didn’t.

Not out of lust—never that—but reverence.

She scrubbed herself raw. Hair, arms, the faint trace of blood beneath her nails. He’d seen warriors do the same before battle. But this? This wasn’t just cleansing.

It was a burial.

She emerged wrapped in a towel, shivering, alone.

Steve’s breath caught when she opened the bundle.

The dress.

Ink-blue linen. Soft and regal. But simple. She held it like it might turn to ash in her hands.

And then she put it on.

Piece by piece, she constructed herself.

The braid. The ribbon. The mirror. Her mother’s slippers. A smear of crushed berries to her lips. Kohl to her eyes.

She was still Grace.

But the Grace he’d first found in the forest—the one covered in dirt and sweat, sharp-tongued and golden-eyed—was fading with every layer.

He grieved it even as he adored her.

She sat on the moss and stared at the box. Jewelry. Trinkets. Nothing matched. But she wore it all with the kind of quiet grace no court could teach.

Steve’s wolf heart ached.

He didn’t know how to breathe through it.

And when she finally looked into the water—

When she didn’t recognize her own reflection—

Neither did he.

Not because she wasn’t hers anymore.

But because she was becoming something else.

Something she didn’t want to be.

He took a step forward.

A branch cracked beneath his paw—too loud.

She froze.

Looked up.

Looked straight toward him.

His pulse hammered in his ears.

But a squirrel darted up a tree, saving him. She shook her head and muttered something to herself—nerves, probably.

She wrapped the towel tighter and turned back toward camp.

Back to Matt.

Back to the road.

Back to the palace that would ask her to play a part.

Steve stayed where he was, muscles locked.

He could still taste the storm from two nights ago. Could still hear her voice saying I just don’t know if it’ll be enough.

And now, as she vanished between the trees in her borrowed armor and orphaned linen—

He wasn’t sure it would be either.

But he would be there.

He would see her through it.

Even if she never knew he had followed her through every mile of this road.

Even if she never knew that the wild had already claimed her.

The road had begun to widen by the time he stepped out of the corridor and onto the high stone terrace, tucked just above the outer gate.

From this vantage, he could see everything: the split in the trees, the curve of the road, the gilded iron gates with their ancient sigils still faintly pulsing in the morning light.

The crowd had already begun to gather beyond the second wall. Nobles. Advisors. Curious onlookers. All of them waiting for the procession of the Chosen.

But Steve wasn’t watching the road for them.

He didn’t need fanfare.

He felt her long before she appeared.

The bond thrummed like a struck chord.

And then—

She crested the final rise.

Ink-blue linen.

Braided hair.

Chin lifted like she belonged here—and couldn’t quite believe it.

Steve went still.

She didn’t see him. Not tucked into shadow, not above the gate.

But he saw her.

And gods help him, he wanted to run to her.

To open the gates himself. To walk down the stairs and help her down from that horse and tell her she didn’t need to prove a damn thing to anyone.

But he didn’t move.

He stayed where he was.

Watched as Matt dismounted beside her, saw the moment they leaned close—foreheads pressed, hands trembling between them.

Steve’s jaw tightened.

Not out of jealousy.

But because this was her goodbye.

The end of the road that had held her steady. The last touch of something safe.

She blinked hard and nodded. Twice. Let him lift her onto her horse like a child preparing for war.

And then she turned toward the gates.

Alone.

Steve’s hands curled at his sides as the guards shifted.

He saw the moment they stiffened—the subtle lowering of the halberd. The narrowed eyes. The arrogant slant of a smirk.

She was too small.

Too quiet.

Too new.

They thought she didn’t belong.

Steve took one step forward.

He didn’t need to call down. Didn’t need to speak.

Because she already had it handled.

Grace pulled the letters from her satchel with calm, deliberate hands. Held them steady despite the cold, despite the weight.

Credentials.

Authority.

Proof.

The guards read them—slowly, reluctantly.

But they moved.

The halberd lifted.

And she walked through like a storm in silk.

Unshaken. Unapologetic.

He exhaled only when she passed under the archway.

Just before the shadow swallowed her, she turned.

She didn’t look at the guards.

She didn’t look at the crowd.

She looked back.

Across the distance.

Steve’s breath caught.

She wasn’t looking at him—not really. She was looking toward Matt, toward the forest, toward everything she had just left behind.

But for one aching moment, her eyes passed over the stone terrace where he stood, hidden in the carved shadows of the high corridor.

And something in the bond pulled.

Not recognition. Not yet.

But something ancient.

Something real.

Then she was gone.

The gates closed behind her with a slow, echoing thud.

The sound traveled down his spine like a final note of a song that wasn’t his.

Steve let out a breath.

Straightened his shoulders.

And turned toward the Hall.

Because she was inside now.

And the Choosing had begun.

Chapter Text

The palace was colder than she expected.

Not in temperature—but in welcome.

No one greeted her.

No stewards with scrolls. No pages offering guidance. No hushed voices murmuring Ah, one of the Chosen. Just guards who barely looked twice and a few staff who nodded absently before moving on.

She might as well have been invisible.

Grace adjusted her pack over one shoulder, keeping her spine straight as she stepped deeper into the wide entry corridor. The stone beneath her boots was smooth with centuries of footsteps—chill against her soles, echoing each step like a judgment. Columns lined the walls like sentries. Grand. Impersonal. The air smelled faintly of oil and old ash.

In her finest dress—blue linen, carefully mended—she looked more like a servant than a suitor.

The other women were easy to spot.

They swept through the courtyard like painted queens—draped in silks and scented powders, trailing maids and trunks and airs of entitlement. Grace counted no less than three carriages being unloaded for one girl. Another had lace on her horse blanket.

No one looked her way.

And that suited her just fine.

Mostly.

She needed to find the stables. And figure out where she was supposed to sleep. And preferably not get trampled by whichever duchess decided she owned the flagstones.

Dawn huffed beside her, tossing her head, and Grace reached to calm her with one hand.

“I know,” she murmured. “We’ll find it. Just give me a second to—”

She turned the corner—too fast, too distracted—and slammed into someone.

Tall. Solid. Warm.

Her breath caught as her fingers curled instinctively in the rough weave of a cloak not meant for ceremony but for storms.

She stumbled back, startled, eyes flying up—

And the world stopped.

Him.

The quiet traveler from the road. The one who rode beside her for half a morning and said almost nothing. The one who felt too still. Too aware. The one who vanished with barely a word.

He was broader than she remembered. Closer. His jaw was rough with stubble. His hair tousled by wind, not ceremony. And his eyes—

Deep, storm blue.

She stared, caught.

And in that breath, he blinked—slowly—and his gaze swept across her face like a tide. The scent of river and fire still clung to her skin. Something in him stirred.

And for the first time, he noticed her eyes.

Grey. Not pale. Not weak. Silvered, storm-soaked grey. Like clouds right before lightning strikes.

The bond didn’t snap into place. Not yet.

But it thrummed.

Low and deep, under thought, under bone. A pulse neither of them named.

Neither moved.

She didn’t speak.

He didn’t breathe.

And then—

A cough.

Low. Meaningful. Exasperated.

Steve didn’t look away, but his mouth twitched—barely.

“Grace,” he said, voice low and even. “You made it.”

Her brows pulled in slightly. “You remember my name?”

“Hard to forget.”

Behind him, a man stepped into view—dark hair, sharper eyes, mouth already curled in amusement.

“If you two are done having a moment,” Bucky muttered, “maybe we can tell her where the hell she’s supposed to go.”

Grace blinked, finally pulling back a fraction.

“Wait… who—” she looked between them. “Who are you?”

Steve smiled, just enough to make something warm crawl up her spine.

“I’m someone who’s very glad you’re here.”

He shifted first, one hand reaching gently for Dawn’s reins.

“I’ll take her to the stables,” he said. “She’ll be well looked after. They’re just around the corner—she won’t be far.”

His voice was steady. Reassuring.

Grace hesitated, one hand still resting on the mare’s flank.

“Are… are you sure?”

He nodded, gaze flicking briefly to her fingers before meeting her eyes again.

“I promise. She’ll be brushed, fed, watered. A stall of her own.”

There was something about the way he said it that made her believe him.

Slowly, she stepped back.

Behind her, the other man—Bucky—lifted her satchel from her shoulder like it weighed nothing. Then her second bag. Then the third.

All at once.

Grace blinked at him.

“I could’ve—”

“I know,” he said, not unkindly. “But I’ve got it.”

He started walking, not waiting for her to argue.

She looked from him to the quiet stranger now leading her horse away, and thought—not for the first time—

…maybe it really is that easy for people like them.

⸻

Bucky led her through the main corridor, his steps easy despite the weight slung over his back.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he said as they walked. “I’m… around. If you need anything.”

Grace glanced at him. “That’s vague.”

He grinned. “Intentionally.”

He nodded toward an arched doorway. “Dining’s through there. Formal meals only. Otherwise, you’ll find the kitchens open late.”

Another hall. “Training grounds out that way—open to everyone, even the Chosen. Especially the ones who want to survive court.”

She half-smiled at that.

They passed a series of drawing rooms, open courtyards, and stone staircases wound like ribbon. And every hallway—every single one—was full of women. Draped in brocade, feathered hairpins, painted lips. Laughing too loudly. Watching everything.

They preened like peacocks Prepared to perform on a moments notice,

Grace glanced down at her own dress—blue linen, damp at the hem, creased from the ride. Not barely jewel especially nothing like the gaudy jewels they wore.

Bucky caught the look.

“Don’t worry,” he said lightly. “There are other options waiting in your room. You can wear whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Her throat tightened a little, but she didn’t answer. But in her head she thought that she was comfortable before she got here.

They turned into a smaller hall—quieter, older, lined with tapestries instead of mirrors.

“Most of the Chosen are staying near the main court,” Bucky said, pausing in front of a carved door. “But Ste—” he caught himself, cleared his throat lightly— “the court thought you might like a little more peace.”

Grace blinked. “So I’m not being… exiled?”

He snorted. “Not unless you consider quiet halls and thicker walls a curse. You’re not the only one down here—just the newest. Everyone on this floor earned a bit of breathing room.”

Something in his tone—wry, but kind—eased the tight coil in her chest. He wasn’t mocking her. He meant it.

He opened the door and stepped aside.

“This is yours.”

The door swung open with a soft creak.

Grace stepped inside.

And stopped.

It wasn’t lavish in the gaudy, gilded way she’d expected.
It was… intentional.

The fire had already been lit, casting warm light across polished floors and deep green tapestries embroidered with silver thread. A velvet-upholstered chair stood beside the hearth, and thick rugs cushioned every step. The walls were stone, yes—but softened with rich textures, carved wood accents, and a quiet stillness that made the space feel settled.

Safe.

The bed was enormous—larger than any she’d ever seen—piled high with furs and fine linens. Not just a guest’s bed. A sovereign’s.

A writing desk, stocked with ink and parchment, faced a window that overlooked the east gardens. Books lined a low shelf nearby—bound in leather and cloth, their spines worn by use, not show.

Against the far wall stood a wardrobe carved with winding symbols she didn’t recognize—ancient and watchful.

This wasn’t a spare room.
It wasn’t even just a Chosen’s room.

This was a room meant for a royalty.

Bucky stepped in behind her and gestured to a second door, half-hidden behind a velvet curtain.

“Bath’s through there. Hot water’s already drawn.”

She turned to him, eyes wide, voice quiet.

“Why is this room empty?”

Bucky smiled, setting her bags down with careful ease.

“It’s obviously not.”

He nodded toward the rope near the bed.

“If you need anything, pull that. Someone will come.”

He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder before stepping into the hall.

“Dinner’s at seven. That’s when the ceremony starts.”

Her breath caught. “Already?”

“Yep. Moves fast,” he said, and then his voice softened just slightly. “I’ll send someone to help you get ready in a couple hours.”

And then— He looked at her. Really looked.

Like he saw something in her she didn’t know existed.

“Try to relax. Soak in the tub, read a book, take a nap. This is all going to be okay. Grace. I promise.”

And then he was gone.

Grace stood there for a long moment, holding the cup between both hands.

The tea was warm.

The room smelled of fire… and something else.

Leather. Pine. The faintest trace of something warm and clean—like sun-warmed linen and woodsmoke after rain. Familiar, though she couldn’t place it. Not exactly.

It smelled like comfort.

Like the feeling she’d had, just for a second, when she hit the traveler in the hall and the world tilted on its axis.

She didn’t understand it. But she didn’t question it either.

She sank into the chair by the hearth, exhaling slowly as her shoulders finally uncoiled.

And for the first time in days…
She let herself sit.
She let herself breathe.

She was warm.
She was alone.
And somehow—she wasn’t afraid.

Evidently, Grace moved slowly through the room, her fingers grazing every surface like they might vanish if she blinked too hard. The velvet of the chair. The smooth grain of the carved desk. The fur throw still warm from the fire’s reach.

The scent of the room clung to her skin—woodsmoke, clean linen, and something richer beneath it. Leather, maybe. Or the memory of sunlit forests after rain. She didn’t know why it felt familiar.

But it did.

The fire crackled behind her. The heavy door stayed closed. The quiet stretched.

She wasn’t used to silence feeling like a gift.

To the right of the bed—half-tucked behind a tapestry—she found another door. She pushed it open carefully and froze.

A sitting room.

Not a shared space. Not a hall with benches and strangers.

A real sitting room—just hers.

A velvet sofa curved toward the hearth. A tray of fruit and warm bread rested on a low table. There was a writing desk, another set of books, and by the window, a cushioned alcove wide enough to curl up in, draped with soft blankets and facing the garden.

It wasn’t what she’d expected.

She’d imagined a cot and stone walls. A basin and a curtain. Maybe a bench if she was lucky.

But this?

This was the kind of room someone would live in.
Not pass through.
Not borrow.
Live.

⸻

She crossed back to the other side of the main room and opened the bathroom door.

It was like something out of a dream.

Stone floors, warm beneath her bare feet. Shelves lined with folded towels and vials of amber oils. And the tub—gods, the tub.

Carved from smooth slate, deep enough to disappear into. Steam drifted in slow curls, catching the light.

But what made her stop—what made her step closer with a hand half-raised to her lips—was the thin copper lever tucked just beside it.

She reached for it, tentative.

Turned.

And gasped.

Water poured out—hot. Steady. Controlled.

Not a cistern. Not a carried bucket. Not boiled in a pot and cooled on stone.

Running water. In a room. On command.

She laughed—once, breathless and astonished—and leaned down to test the heat.

Perfect.

⸻

By the time she returned to the main room, her hair was damp and loose, her skin flushed from warmth and lavender oil. She wore one of the soft linen gowns folded neatly in the wardrobe, and carried her old clothes in a tidy bundle like they might shatter if she dropped them.

She crossed the room slowly—then all at once darted to the velvet chair and dropped her things onto the cushion with a muffled squeak of excitement.

Then: she spun. A full circle. A wild, stunned twirl like a child in a market square.

And then she caught herself—froze mid-step.

Because it was too nice.

The fire. The bed. The steam-soft air. The scent of lavender and cedar and something unplaceably warm.

It was too much.
Too quiet.
Too perfect.
Too good.

Her stomach flipped. Her chest tightened with it.

But the room didn’t vanish. The floor didn’t fall away.

No one burst in to tell her there’d been a mistake.

So—very slowly—she moved toward the bed and sat on the edge.

Then eased herself down.

Then finally, with a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, she let go.

The mattress caught her like a sigh. The pillows welcomed her weight. The blanket curled around her like it knew her shape.

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time since leaving the Hollow—

She felt safe.
Held.

Even if she didn’t know by whom.
Even if she wasn’t ready to believe what the voice in her chest was whispering.

Not yet.
____

The sun dipped low beyond the palace walls, casting long golden streaks across the stone floor where Steve stood—arms folded, unmoving—staring out the narrow tower window.

He hadn’t moved in nearly an hour.

Below, the courtyards bustled with motion and pageantry. Carriages jostled. Staff scurried. Nobles fluttered through the palace grounds in silks and satin, loud and lacquered like overfed birds.

The Choosing was already in motion—even if the formal ceremony was still hours away.

But none of it mattered.

Not compared to her.

He could still feel the bond—low and steady, humming just beneath his ribs.
Not a flare. Not a pull.
Just presence.

Warm. Real. Close.

“You’re going to break the railing if you keep gripping it like that,” Bucky said behind him, dry.

Steve didn’t turn. “She made it inside?”

“I walked her to the door myself,” Bucky replied. “Room’s perfect. Bath was hot. She hasn’t bolted.”

Steve’s shoulders loosened a fraction.

“And Natasha will go to her in a few hours. Help her dress. Answer questions. Keep the other vultures away.”

Now Steve turned—slowly.

“You trust her with Nat?”

Bucky’s mouth tugged into a half-smirk. “You know I’d trust her with the world.
Much less your queen.”

He let the words hang in the air for a beat.

“She’ll be protected, Steve. Taken care of. She has support. And so do you, Stevie.”

Steve exhaled, rough and quiet, and ran a hand over his jaw.

“She doesn’t even know who I am.”

“She’ll figure it out,” Bucky said, stepping closer.

“And when she does…”
He shrugged, like it was the simplest truth in the world.
“She’ll choose you anyway.”

Chapter Text

The bath had done its job.

Grace’s skin was flushed, clean, warm. Her hair hung damp over her shoulders, curls softening as they dried. She stood in one of the soft white linen shifts folded on the bathroom shelf, bare feet sinking into the plush rug as she faced the open doors again.

She hadn’t meant to open it.

Not yet.

But curiosity—and dread—had won.

And now she just stared.

The dresses inside looked like they belonged in stories. Or on stage. Or behind glass.

Not on someone like her.

There were silks the color of crushed berries. Gowns stitched with beads so fine she could barely see the thread holding them. Necklines that dipped scandalously low, sleeves that fluttered like wings. One dress shimmered green and silver like sunlight on riverwater. Another was deep violet with embroidery that spiraled like constellations.

They were beautiful.

And entirely, laughably impractical.

She crossed her arms, linen brushing against her forearms. The shift was plain, utilitarian—clean, but simple. The kind of thing worn under dresses like these. Or by girls who cleaned up after women who wore them.

In the mirror’s reflection, she caught herself: damp hair, bare feet, linen shift wrinkled from sitting. She looked like a maid who’d wandered into the wrong room.

Slowly, she reached for the nearest gown—berry-colored silk, gleaming faintly in the firelight. Her fingers brushed the sleeve.

Softer than petals.

It caught on the rough skin of her knuckles.

She jerked her hand back like it burned.

And then her gaze drifted—past the silks, the glitter, the glint of polished finery—toward the back of the wardrobe.

There, half in shadow, hung something different.

Ink-dark blue. Heavy fabric. Simple lines. No beading. No frills. No sparkle.

Just presence.

Grace stared at it. Something tugged low in her chest.

Faint. Familiar.

The same pulse she’d felt when she collided with the traveler in the corridor. That strange weight beneath her ribs.

Not a voice. Not a message.

Just… gravity.

She didn’t reach for it. Not yet.

But she didn’t look away either.

Even if she picked one, there was no way she could get into it alone.

The corset laces alone would take two pairs of hands. Maybe three. And how the hell did anyone sit with bone stays up to their ribs?

She exhaled, slow and measured, trying not to let the sudden swell of panic get too big.

The room was still warm. Still soft. Still safe.

But for the first time since arriving,
it felt like a stage.

And she wasn’t sure what part she was supposed to play.

She chose the least complicated dress she could find.

Which, to be clear, still had twenty buttons, an underskirt, and a neckline that required strategic breathing.

It was deep blue—darker than her travel dress, edged with embroidery that looked like vines twisting toward the stars. Grace picked it because it reminded her of home. Of moonlit fields and summer skies.

She didn’t pick it for the boning.

Or the hooks.

Or the fact that it seemed to require either a servant or supernatural intervention to get into.

Still.

She laid it carefully across the bed and tried. Really tried.

She got one arm in.

Maybe half of the second.

And then—

“Ugh—*dammit—*wait—”

She twisted sideways. The bodice collapsed. One ribbon wound around her elbow instead of her back. The skirt puddled at her feet like it was mocking her.

She was halfway tangled, trying not to fall face-first into the hearth, when someone knocked.

Three sharp taps.

Grace froze—half-strangled by fabric and pride.

“One Moment!” she called, probably louder than necessary.

A pause.

Then, through the door—

“Unless you’re planning to wear the curtain instead, I’d suggest letting me in.”

A woman’s voice. Cool. Crisp. Unbothered.

Grace blinked. “Who—?”

“Natasha Romanov ,” came the reply. “I’m here to help, I was sent by the ki... I was sent by the steward.”

Grace looked down at the dress—somehow now inside out and bunched around her knees—and muttered a quiet, heartfelt prayer.

Then she stumbled to the door, dragging the mangled fabric behind her, clutching one of the blankets from the bed over her chest like a shield.

The woman standing there was… not what she expected.

Red hair braided back. Black fitted jacket over tunics and leather leggings. She looked like she belonged in a duel, not a dressing room. Sharp eyes. Quiet confidence.

Danger. Poise. Purpose.

And—thank the stars—a sense of humor.

Natasha took one look at the chaos of silk, blanket, and bent elbow, and raised a brow.

“Well,” she said dryly. “At least you picked a good color.”

Then she stepped inside like she owned the room, the door shutting behind her.

Grace’s face flushed with effort and defeat.

Natasha gave her one long, unreadable look, then reached out and gently untangled the ribbon from her arm.

“Let’s start over,” she said—cool, not unkind. “Arms up.”

Grace obeyed before her brain caught up.

In seconds, the dress was gone—lifted away with efficient grace, folded and set aside like it hadn’t just tried to kill her.

Natasha grabbed one of the robes from a nearby hook and handed it over, turning her back with a subtle flick of courtesy.

“Put this on. We’ll deal with the silk beast later.”

Grace slipped it on quickly. The fabric was thick, heavy, unfairly soft. She cinched the belt tight, anchoring herself to the one thing that made sense.

She turned, braced for an interrogation.

Instead, Natasha was dragging a chair toward the fire.

“Sit.”

Grace hesitated.

Natasha pointed. “Sit, sweetheart. I won’t bite. Well—not you, anyway.”

Still blinking, still unsteady, Grace sank into the chair.

She had no idea what was happening anymore.

Natasha moved behind her with practiced ease, pulling a brush—an actual brush—from one of the hidden folds of her jacket like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“Let’s fix this nest,” she murmured.

Grace opened her mouth to protest—but then the brush glided through her curls, smooth and painless, and she forgot what she’d been about to say.

Natasha’s hands were steady, her fingers fast. She worked without fuss or commentary, twisting the top half of Grace’s hair into a loose, elegant braid-crown, leaving the rest to fall in soft curls.

“Steve has a thing for curls,” she said absently.

Grace blinked. “What?”

“Curls.” A smirk tugged at Natasha’s mouth as she gently tucked one into place. “He’s a sucker for them.”

Grace frowned. “Who’s—wait. The Steve? As in—the king?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. Slow. Secretive.

“Yeah. Steve. And yes—he loves your hair. I see all.”

Before Grace could begin to unravel that particular insanity, Natasha had already pivoted, pulling a slim kit from a drawer and laying it open on the vanity like a surgeon preparing for a procedure.

Tiny jars. Delicate brushes. Mineral powders and soft creams in shades Grace couldn’t name.

“Alright. Court makeup’s a little sharper than what you’re probably used to. No wigs. No paint. Just polish. Enough to remind them you’re not prey.”

Grace stared at her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.

“I’m sorry—what in the moon goddess’s name is happening right now?”

Natasha paused, a brush halfway raised.

Then she met Grace’s gaze in the glass.

“Each of the Chosen is allowed one person. An advisor. A second. Someone to help them navigate this circus.”

She gestured vaguely at the gowns, the room, the court thrumming just beyond the walls.

“You didn’t bring anyone. So the Steward. No. Fuck it , why lie to you, you’re going to figure it out any way. The King appointed me.”

Grace’s brows shot up. “The king appointed—?”

“You’ll meet him tonight,” Natasha said, lips twitching.

Another slow smirk.

“Formally.”
———-

Steve was pacing.
Again.

He was in his private chamber—a floor above where his omega currently was.
His jacket hung untouched on the back of a carved chair. His boots were half-laced.

He’d been staring at the same buckle for five minutes.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “She’s fine.”

Natasha had gone to Grace’s room a little over twenty minutes ago.
And Steve had been spiraling ever since.

He trusted Natasha—he did.

She was one of his spy mistresses, a secret weapon, his deadliest blade. She could win a war with half a look and a well-placed word.

No one got past her.

Which was exactly what was making him nervous.

Natasha could also bulldoze a thunder god if she felt like it.

Grace was stubborn, yes. Fierce. Capable.
But she was also tired. Alone. New to this.

And Natasha could be…

“A lot.”

The words tumbled from his lips as he scrubbed a hand down his face.

Please don’t let her terrify her.
Please don’t let her dress her like she’s going into battle.
Please don’t let her start talking about mating instincts—

He froze.

His mind, uninvited, conjured a new thought.

Grace.
In her room.
Changing.

Now.

He looked down at the floorboards beneath his boots.

She’s a floor below me.

She’s naked.
Or was.
Possibly still is.
Right now.

His mind, traitorous and vivid, filled in the rest—

Steam curling along flushed skin.
A soft linen shift clinging to her thighs.
Her hair damp, curling against her neck.
The faint sheen of bathwater on her chest as she stepped closer—unaware, unguarded.

Her hands smoothing the fabric down her ribs.

His fingers replacing them.

Steve inhaled sharply, jaw tight.

No. No. Absolutely not.

Another image: her arching slightly as she tried to reach the back of the gown, the line of her spine exposed. One sleeve half-on. The other falling loose.

His name on her lips. Not a command. A question.

He gripped the edge of the hearth until his knuckles went white.

“This is fine,” he ground out. “Everything is under control.”

The bond pulsed again. Warm. Pleased. Blissfully unaware of the absolute hell she was putting him through.

Which meant he had absolutely no excuse for how warm his ears had gotten.

——-

Grace was halfway into the deep blue gown again—one arm through, the other tangled in the lining—when Natasha raised a hand and said:

“Nope. Off.”

Grace blinked. “What?”

“Off,” Natasha repeated, already stepping closer. “That shade of blue? It’s lovely. But it’s what every single one of them is wearing tonight.”

She began unfastening the buttons with deft fingers.

“Midnight. Sapphire. Peacock. It’s the color of polished court ambition. Because they all know it’s the King’s favorite.”

The dress slid off Grace’s shoulders with surprising ease. Natasha caught it before it hit the floor and turned toward the wardrobe.

“And while it would look beautiful on you,” she added, hanging it back with surgical precision, “you don’t want to blend in.”

She paused—then reached for something tucked deeper into the far side of the closet. Grace hadn’t noticed it before. The fabric shimmered subtly as it moved, like moonlight scattered across a tide pool.

“You want to be seen.”

Natasha pulled it free and turned.

Grace inhaled.

It wasn’t garish. It wasn’t dripping in jewels. It didn’t need to be.

It was seafoam silk—glowing pale green with undertones of silver, whisper-soft and cool as dusk. Off-the-shoulder sleeves framed the collarbones with quiet grace. The bodice curved like it had been shaped to her body alone—fitted, not tight. Regal. Honest. Weightless.

Natasha held it up against her and nodded once.

“This,” she said. “This is the one.”

Grace reached out, fingers brushing the silk.

And something shifted.

For just a breath, the world tilted—soft and golden and far away.

She saw herself standing beneath a full moon, bathed in silver light. The same seafoam dress clung to her curves, but her body had changed—rounded, full, sacred with life. A hand rested on the swell of her stomach.

Another hand—larger, calloused—covered hers.

And beside her, a man.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

But she felt him.

His warmth. His steadiness. The gravity between them.

The vision flickered—gone before she could chase it.

She blinked, chest tightening.

“Are you sure?” she asked softly.

Natasha just smirked.

“I never guess.” She lifted the gown, her voice slipping into something steadier. “Now. Arms up.”

The dress settled into place like it had been made for her.

Natasha worked quickly—tugging ribbons, smoothing fabric, adjusting the shoulders with practiced care.

She was nearly done when she paused.

Frowned.

Then stepped back, eyes narrowing.

“Grace,” she said flatly. “Do you eat?”

Grace blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got the collarbones of a statue,” Natasha muttered, circling. “And your waist—gods, Grace, I could probably wrap my hands around it. You’re running on stubbornness and string.”

“That’s—” Grace’s jaw tightened. “That’s not exactly a fair question.”

“Didn’t ask it to be fair,” Natasha said. “Asked it because I see you. And I need to know if you’re okay.”

Grace’s hands fisted at her sides. “I eat.”

The silence held.

Then, quieter—barely audible—

“This winter was hard,” Grace said. “We rationed. I’m from the borderlands—we didn’t know if the next shipment would come or not. I shared what I could. Made sure the others had enough. The kids at the orphanage… I did what I needed to.”

Her voice didn’t tremble. But something behind it did.

Natasha didn’t answer right away.

Then, gently, she reached forward and tucked a curl behind Grace’s ear.

“That ends now. For you and your people.”

Grace looked up, startled by the softness in her tone.

“We’ll fix it,” Natasha said. “You need strength for what’s ahead. We’ll put meat back on you. Slowly. Right. But it’ll happen.”

She tugged the dress into place, smoothing the fabric with sure hands.

“You’re not just going to survive anymore,” she said. “You’re going to live.”

Grace didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t cry.

She just stood there, quiet and still, staring at the fire like it might have answers.

Once the dress was fully secured, Natasha stepped back, head tilted as she examined her work with a critical eye.

“Good,” she said. “Elegant. Honest. A little ethereal. You’ll break half the room without even trying.”

Grace shot her a skeptical look. “That seems… dramatic.”

“You haven’t seen the room,” Natasha replied dryly.

She crossed to the vanity, flipping open one of the wide drawers beneath the mirror.

Grace took a cautious step forward—

And stopped cold.

Jewels.

Not a few tasteful pins. Not modest rings or heirloom earrings.

A hoard.

Strings of pearls as wide as her thumb. Emeralds like forest fire. Moonstones set in braided gold. Hair combs glittering with rubies. Pendants, bracelets, a literal crownlet nestled in velvet.

Grace’s stomach lurched.

“Nope,” she said immediately, recoiling. “No, no—absolutely not. That’s—I can’t—why is that even in there?”

“Options,” Natasha said without flinching. “We like options.”

Grace stared at the drawer like it might detonate.

“I’m not wearing a royal dowry around my neck.”

“Of course not,” Natasha replied coolly, already sorting with a surgeon’s eye. “You’d look ridiculous.”

She held up a thin silver chain, almost invisible against her fingers, set with a single aquamarine teardrop that glowed faintly against the seafoam green.

“This,” she said. “Simple. Clean. Reminds people you’re not just another silk-swaddled brat playing politics.”

Grace blinked. “That’s still—”

“Yours now,” Natasha said, already clasping it around her neck.

Before she could argue, Natasha moved on.

From a box near the wardrobe, she drew out pale slippers—flats, but beautifully made. Soft leather. Silver thread stitched along the edges. Walkable. Practical. Still undeniably royal.

“Put these on.”

Grace obeyed, gaze drifting toward the mirror.

Grace slipped the shoes on, watching herself in the mirror.

She barely recognized the woman staring back.

But this time—she didn’t want to look away.

She stood still as Natasha moved through the final motions—checking hems, smoothing curls, adjusting the silver cuff on her wrist with a deft, practiced tug.

Then Natasha paused.

Turned back to the drawer.

She sifted through it once more—ignoring the louder pieces—and drew out something small.

A silver hair comb. Delicate. Wrought in the shape of an iris in bloom, the petals edged in faint enamel blue. Old. Understated. Regal.

Grace didn’t know it, but the court would.

It had once belonged to the Queen.

Not just any piece—the piece. The one she wore on the day of her coronation, and again at her wedding. A symbol of the crown’s most sacred promises: devotion, endurance, legacy.

Natasha held it for a moment. Then, gently, she slid it into place just behind Grace’s braid.

Grace felt it settle like a whisper.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t ask.

But something in her shoulders shifted—like she’d just been anchored.

Natasha met her eyes in the mirror.

“There,” she said simply. “Now they’ll see you.”

Then, without warning, Natasha crossed to the other side of the room and pulled a different gown from the wardrobe—sleek black, sharp as a blade.

Grace blinked.
“You’re coming with me?”

“You’re not walking in there alone,” Natasha replied, already stepping into the dress. “No one should. Hell, even I wouldn’t want to.”

She fastened the back with swift, practiced movements, tugged on a set of wrist cuffs, and turned toward the mirror. Her reflection snapped into place in an instant—a woman made of shadows and precision, steel wrapped in silk.

Grace watched her for a long moment.
Then, quieter—steadier:

“Why are you helping me?”

Natasha paused.
Just for a second.

She didn’t turn around. Just reached for a pin, securing a final twist of her braid into place.

Then—

“Because I know what it’s like to have nothing in a world like this.”

She looked up. Met Grace’s eyes through the mirror.

“And I know what it’s like to find out you’re still worth everything.”

Grace didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to.

She wasn’t alone.

Even if she didn’t understand why….Yet.

There was a knock—light but precise.

Natasha raised a brow. “That’ll be your escort.”

Grace turned as the door creaked open.

Bucky stood in the threshold, dressed all in black. His doublet was crisp, sword belted at his hip, the sharp line of his collarbone accentuated by the open neckline and the way the dark fabric framed his face. His hair was tied back, a faint scar visible at his temple.

He looked every bit the blade she’d guessed him to be.

Then his eyes landed on Grace—and for a moment, even he faltered.

“Well,” he said, voice low, “the court won’t know what hit it.”

Grace flushed. “Do I look ridiculous?”

“You look like someone who’s about to make a lot of people very nervous,” Natasha said, stepping to her side.

Bucky held out an arm. “Shall we?”

Natasha moved to Grace’s left. Grace hesitated—then accepted Bucky’s arm on the right.

Together, they stepped into the corridor.

A shadow and a soldier flanked her like sentries.

And Grace—

She shone between them.

The seafoam gown caught the torchlight like water kissed by moonlight. Her curls framed her face in loose, gleaming waves. Even the silver cuff on her wrist looked deliberate now—elegant in its restraint.

Every head turned as they passed.

Some of the other Chosen women lingered outside their doors, draped in near-identical shades of midnight and sapphire. One looked Grace up and down with narrowed eyes. Another adjusted her neckline, suddenly uncertain.

Bucky leaned in, voice pitched just for her:

“If the goal was to blend in, you failed spectacularly.”

Grace gave a soft, breathless laugh. “Good… I guess.”

The corridor opened into sweeping marble floors and golden sconces, the hush of voices rising just ahead. A pair of towering carved doors stood before them—arched and inlaid with gilded vines and the sigil of the wolf.

Two guards flanked them, ceremonial halberds crossed.

As Grace approached, they moved.

The halberds lifted.

The doors creaked open—slow, deliberate.

Light spilled out.

Music swelled.

And Grace stepped forward, flanked by shadows, toward whatever waited on the other side.

The air shifted.

Every eye turned.

Chapter Text

Grace stepped through the gilded doorway, chin high despite the knot coiled tight in her stomach.

Light from the chandeliers caught the pale green of her gown, casting shifting moonlight patterns across the polished floor. Silk whispered with every step.

Behind her, Bucky dipped into a low bow.

“You’ve got this, little moon,” he murmured.

With a quiet nod to Natasha, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Grace alone at the threshold of the hall.

Natasha didn’t follow.

This part—Grace had to face alone.

So she did.

She took a breath. Lifted her chin. Summoned a smile that felt more like armor than welcome. And stepped into the sea of silk and ambition.

The other women turned, one by one.

Not toward her face, but toward the cut of her dress. The fall of her hair. The calluses on her healer’s hands that no amount of scrubbing could hide.

The first cluster loomed just inside the archway. A blonde in navy lace laughed too loudly—until she noticed Grace.

“Oh,” the woman said, smile sharpening. “You’re one of the country girls.”

Grace managed, “Hello—”

“Charming they still let in provincial candidates. Very… rustic.”

Giggles behind gloved hands.

Grace blinked. Then smiled tighter. “Lovely to meet you.” She turned before they could say more.

The next group wasn’t kinder.

Lady Arlise of Blackmoor stood at their center, posture flawless, every movement polished like a sculpture. “Oh, it’s the healer.” She tilted her head, gaze flicking to Grace’s hands. “I wasn’t aware calluses were back in vogue.”

Lady Aemelia of Eastmarch didn’t laugh. She simply looked Grace over like assessing a soldier unfit for duty, then turned away without a word.

Grace moved on, cheeks burning behind her smile.

Lady Verena of Drelheim gave her a smile too—but this one was languid, seductive, unreadable. “Such a soft color,” she purred, eyes sliding over Grace’s pale green gown. “Does it change with your mood, or simply vanish when the lights go out?”

Grace didn’t respond.

Princess Adrienne of Velloria swept past with two attendants in tow, not sparing Grace a glance. “The drapery in this place is almost charming,” she murmured in accented tones. “So quaint. Like stepping back in time.”

Behind her, Lady Elise Zemo whispered something too low to catch. Her gaze followed Grace like a blade.

And yet—

Not all of them were hostile.

Lady Morgana Stark lingered by the far window, half-disassembled gearwork contraption in hand, ignoring the entire crowd. She looked up briefly, offered Grace a crooked grin and a shrug that said idiots, then returned to her tinkering.

Lady Lila Barton hovered near the edge of the refreshments table, clearly overwhelmed but watching Grace like she wanted to be near her—just didn’t know how.

Lady Mary Jane Watson, deep in quiet conversation with a pair of girls from the minor courts, caught Grace’s eye across the floor and lifted one eyebrow. You good? it seemed to ask.

Grace nodded once. Not good, but surviving.

She kept moving.

The hall buzzed around her. Dresses shimmered. Words hissed beneath smiles. And Grace—uninvited in spirit if not in name—held her ground.

Even if the marble beneath her feet felt colder with every step.

Grace turned away from the laughing nobles and moved toward the fringes of the hall—where a few girls in simpler gowns clung to one another in an anxious knot.

They were younger. Nervous. Dresses a bit out of fashion, embroidery clearly hand-stitched. Fellow country girls, if Grace had to guess. Maybe from the Western farms or the Northern valleys.

One of them glanced up as Grace approached. Pale, freckled, sheepish.

“Hello,” Grace offered again, more gently this time. “I’m Grace. From—”

“We know,” the girl said quickly, then looked down at her gloves. “We’ve heard.”

“Good luck,” another added. Not unkind. But not warm either.

They didn’t ask her to stay. And when she stepped away, they said nothing more.

Grace’s smile wavered for the first time.

Even the ones who should’ve stood beside her… wouldn’t.

Up in the balcony alcove above the hall, Steve leaned forward, jaw clenched tight.

“That’s the third group that’s turned their backs on her,” he growled.

Bucky crossed his arms beside him. “Fifth, technically. You forgot that first group—and one of them did it twice.”

Sam tilted his head. “You said she needed to blend in. Not get eaten alive.”

Steve’s hands curled around the carved railing, knuckles white.

“I didn’t think they’d—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “This is bullshit. She’s stronger than half of them put together.”

“And yet,” Bucky said dryly, “still doesn’t have a tiara or a title.”

Steve pushed away from the rail.

Bucky’s brow lifted. “Don’t be stupid.”

But it was Sam who moved first, one hand on Steve’s arm. Not tight. Just enough.

“Let her,” Sam said quietly.

Steve didn’t look at him. Not at first. His eyes were still locked on Grace—alone in a sea of silk and spite.

“She’s doing fine,” Sam added. “And if you storm down there now, they’ll think she can’t stand without you.”

A muscle ticked in Steve’s jaw. “She shouldn’t have to stand alone.”

“No,” Sam said. “But she’s handling it for now.”

Below, Grace turned toward the refreshments table—only to have two girls casually block her path. She hesitated. Then smiled again, chin high, and moved on like it didn’t matter.

Steve’s shoulders dropped half an inch. Not relaxed—never that. But restrained.

Down below, Grace had just turned from yet another group, her posture still proud—but her eyes a little more distant.

That was when Natasha stepped in.

Like smoke parting through the room, she cut across the floor, all in black, the train of her gown rippling behind her like a shadow. She reached Grace’s side with seamless elegance and murmured something only she could hear.

Grace blinked—surprised. Then nodded.

Natasha placed a hand gently at the small of her back and guided her across the marble—away from the vultures, toward a gentler cluster in the corner, where a small group of young women stood sipping from silver goblets and talking quietly among themselves.

Steve exhaled.

“About damn time,” he muttered.

Bucky glanced at him. “She’ll be alright.”

Sam nodded. “She’s got a spine of iron. Just like someone else I know.”

Steve didn’t answer. He was still watching her.

Still watching his omega navigate a court that didn’t deserve her.

⸻

Natasha’s hand stayed steady at Grace’s back as they reached the circle of girls—this one markedly different from the rest.

They were laughing, but not too loud. Holding their drinks without pretense. Dressed beautifully, yes—but not like they were here to win a war. Each had someone older just behind them: not formal ladies-in-waiting, but mothers, aunts, guardians.

Chaperones.

Natasha dipped her head slightly, her voice velvet with command.

“Ladies,” she said, “may I introduce someone worth your attention.”

The girls turned—wide-eyed, curious, not a single smirk among them.

“This is Grace,” Natasha continued, with the faintest smile. “Of the healer hollow. She’ll be staying with us for the duration of the Choosing.”

The tall freckled girl stepped forward first, her fingers lace together primly.

“Lila Barton,” she said. “It’s really nice to meet you. That’s my mom, Laura.”

Laura offered a soft smile and a quiet nod from behind her daughter—radiating the calm competence of someone who’d managed three kids, a manor house, and a bow-wielding husband without ever raising her voice.

Next came a girl with dark curls pinned haphazardly, her red gown slightly wrinkled like she’d been late dressing and hadn’t cared.

“I’m Morgana. But everyone calls me Morgan—except my father, who still tries to use my full name when I steal things from his lab. That’s my mom, Pepper. She says if I say anything dumb tonight, she’ll hex me. She can’t. But she will make me cry in front of important people.”

From a few steps back, Pepper Stark raised a perfectly shaped brow and gave Grace a nod that somehow managed to be both warm and terrifying.

Last was the girl with the sharp eyes and the soft voice.

“Mary Jane Watson,” she said. “But MJ’s fine.”

She jerked a thumb behind her at the stern older woman in navy, watching with military precision and a lace-handled fan.

“That’s Aunt May. She’s technically my chaperone, not my Aunt. She’s just here to make sure I don’t stab anyone with my wit.”

Grace blinked.

Then laughed—genuinely, for the first time all night.

The knot in her chest loosened. Not gone. But easing.

“It’s good to meet you all,” she said—and meant it.

Lila stepped aside, gesturing to the open space in their circle.

“You can stay. If you want.”

Grace didn’t hesitate.

She stepped in.

“Please—come join us. We were just talking about the seating disaster at dinner,” Lila said brightly. “Apparently, one of the older baronesses tried to bribe the staff to sit her daughter closer to the king.”

“Spoiler,” Morgan muttered, “she’s going to be next to the soup.”

MJ smirked. “And we’re going to be watching very closely when that soup is served.”

Grace smiled. “You’re all ridiculous.”

Lila winked. “And yet, I think you’ll fit right in.”

Behind them, Natasha lingered just long enough to be sure Grace was safe. Then, without fanfare, she melted back into the flow of the room.

Up in the balcony, Steve was still watching.

And for the first time that evening, he saw her smile for real.

As Natasha drifted away on silent feet, the young women clustered tighter around Grace. The earlier awkwardness faded like mist in sunlight.

Lila leaned in, eyes wide with interest. “You’re really a healer?”

Grace nodded, modest. “Yes. Learned from my mother and the village healer. Herbs, poultices, bone setting. I’m decent in a pinch.”

Morgan grinned. “I burned my hand trying to light a fire charm last week. Think you could’ve fixed that?”

“Easily,” Grace said, laughing. “As long as you didn’t burn the whole house down with it.”

Laura Barton’s voice was warm as she stepped forward slightly. “She’s serious about learning. If you’d be willing to teach…”

Pepper raised a brow, curious. “So is mine. Between sword lessons and diplomacy drills, I’d love if she had something grounding.”

MJ just rolled her eyes. “I bruise like a peach and faint at the sight of blood, but I’m happy to cheer from the sidelines.”

Grace smiled. “Well, since your mothers approve, I’d love to share what I know.”

The nods from Laura, Pepper, and Aunt May came in quiet succession—each different in tone, but approving nonetheless.

For the first time all evening, Grace’s heart lifted. For a moment, she didn’t feel like the outsider.

But that fragile warmth cracked when she noticed a woman standing near one of the far marble pillars—alone.

Tall. Elegant. Undeniably noble by posture and gown. But her skin looked too pale beneath powdered cheeks, and her left hand clutched her side in a way that spoke of pain, not poise.

No one stood near her. No one acknowledged her.

Grace instinctively stepped forward—but before she could reach her, the butlers began to move. A soft chime rang through the air, signaling the transition to dinner.

The chime rang through the air, soft and bell-clear, signaling the transition to dinner.

“Ladies, if you’ll follow us, the evening meal is about to be served.”

The girls around Grace brightened, gathering their skirts and silver goblets. Lila glanced toward the front of the room, then back at her.

“We’re seated up near the high table,” she said apologetically. “Family proximity clause.”

Morgan groaned. “Mom pulled strings again. I swear she’s got a list somewhere.”

“Several,” MJ added dryly. “One for seating, one for enemies.”

They began to move—swept up in the current of guardians, protocol, and well-placed chairs.

Grace started to follow—then hesitated, realizing none of their names had been near hers on the roster.

She gave a soft nod and motioned them forward.

Lila frowned. “Wait—Grace, where are you sitting?”

Grace smiled, gentle but guarded. “Somewhere less political, I imagine.”

The girls slowed—but the room was moving around them now, butlers already directing traffic, matriarchs beckoning them on.

Morgan looked like she wanted to argue, but Pepper’s voice called her name sharply from ahead.

MJ offered Grace a parting shrug. “Save us a dessert.”

Then they were gone.

Not cruelly—just carelessly. A warm breeze that passed too quickly.

And Grace was left alone.

A man in ceremonial livery approached a moment later.

“My lady,” he said crisply. “This way, please.”

He gestured down the length of the opulent table, where names were already etched on small, gilded placards.

She followed in silence, scanning the cards.

There it was—far down at the end.

Of course, she thought. Out of sight. Out of mind.

She kept her chin high and made her way toward the assigned seat—until a second butler intercepted her, moving with quiet urgency.

“My apologies, my lady. There’s been a correction.”

He bowed low and plucked the placard from the table with a practiced flick. Then straightened, gesturing toward the head of the room.

“You’re seated to the right of the high seat. Please follow me.”

The hall quieted. Heads turned. Whispers followed like smoke.

⸻

Up front, Lila glanced back, brows furrowed. “Did they say right of the high seat?”

Morgan turned, half-standing on tiptoe. “No way.”

MJ whistled low. “Huh. Guess she’s not just a Healer girl after all.”

Laura and Pepper exchanged a look. Not disapproving. Calculating.

“I told you, guys,” Lila murmured, almost to herself. “She belongs here. I like her.”

Grace lowered herself into the chair, her heart pounding against the bones of her ribs. The velvet cushion gave way beneath her like it had been waiting all along.

Around her, conversations stuttered—then strained to restart.

She didn’t look at anyone.

She folded her hands in her lap and stared at the goblet in front of her, trying to slow the thrum in her ears.

Across the room, near a pillar draped in velvet, Lady Arlise of Blackmoor lowered her goblet mid-sip, gaze sharpening like glass.

Next to her, Lady Aemelia of Eastmarch frowned. “She was seated at the end.”

“She was,” Arlise said, voice like frost.

Near the back, Princess Adrienne of Velloria tilted her head, one corner of her painted mouth curling. “So the little healer has friends in high places.”

The room hadn’t quite settled.

Whispers still fluttered across the table like birds in a storm—soft, sharp, circling.

Grace folded her hands in her lap and focused on breathing past the thunder in her chest.

And up in the shadows of the balcony above, Steve finally moved—only to pause at the stir of new commotion at the far end of the room.

The air changed.

Not dramatically—just enough to make people turn.

Late.

Deliberately late.

The heavy doors at the rear of the hall creaked open once more.

A single figure entered, followed by the quiet snap of polished heels on marble.

She was tall. Striking. Her gown was midnight silk trimmed in antique gold, her posture perfect, every inch of her radiating composure and calculation. Pale hair pinned back in a coiled twist. A small sigil gleamed at her collar—thorned vine, crowned rose.

Grace didn’t move.

The room around her did.

A courtier at the far end whispered, “Lady Helena Thorne.”

The name drifted across the table like smoke.

Several nobles stiffened.

Lady Aemelia straightened sharply. Arlise’s mouth thinned. Adrienne narrowed her eyes.

Even Lila glanced over her shoulder, confusion in her brow. “Wasn’t she—?”

“Supposed to be out of the country,” Morgan whispered. “Or dead. Depends who you believe.”

Lady Helena moved like she belonged to the marble—sharp, graceful, impossible to ignore.

She paused at the base of the high table, eyes flicking—briefly, barely—toward Grace.

No recognition. No warmth.

But something passed in the space between them. A static hush.

Grace couldn’t explain why her spine tensed. The glance meant nothing. And yet… her skin prickled, like something old and forgotten had just brushed past her.

Helena turned and addressed the table with flawless etiquette.

“My apologies for the delay. My carriage was detained en route. I trust the crown will excuse my lateness, as the invitation came quite… unexpectedly.”

She dipped her head, just low enough.

Then took her place—seated two down from Grace, across the table.

And suddenly, the grandness of her seat felt like distance.

Behind her, a herald cleared his throat.

A hush rippled through the hall like falling snow.

Grace looked up—

Just as the doors at the far end began to open.

Chapter Text

The herald’s voice rang out across the grand dining hall.

“His Majesty, Sovereign of the Nine Provinces, Guardian of the Crowned Lands, First of His Name—King Stephen of House Rogers.”

Every guest rose to their feet.

The double doors opened.

And down the wide staircase came the king—not in gilded robes or ceremonial silks, but in black and deep navy. His uniform was tailored to accentuate the strength in his shoulders, the easy power in his stride. A sword hung at his hip, and a gold crest gleamed faintly at his chest.

Grace froze.

Her breath caught halfway to her lungs.

Because she knew that man.

Not just recognized him—knew him.

The traveler from the road
The soldier in the courtyard
The man who’d offered to take her horse, with warm eyes and steady hands.

That man.

That man was the king?

Her mouth parted slightly as he descended—greeting no one, pausing for nothing. His gaze swept the room.

And lingered when it found her.

Grace’s stomach flipped.

The realization struck like a jolt of cold water. The quiet man she’d trusted—who’d touched her horse with reverence, who’d walked beside her in silence—he’d known who she was.

And he hadn’t said a word.

The sense of betrayal didn’t burn. Not yet.

But it settled deep, cold and heavy, in her chest.

He reached the base of the stairs. The hall was silent.

His voice rang clear. “Be seated.”

Everyone obeyed.

Except Grace—too stunned, too off-balance, to move.

She sat a heartbeat later. Stiffly. Her jaw tight, eyes locked on her goblet.

She didn’t look at him again.

Not yet.

Not until he gave her a reason.

A moment passed. Then the king lifted his goblet.

“As tradition dictates, tonight begins the Choosing. Over the next moon cycles, those selected will be observed, tested, and honored. And by the rise of the next full moon, I will name my bride.”

He paused. His gaze swept the room again—steady, unreadable.

“This process is not meant to be easy. For any of us. But it is sacred. And I intend to see it through with honesty and honor.”

A beat. A breath. And then—

“I do not seek a crown-wearer, nor a titleholder. I seek a match. A mate.”

His gaze dropped—just slightly.

Only for a moment.

But Grace felt it.

A ripple down her spine. A tightening in her chest.

She didn’t lift her eyes.

Didn’t dare.

“To the Choosing,” the king said, raising his glass. “And to the truth it reveals.”

Crystal chimed as goblets lifted across the room.

And then—

The whispers began.

Soft at first. Then swelling like wind through dry leaves. Thirty-nine others chosen and their guides all processed at that once. Only Steve’s inner circle and his nieces didn’t react.

“Did he say mate?”
“That didn’t feel like prepared remarks…”
“Did you see where he looked?”
“He means something. He always does.”

The rustle of speculation moved like a current through the hall.

Grace stayed still.

Back straight. Hands resting lightly in her lap. Goblet untouched.

But her pulse thundered in her ears.

Grace didn’t notice.

Or rather—she didn’t care.

She was too busy fuming.

Heat crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks, and she could feel it—too hot, too obvious—but there was no stopping it now.

Bucky leaned in slightly, voice low and good-natured from the seat on her other side.

“So, do all Healers’ Hollow girls glare at royalty like they’re about to bite ‘em, or are you special?”

Grace inhaled slowly through her nose.

She tried—truly—to be polite. “I’m adjusting to unexpected… information.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Right. And adjusting looks like you’re planning a regicide by dinner roll.”

“That would be too easy,” she grumbled under her breath as she picked up her fork and nudged a roasted fig across her plate—slow, deliberate, like she was deciding whether to eat it or throw it.

Steve, just settling into his chair, glanced over at that exact moment—and let out a short, low laugh.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just startled. Maybe even amused.

And that was it.

Grace snapped.

She leaned forward slightly, fork still in hand, voice sharp and low and aimed squarely at him.

“You,” she hissed. “You are an absolute liar.”

Steve’s head jerked a bit, the smile falling clean off his face.

“You met me twice,” she went on, her words soft but vibrating with restrained fury. “On the road. In the courtyard. You looked me in the eye and never said who you were.”

A dozen noblewomen were suddenly straining to eavesdrop.

“I—” Steve began, visibly startled.

“You let me stumble in here looking like a stablehand. You let me struggle through that courtyard, through the whispers, like I didn’t belong. And you smiled.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. She sat back hard in her chair, cheeks flushed deep rose, hands clenched around her napkin in her lap.

Steve looked like he’d been punched.

The table immediately around them went very, very still.

Even Natasha arched a brow, her lips twitching at the corners.

Sam cleared his throat, “Well. This’ll be a fun experience.”

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

“I—no. That’s not—I didn’t lie, I just—” He looked helplessly around the table, like someone might throw him a rope.

“I wasn’t trying to mislead you. I just… happened to meet you before all this—this court madness. I wasn’t even sure who you were until the courtyard.”

“Bullshit, Your Highness.”

Natasha dropped her face into her hand to cover her laugh.

Bucky muttered under his breath,

“For the sake of all the gods. Stop talking, Steve.”

But Steve didn’t.

“You looked overwhelmed. And beautiful. And… your horse liked me.”

“My horse liked you?” Grace repeated, voice rising a little. “That’s your defense?”

Sam gave an exaggerated wince and took a long drink from his goblet.

Steve looked like he wanted to melt into the flagstones.

Before anyone else could pile on, a sharp intake of breath cut through the tension—

And then, calmly, from two seats down, a voice slid into the conversation like a knife through velvet.

“Such fire,” Lady Helena Thorne said, lifting her goblet with elegant fingers. “One might almost think the Choosing has already been decided.”

The table froze again—but differently this time.

Steve straightened slightly. Sam blinked. Bucky muttered something under his breath.

Helena smiled faintly, her eyes fixed on Grace.

There was no warmth in it.

“I must say,” she went on, her tone languid, “it’s rare to see such… passion… so early in the process. From what history tells, most candidates wait at least until the second trial to bare their teeth.”

Grace turned her head—slowly. Her expression was unreadable.

Helena sipped delicately from her glass, then added, “But then again, it’s often the outsiders who are quickest to forget their place.”

Steve’s hand curled slightly on the table.
“That’s enough, Lady Thorne.”

Her smile didn’t falter. “Is it, Your Majesty? I was only making an observation.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow across the table and offered Grace the ghost of a nod—approval, maybe. Or warning.

Grace didn’t respond.

Not yet.

She just returned her attention to her plate, the tension in her jaw the only sign she’d heard a word.

Bucky leaned in again, voice barely audible.
“Careful. That one poisons daggers with her perfume.”

Grace didn’t respond at first.

She set down her fork.

Lifted her goblet.

And took a slow, measured sip—just enough to settle the heat in her throat.

Then she turned to Helena, expression calm, voice steady.

“Thank you for your concern, Lady Thorne,” she said, tone smooth as silk but edged with steel. “Though I wasn’t aware there was a schedule for when one is permitted to speak plainly.”

Helena’s smile tightened. “Merely offering guidance. The court can be… unkind to the unprepared.”

Grace inclined her head slightly. “I appreciate the warning. Truly. But I’ve found that most bullies back down when you meet their eyes.”

Across the table, Natasha let out a soft breath—almost a laugh.

Sam bit down on a grin and murmured, “Gods help us all.”

Helena blinked, once. Slowly.

Then turned her attention back to her goblet, one manicured finger tracing its rim.

Grace, satisfied, picked up her fork again.

And stabbed another fig.

With purpose.

Dinner was served with quiet ceremony.

Silver lids lifted, steam curling into the air—aromatic and refined. Conversation resumed in gentle waves, but around Grace, it was light and careful, like people speaking in a room where something had broken.

She answered only when spoken to.

One-word replies. A polite nod. A clipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

Steve tried.

Twice, maybe three times.

“Is the wine to your liking?”
“Yes.”

“Have you been to the capital before?”
“No.”

He tried again with a small comment about the musicians near the hearth.

She didn’t even look up.

Steve eventually fell quiet, turning his attention to slicing his roasted quail with far more focus than necessary.

Two seats down, Lady Helena Thorne had resumed sipping her wine like it was a performance.

Her voice slipped in again—light, idle, but clearly intended for Grace.

“It’s brave, really. To enter the court so boldly. So certain you’ll be chosen.”

Grace didn’t respond.

Helena continued, tone just a shade too sweet.

“Though I suppose some women believe a single conversation with the king is all it takes.”

Grace’s fingers curled around her fork.

Across the table, Natasha stiffened—but before anyone could react—

“Lady Helena,” said a clear voice farther down the table. “Do you always mistake volume for merit, or is it a seasonal affliction?”

All heads turned.

“Lila.” Laura sighed into her glass.

Lila Barton—sharp-eyed and unbothered—rested her chin on her hand, her expression the picture of teenage boredom. Beside her, Morgan Stark gave a tiny, theatrical gasp behind her napkin, and MJ raised her goblet in dry salute.

“Because if it’s seasonal,” Lila added, “I’m sure the royal apothecary can prescribe something.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed, but before she could form a reply, Morgan cut in cheerfully.

“I was just telling MJ that the Healers’ Hollow has the most incredible moonlily fields. They bloom all night, did you know that?”

MJ nodded.

“A little eerie. Very poetic. I read about them in a verse collection. Something about the way they open only for starlight?”

Sam leaned back, grinning into his goblet.

“And just like that, the conversation takes a turn.”

Grace’s shoulders eased—just slightly. She glanced down the table and caught Lila’s eye.

The girl winked.

Conversation drifted onward—guided now by the younger girls, who darted between topics with the ease of those both sharp and socially fearless.

Grace remained mostly quiet, offering a polite smile here, a brief comment there. She kept her eyes on her plate, her posture straight, her anger banked but not forgotten.

Lady Thorne had gone silent again—watching.

Waiting.

Until Bucky leaned forward, breaking the lull with a voice so casual it was almost dangerous.

“I’m not sure everyone at this table understands exactly who they’re sitting with.”

Helena looked up, feigning curiosity.

“Oh?”

Bucky didn’t look at her.

His gaze was on his plate, but his words were for the room.

“Grace of the Hollow isn’t just a village healer. She was next in line to be High Healer—chosen by her council, trusted by her people. When she was selected for the Choosing, they didn’t send just anyone.”

A pause.

“They sent their most skilled mind. Their most trusted hands.”

And then, with the faintest smile—

“Their most precious jewel.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

Several women shifted in their seats. Someone farther down murmured something that was immediately hushed.

Grace’s breath caught.

She turned slightly toward Bucky—brows lifted, lips parted. But he didn’t meet her eyes.

He just reached for his wine and added, almost as an afterthought:

“Might want to remember that before you start drawing blood over dinner rolls, Helena.”

A ripple of quiet laughter passed around the table—soft, grateful, startled.

Lady Thorne said nothing. Her jaw tightened just slightly.

Grace blinked, then looked down, a slow, steady warmth blooming beneath her skin—shock, gratitude, and maybe something like relief.

Steve, beside her, cleared his throat.

And for the first time all evening, the attention turned off of Grace.

By the time dessert arrived, the tension had thinned—like smoke after a storm.

Delicate plates were set down in front of each guest: honey-roasted pears in spiced wine, sugared fig tarts, and slivers of vanilla custard layered with lavender cream. Golden spoons gleamed under the chandelier light.

Grace took a quiet breath and finally reached for her water.

Beside her, Bucky nudged his tart with the tip of his spoon, eyeing it suspiciously.

“If this isn’t chocolate, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

Across from him, Natasha smirked.

“You’re in a royal court, James. Eat the damn pear and pretend you’re civilized.”

Sam leaned in looking to Grace.

“Ten stars to whoever can make Barnes eat something floral.”

Morgan raised her hand instantly.

“Challenge accepted.”

Lila grinned.

“Double if he compliments it.”

Bucky gave a dramatic sigh and took a bite.
Paused.

Chewed.

Then, grudgingly:

“…Fine. It’s good. It tastes like a garden that’s learned to bake.”

Laughter rippled down the table.

Even Grace smiled.

She glanced at Bucky, who caught her eye and gave her the tiniest wink.

Lady Thorne said nothing, her attention seemingly fixed on her custard—but the tightness in her posture hadn’t eased.

Conversation lifted.

Talk turned to the music, the upcoming trials, the hunting falcons housed in the royal mews. The noble girls leaned in, speculating about the next week’s events with breathless excitement, and MJ began describing a city painting she’d once seen of the court during winter, its rooftops shining with snow.

Grace let herself listen.

Not speak. Not yet.

But listen.

And for the first time that night, she felt like she wasn’t just enduring the evening—

She was surviving it.

The laughter faded into the clink of spoons against porcelain and the low hum of voices.

Grace reached for another sliver of pear just as Lila Barton tilted her head and addressed Steve across the table.

“Uncle Steve. I mean Your Majesty—I heard you were away before the Choosing began. Gone longer than expected.”

She smiled gently, no malice in it. Just curiosity.

“May we ask where you went?”

Steve set down his spoon.

Grace froze, just for a second—fork halfway to her mouth.

He glanced at her. Then back at the table.

“I needed time,” he said simply. “To think.”

A pause.

“I went looking for something that had been lost. Or maybe just… misplaced.”

He turned the stem of his goblet between two fingers.

“Something I remembered only after I left it behind.”

Grace felt the words settle deep in her chest.

He wasn’t looking at her.

But she knew.

She knew exactly what he meant.

The table was quiet for a beat, as if everyone had agreed not to press further.

Then MJ leaned in toward Morgan.

“Was that cryptic or romantic? I can’t tell.”

Morgan whispered back.

“It’s both. Which makes it dangerous.”

Sam muttered under his breath.

“Someone write that down for the bards.”

Grace lowered her fork and looked down at her plate, her heart beating far too loud for such a soft room.

The final toast was made. Dessert plates cleared. Goblets refilled.

And like a tide pulled by some unspoken moon, the guests began to rise—drifting from the long table into the wide marble hall.

Steve didn’t even make it to his feet before they began to swarm him.

Women with words of flattery. Maids and Mommas with questions. Advisors with opinions.

A court with far too much to say, and no intention of leaving him alone.

He caught one last glimpse of Grace—

Not at the center of anything.

Just quietly rising from her chair, tucking a curl behind her ear, and slipping out of the circle of candlelight.

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

He felt the absence like a pulled thread.

—

Grace made her way down the length of the room, past the nobles still locked in conversation and the glittering tapestry of court intrigue. The younger girls and their mothers had gathered near the eastern alcove—away from the scrutiny, halfway hidden by velvet curtains and trailing vines.

Morgan waved her over.

MJ made space beside her.

Lila was mid-rant about someone’s shoes.

Grace managed a small smile and joined them.

It was easier here.

The air was lighter. The laughter real. And for the first time all night, she could breathe.

But the peace didn’t last.

The mingling had begun.

The court swirled around the king—robes sweeping, voices rising, smiles gleaming too sharp to be sincere. He was swallowed whole by politics and pageantry.

Grace moved quietly to the edge of the room, finding the younger girls near the draped alcove again. Lila was recounting a sharp-tongued remark from one of the older nobles; Morgan and MJ leaned in, giggling behind their hands.

But Grace’s attention was elsewhere.

Her gaze drifted across the hall—

And caught on a figure near the far wall.

Alone.

Half-shadowed.

Sienna. If Grace recalled over hearing her name correctly.

She was standing stiffly near one of the columns, pretending to study a tapestry, her hand gripping the stone so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Even at this distance, Grace could see the sheen of sweat on her skin. The way she swayed slightly. The tremble in her shoulders.

Something was wrong.

Deeply wrong.

Grace stepped forward, already opening her mouth to excuse herself—

But before she could say a word, Sienna gasped—

Sharp. Guttural.

And bolted from the hall.

Her skirts caught behind her for half a second, then vanished through the side doors.

Grace didn’t hesitate.

But behind her, the whispers had already started. Harsher this time. Sharper. Like knives passed hand to hand.

“Did you see her run?”
“She looked sick—like death.”
“No. Not sick. Pregnant.”
“Gods, was she trying to hide it?”
“She shouldn’t have even been allowed into the Choosing.”
“Disgraceful. Imagine if he had picked her.”
“She ran like she knew she was caught.”

Grace froze.

Then spun toward the girls, her voice low and fierce.

“Shut it down. All of it. I don’t care how. Just—stop it spreading.”

Lil and Morgan looked stricken but nodded.
Laura and Pepper were already moving. Pepper’s mouth set in a grim line.

MJ straightened her shoulders.

“We’ve got it. Go.”

Grace didn’t wait.

She gathered her skirts and slipped through the side doors after Sienna, every step echoing louder than the last.

Something was wrong.

And if the court was going to feed on blood and gossip—

Grace would get there first.

Chapter Text

The halls beyond the banquet room were quieter—echoing with distant music and muffled laughter.

Grace moved fast, her slippers nearly silent on the stone floor, heart hammering in her chest.

She rounded a corner—

And found Sienna—barely more than a girl—stumbled for the nearest corridor.

Grace caught her just outside the banquet hall, just as the girl braced herself against the wall, breathing fast.

“Hey,” Grace said gently, “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

The girl shook her head, tears spilling now. “I—I can’t breathe. It hurts—my chest—my ribs—”

Grace’s healer instincts kicked in without hesitation. She looped one arm under the girl’s, guiding her toward a nearby alcove. “You’re having a compression flare. Your body’s trying to compensate for the weight shift. Just breathe with me, alright?”

The girl’s skin was clammy. Her pulse fast.

Grace pressed a hand to her back and began to hum lowly, a melody her mother had used when easing fevers, her voice grounding and warm.

Behind them, the clamor of the hall continued—uncaring, curious, cruel.

Grace didn’t look back.

The girl’s breathing had begun to settle—barely—when Grace felt her body jolt.

A shudder passed through her, followed by a wet, warm sensation against Grace’s arm.

She looked down.

Blood.

Sienna collapsed in the shadowed alcove halfway down the corridor, one hand braced weakly against the wall, the other curled protectively around her stomach.

Her pale mauve gown was soaked through with blood.

Stark. Wet. Blooming like ink in water.

The copper tang of it filled the air—metallic, sharp, terrifyingly familiar.

Grace dropped to her knees beside her.

“Sienna. Sienna, look at me—hey, sweetie, stay with me—”

Sienna’s eyes fluttered, dazed.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want to make a scene…”

“You didn’t,” Grace lied, already pressing her hands to the bleeding. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. But we have to move.”

This wasn’t court politics. This was blood and breath. This was where she belonged.

Behind her, footsteps thundered.

Natasha rounded the corner at a run, sharp-eyed and deadly calm the second she saw the scene.

Grace didn’t look up.

“We need to get her to her room—now.”

Natasha was already turning, back the way she came.

“On it. What do you need?”

“My satchel. Corner cabinet. Second shelf. Go!”

Nat was gone in a blur.

A moment later—heavier footsteps.

Bucky.

He took one look and dropped beside them.

“Can I move her?”

“Yes. Carefully. Keep her head up—she’s dizzy and losing blood fast.”

He nodded, already lifting Sienna into his arms, one hand cradling her head, the other bracing her knees. Grace kept one hand pressed firmly to her abdomen, trying to slow the bleeding, the other steadying the woman’s limp wrist—

Please, she begged silently. Just stay with me. Stay here.

Blood soaked between Grace’s fingers. Hot. Fast. Sticky.

Her hands slipped once—too much blood, too fast—and her stomach dropped.

“She’s burning up,” Bucky muttered. “Tell me what to do, Grace.”

“Just hold her steady. Don’t let her fall under.”

Sienna moaned.

Grace murmured something low, soothing, useless—but it didn’t matter.

She had to keep her awake. Keep her here.

They could whisper about crowns and titles all night—Grace would rather keep someone alive.

—

Back near the banquet doors, Natasha was flying.

She blew past the guards, past startled women, straight through the main hall—just as Steve caught the edge of the commotion.

“Nat?”

She didn’t stop.

“Emergency. Keep everyone in here.”

Steve’s heart dropped.

“Sam!”

“I’ve got this!” His heir called back.

His feet were already moving before his mind caught up.

Grace.

She wasn’t in the room either.

Something pulled at him—low in his chest. Sharp and magnetic.

He pushed through the doors, turning corners, following nothing but instinct.

The bond hummed in his bones now.

Tugging.

Pointing.

He felt her before he saw her.

And when he finally did—

Grace was crouched beside a bed now, soaked in blood. Her skirt tucked up allowing her to move. Her skin streaked with fluid. Her eyes locked on Sienna’s face as she gave urgent orders to Bucky.

She didn’t look up.

Didn’t even know he was there.

Because she was fighting.

Fighting to save a life of a woman she didn’t even know.

Steve stumbled forward—

Then stopped.

Because in that moment, watching her move with steady hands and bloodstained grace, he understood something entirely new:

She wasn’t just a healer.

She was power.

And she was his—

But not in the way the court expected.

Not chosen.

Not won.

Claimed by her own fire. His equal in every way.

He’d left a room of gold and silk—and found her here, on her knees, elbow-deep in blood, saving someone who will never wear a crown.

Grace was vaguely aware of someone coming into the room, but she did not have the time to see who it was, so focused on her patient in front of her.

Then a voice—deep, familiar, urgent:

“LadyGrace? What can I do?”

She looked up.

The king.

His expression shifted instantly from confusion to horror as he saw the blood. He was at her side in three strides, taking the girl’s other hand without a word.

“I’ve got her,” Grace said, voice shaking. “I need clean cloth. Water. Something for pressure—”

“I’ll get it,” Steve said, already moving.

She barely acknowledged him.

Grace pressed her hands to the girl’s lower abdomen, calling on every bit of knowledge she had.

“Come on,” she whispered. “Don’t you dare give up. Not when we’re this close.”

The girl whimpered, clinging weakly to Grace’s skirt.

“You’re not alone,” Grace whispered fiercely. “Not anymore.”

Behind her, Steve returned—arms full of towels, a basin, and—miraculously—a bundled medical kit.

He dropped to his knees beside them, eyes flicking to Grace, then to Bucky—who knelt steady, the girl’s bloodied hand squeezing his like a lifeline.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Get her out of that damn corset,” Grace snapped, hands soaked in crimson. “Now.”

Steve didn’t hesitate. He moved behind the girl, slicing the laces clean with the small blade tucked at his waist. The stiff bodice fell open—and the girl let out a sharp, ragged gasp.

Her first full breath.

But the blood didn’t stop.

And Grace already knew.

The baby was gone.

A truth she couldn’t say aloud. Not yet. Not here. But she’d felt it—the same hollow thud she had seen before.

But the mother—
That was who she could still save.

She pressed her hand lower, firmer.

“Come on,” she murmured. “Stay with me. Stay with me.”

Steve crouched beside her again, sleeves rolled, eyes locked on her hands.

“What else?”

“Towels. Boil water. Rip sheets. Anything clean and thick. We need pressure and heat and—gods, I need a binding poultice before shock sets in—”

“I’ll get it.”

He vanished again, boots pounding down the corridor.

Grace bent lower, one hand pressing firm, the other brushing the girl’s clammy forehead.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. “You’re not done yet. Stay with me. Stay.”

Her own heart thundered.

But her hands were steady.

She was no lady.

She was a healer.

And this girl was hers to protect.

The door burst open again.

Natasha didn’t bother announcing herself—she stormed in with Grace’s satchel slung over one shoulder and her arms full of clean linens.

“Boiling water’s on its way,” she said. “There’s a footman outside who looks like he’s about to faint.”

“Tell him to faint quietly,” Grace muttered.

Natasha dropped to her knees beside her, laying out the bag with swift efficiency.

“Tell me what you need.”

“Open the salve tin with the red wax seal—bottom left. And that jar of comfrey powder. I’ll need a binding poultice to slow the bleeding, and goddess willing, start tissue recovery.”

She was already stripping the blood-soaked fabric away, her movements fast, precise, practiced.

Bucky shifted slightly, cradling the girl higher, using his body to shield her from the cold air.

“She’s fading,” he said, voice low but steady. “But she’s holding on. You’ve got this.”

The same words she had heard whispered behind a field curtain the first time she stitched flesh not her own—when her hands had trembled and her voice had cracked and she thought she might break from the weight of it.

“Steady hands,” he added quietly. “Just like always.”

Grace looked at him—really looked.

And for a second, she wasn’t just a healer.

She was surrounded by people who actually trusted her here to save this life.

Natasha moved quickly, grinding dried herbs in her palm and mixing a slurry in a shallow bowl from the washstand. Grace layered gauze and balm, her every motion a prayer.

Their eyes met once. Just once.

And Natasha nodded.

“I’ve got you.”

The door opened again—more cautiously this time.

Steve returned with a steaming kettle in one hand, a stack of torn linen in the other. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his forearms streaked with drying blood.

He froze for only a breath—just long enough to take in the full carnage—then stepped forward.

“Where do you need me?”

Grace didn’t even glance up.

“Put the water by the hearth and help Natasha hold pressure. Right above the pelvic ridge. Hard.”

He obeyed instantly, dropping to his knees and pressing both hands where she directed.

Grace’s hands never stopped.

Bandages. Poultice. Herbs. Balm.

Every ounce of skill. Every scrap of training. Every whisper of power she had—she gave it all.

“She’s not more than eighteen,” Natasha said softly.

Grace’s jaw flexed.

“She’s not going to die today,” she said.

And she meant it.

Because she’d seen women bled before.

Because she’d begged the gods before.

And this time—this time—they would listen.

—

Down the hall, faintly, a harpist played on in the great hall.

The peacocks strutting around as if nothing had happened.

——-

The bleeding slowed.
Then stopped.

By the time the court healers arrived—three of them, robed and stiff and half an hour too late—Grace had already stopped the hemorrhaging, cleaned the girl, and coaxed her into a shallow, merciful sleep.

“She’s stable,” Grace said flatly, not even looking up. “But severely anemic. Give her water with honey when she wakes. She’ll need broth, herbs to rebuild the blood. And time.”

The eldest healer sniffed. “We’re more than capable—”

“You weren’t here.” Grace’s voice sliced clean and cold. “I was. And if we had waited, she would be dead too.”

One of the younger women muttered to the others, “Always the same with the Hollow witches.”

Steve stiffened.

He didn’t speak—yet—but the sharp tick in his jaw said everything. Grace didn’t even flinch.

Natasha, seated in the corner now, raised a brow. “She’s right. You all arrived late. Try some gratitude before insults.”

The others wisely said nothing. They moved in to check Grace’s work, their murmurs growing quieter—eventually turning to grudging nods of approval. Even the eldest gave a tight grunt of acknowledgment before stepping back.

But Grace didn’t care.

She stayed where she was—perched beside the girl’s bed, one hand gently resting atop the girl’s wrist, keeping count of the pulse beneath. Her legs were cramping. Blood had dried on her arms. Her braid had half come undone and sweat clung at her temples. But she didn’t move.

Bucky crouched beside her again. “You’ve been kneeling like that for an hour,” he said gently. “You’re going to lose both feet.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. But I’ve got you.” He handed her a waterskin without waiting for permission. “Sip. Slow.”

She drank, only then realizing how dry her mouth had gone. Her fingers trembled slightly as she handed it back.

He caught her wrist before she pulled away. “You’re shaking.”

Grace didn’t answer. Just looked back to Sienna.

Steve, still silent, finally stepped forward.

“I’ll make sure the court knows what you did,” he said, voice low. “You saved her.”

Grace looked up at him then. Her eyes were ringed in exhaustion, but sharp. Clear.

“She lost her baby.”

He nodded solemnly. “But she didn’t lose herself.”

Grace looked back down, brushing a curl of hair from Sienna’s damp forehead. “No. She didn’t.”

She was quiet for a moment longer—then looked up again, voice firm.

“You need to tell them it was something else. An infection. A rupture. Anything but the truth.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“If word gets out it was a pregnancy, they’ll tear her apart. She’s unmarried. Noble. They’ll strip her titles and her name will rot in the halls before she even wakes.”

Steve’s jaw worked. “Grace—”

“She just lost her child,” she said, voice sharper now. “She doesn’t need to lose everything else, too. If you really want to prove yourself to me start there.”

A long pause. Then he nodded, grim.

“I’ll take care of it.”

Grace didn’t thank him. Just turned back to the girl, smoothing the clean cloth over her brow. “Make sure they believe it.” She hesitated. “And I’m still pissed with you.”

Steve gave the smallest huff of breath—part disbelief, part reverence.

Then he turned and left, his steps echoing heavily down the corridor.

Natasha followed him halfway before falling into step beside him. “You’re going to lie to your own council?”

“I’m going to protect a grieving girl,” he muttered. “And do what Grace asked.”

Natasha didn’t argue.

Back inside the room, Bucky leaned against the edge of the wall, arms crossed. He looked at Grace not with pity—but with the steady calm of someone who’d seen things like this before.

“Why do I feel like you never stop surprising people, do you?,” he said.

Grace didn’t lift her eyes. “I’m tired of having to surprise anyone.”

But she didn’t move from her post.

Not even when the last healer bowed and left.

Not until the heartbeat under her fingers beat stronger. Firmer. Sure.

Back in the ballroom—beneath the silk and spectacle of the choosing—the truth had been revealed. Just not the one they’d expected.

The hallways were still half-shadowed with torchlight as they reached the ballroom—though it was well past midnight, the doors were still open, and the music had faded into low murmurs and drawn-out gossip.

Steve stopped in the doorway and scanned the room still covered in the girls blood.

Every member of the Choosing still present turned toward him.

Some looked startled.

Some looked smug.

All of them curious.

Sam stood near the doors, arms crossed, his glare sharp as a blade. He’d clearly tried to send them away already, and the fact they’d ignored him only made Steve angrier.

Without raising his voice, the king stepped forward.

“I heard there’s been some concern,” he said dryly. “About the lady who left the festivities early.”

The room stilled.

Steve’s voice turned cold.

“Lady Sienna suffered a sudden illness. Lady Grace saved her life. The court healers are confident she will recover. The official diagnosis is a burst appendix.”

A few gasps. A few quiet, confused murmurs.

“No further speculation is required,” he said firmly. “And anyone caught spreading rumors to the contrary will answer to me.”

He let the silence stretch.

Then: “You’re dismissed. And next time any of my advisers gives you leave, I suggest you take it.”

No one dared to argue.

Chairs scraped. Silk rustled. Jewels clicked. One by one, the nobles filed out—grumbling, glancing over their shoulders—but not one of them dared speak above a whisper.

Steve didn’t move until the last of them was gone.

Then he turned to Natasha. “Check on her again before you sleep. Make sure she has a guard stationed outside her room, the last thing she needs is someone ‘accidentally’ walking in her room.”

Natasha nodded. “And Grace?”

Steve’s face softened just slightly.

“I guarantee she’s staying with the girl.”

Sam’s mouth twitched. “Of course she is.”

Chapter Text

The sun had crested the tree, casting a pale wash of amber through the high windows when Steve pushed open the door.

The chamber still smelled faintly of blood and herbs, but it was quiet now—so quiet he could hear the steady rhythm of breathing before his eyes even adjusted.

Sienna was awake.

Propped up on a nest of pillows, her skin pale but no longer ashen, her eyes dull but focused. She looked fragile. And young. Too young to have endured what she just had.

Grace sat beside her still, unmoving in the wooden chair.

She hadn’t changed her gown. Hadn’t rebound her hair. Her hands were folded in her lap, her shoulders tense, her expression unreadable. Her eyes—though open—were hollow with exhaustion.

She hadn’t slept.

Not for a moment.

Steve stepped in quietly, letting the door click shut behind him. Sienna turned her head with effort and offered a faint, grateful nod.

“She’s still here,” she whispered. “She didn’t leave me.”

“I know,” he murmured, eyes on Grace.

He moved closer, crouching near her chair. “You should rest.”

Grace didn’t answer.

Steve reached out and gently brushed her hand. “Come on. Just for a little while.”

Her voice, when it came, was hoarse. “She’s stable now. The bleeding’s stopped. I just need to stay until—”

“I’ll be fine,” Sienna interrupted. A whisper of a smile tugged at her lips. “You did enough, Grace. More than most ever would.”

Grace blinked hard.

Steve stood and carefully slid an arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back.

“Come on,” he said again, firmer this time. “You saved her. Let someone take care of you for once.”

Too tired to argue, Grace let herself be lifted.

She didn’t even notice when her head dropped to his shoulder.

Before Steve could turn from the bedside, Sienna shifted—wincing slightly as she pushed herself more upright.

“Wait,” she said, her voice raw but stronger now. “Please.”

Steve paused. Grace stirred faintly in his arms but didn’t open her eyes.

Sienna’s gaze met his, then dropped to Grace, and rose again. “I never meant to be here.”

He frowned. “You don’t have to explain—”

“Yes, I do.” Her hands twisted in the blankets emotion heavy on her face. “I was engaged. We were to be married at spring’s end. He was a good man—kind, steady. I was happy.”

She swallowed hard.

“But when my father received the letter about the Choosing… he didn’t hesitate. He had my fiancé executed for treason—claimed he stood in the way of duty and legacy. I wasn’t even told until after the funeral.”

Steve’s expression darkened. His wolf stirred, hot and vicious beneath his skin.

“He dragged me here in a gilded carriage,” Sienna whispered her voice hollow with grief. “Told me to smile. Told me to forget. Told me to compete. And not to come back without the crown.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I when I figured out I was pregnant … I thought I had something to remember him by. Something they couldn’t take from me.”

She looked down. “But now…”

Her gaze shifted back to Grace. Her voice cracked. “She didn’t leave me. Not when she could’ve. She stayed. She fought.”

Steve’s jaw clenched.

“I have a feeling she always will,” he said quietly.

And then, more to himself than to her:

“So will I.”

Sienna’s voice caught again. “Please don’t send me back. I don’t care where you put me. Just… don’t make me go back there. I lost everything because of them.”

“You won’t,” he said gently. “We’ll find a place for you here.”

Then he turned and carried Grace from the room, her weight in his arms quiet as a vow.

“She’s alright?” Sienna asked faintly as he reached the door.

Steve glanced back. Nodded once. “She’ll be fine. She’s a fighter. Both of you are.”

Then her gaze dropped to Grace’s blood-streaked dress, to the soft curve of her face resting against his chest.

“She’s important, isn’t she?”

Steve didn’t answer with words—just nodded again, and turned down the hall.

He’d get her fed. He’d get her cleaned. He’d get her rested.

And then—he’d tell her everything he could.

—

Steve closed the door to Sienna’s room with a soft click, but the storm on his face was anything but quiet.

Natasha and Bucky were waiting in the corridor. Both straightened the moment they saw his expression and Grace in his arms, already asleep.

“The girl lost the baby,” he said bluntly as the strode down the hallway towards the opposite wing of the castle, and her room. “Because her father had her fiancé executed for treason and forced her into the Choosing. She never wanted any of this.”

Bucky muttered a curse.

Natasha’s expression turned to steel. “Does he still hold title?”

Steve’s nod was sharp. “For now.”

“That won’t last,” she said flatly.

“He won’t get near her again,” Steve growled. “She stays here under my protection. Full rights. Full security. I don’t care if she never sets foot in the ballroom again—she will be safe. She’s not another pawn.”

“And the court?” Bucky asked quietly. “They were already circling last night.”

“I’ve handled it. Publicly, it was a burst appendix. That’s all anyone will hear. No scandal. No whispers. Anyone who says otherwise answers to me.”

Nat gave a single approving nod. “Good.”

But Steve was already glancing down the corridor—toward the royal wing. His jaw unclenched slightly, his voice softer as he looked down at Grace.

“She stayed with Sienna all night. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat.”

Bucky’s brow lifted. “She always like that?”

Steve’s mouth curved—wry, reverent. “I don’t know. But it’s a safe bet yes. And we know she didn’t sleep much on the journey here. She exhausted.”

“Go,” Nat said. “I’ll have food waiting in her chambers. No skimping. We’ll handle the rest.”

Steve didn’t need to be told twice.

He turned toward the royal wing.

And walked with the sleeping woman in his arms.

—-

The light was soft—midmorning sun diffused through the sheer curtains—but it still felt too bright for how tired she felt. She was curled awkwardly on top of the plush blankets, her dress wrinkled and stained from the night before. One hand still clutched the edge of the ruined hem like she had fallen asleep mid-thought as her heart wore her down.

Steve crossed to her gently and knelt beside the bed. “Grace?”

Her lashes fluttered. She blinked up at him, dazed. Then winced.

“Easy,” he said softly. “You’re alright.”

She frowned, brow creasing as she pushed herself up a little—then noticed the state of her dress. “Oh. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

Steve blinked. “You think I care about the dress?”

She blinked again. “It was probably expensive.”

He shook his head, something between fond and frustrated blooming in his chest. “You saved someone’s life. You can destroy every damn dress in the castle.”

She sagged back against the pillows, her whole body heavy with exhaustion. “How long was I a sleep? I need to get back to Sienna.”

“You need a bath,” he said gently, “but you look like you can barely stand.”

“I can do it—”

“Prove to me you can stand right now.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already moving—lighting the tapstones for the bath, checking the temperature, adding a touch of lavender oil just like Natasha had shown him.

When he returned, she hadn’t moved. She just watched him with tired, trusting eyes.

Steve slipped an arm under her knees, another behind her back. “Let me.”

She didn’t protest. Honestly to tired and sore too.

As he carried her, her head fell to his shoulder. A small, nearly inaudible sigh slipped from her lips. He set her down gently and began to help her undress—slow, reverent motions. His hands careful as they slipped the fabric from her shoulders, revealing bruised skin and trembled muscle.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

Didn’t hide herself from him.

He swallowed hard. She trusts me, he thought. Even now.

“Why are you doing this?,” she murmured, voice scratchy from disuse.

He looked up.

“This?” he asked gently.

“Taking care of me, Your Highness?” she said. “Shouldn’t a ladies maid be here? ”

Steve shrugged but didn’t answer. He just brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and dipped the cloth into the water.

He bathed her like it was sacred.

Slow, steady movements. Nothing rushed. His fingers steady as he rinsed her hair, wiped away the remnants of blood and sweat and grief. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

By the time he lifted her from the water, she was barely awake.

He dried her gently and helped her into a soft sleeping gown—one of the lighter ones, with pale green stitching at the cuffs. He moved like the moment mattered. Like she mattered.

“Last thing,” he murmured, helping her sit upright once more. “Just a little broth. You need something in you.”

She sipped it slowly from the mug he held, eyes half-lidded. “You’re very bossy.”

“I’m the King. It comes with the job,” he retorted then added with a smile when she stared at the broth.

“You’re very stubborn.” He added.

“I’m a Healer. It comes with the job.” She parroted. A ghost of a smile touched her lips as she sipped the broth.

Before long she slumped against him, eyelids sliding shut.

Steve laid her back into the bed and pulled the blankets up around her. Brushed a damp curl from her cheek. Watched her breathing even out.

She’d spent the whole night holding someone else together. Now she was letting him hold her.

He would stay.

Just until she woke.

She sipped the broth again, her movements sluggish.

“Bossy,” she murmured once more.

Steve huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

She leaned her head lightly against his chest, nearly asleep.

Then, just as he thought she’d drifted off completely, her voice slipped out—soft but clear.

“I’m still mad at you.”

Steve blinked. “Yeah. I figured.”

She didn’t say anything else. Just curled in closer, trusting him anyway.

Moments later, her breathing deepened, the mug slipping from her hand. He caught it, set it aside, and pulled the blankets higher.

Still mad. But safe.

Still mad. But his.

He stayed beside her, watching her sleep like a man who had just found the other half of his soul.

As Steve sat there holding her, his mind started to work.

His jaw clenched as the door clicked shut behind him.

He stood in the hallway outside Grace’s room, fists tight at his sides, heart still pounding from everything Sienna had told them.

A murdered fiancé. A forced Choosing. A girl bleeding out in a stranger’s arms while the court whispered and postured like crows around a carcass.

And Grace—his Grace—exhausted, bruised, still furious with him but so damn steady through it all.

He glanced back toward the door. She wouldn’t be waking up anytime soon. Not with what Natasha had slipped into her broth—just enough of her own sleeping draught to keep her resting through the day. She’d argued, of course. Even half-asleep. But her body needed what her pride wouldn’t ask for.

And Steve?

The King had work to do.
———-

Today was meant to be a day of observation. A chance to evaluate the candidates, hold preliminary health checks, begin polite introductions.

But forty women filled these halls.

Forty.

And he could already name ten—no, more—who didn’t deserve to stay a single day longer. Their cruelty. Their pretense. Their entitlement. The way they looked at Grace, Sienna, and the other girls from the small towns. The way they ignored pain and clung to power.

He wasn’t going to wait. Not play the game.

But it wasn’t just the Choosing that boiled in his blood.

It was the image of Grace in his arms.

Her skin pale. Her dress ruined. Her muscles trembling.

He had known she was thin—had felt it in her grip, her lightness in his arms. But not until he undressed her did he truly see it: the sharp angles of her collarbone, the shadows at her spine, the hollowness carved beneath her skin by years of sacrifice.

This was one of the most important women in Healers’ Hollow.

And if she looked like this?

What did the rest of her people look like?

His jaw locked.

His father had known. Had had to know. And still the Hollow had gone without—while the palace gleamed, and the court wined and schemed, and the king sat on a throne built on stories like hers.

Steve checked the clock.

Nearly the breakfast hour.

Perfect.

He turned on his heel, stalking down the corridor with purpose, his wolf stirring beneath his skin. Bucky fell into step beside him without a word. Natasha joined them just before the grand stairwell, already knowing.

“You’re doing it today,” she said simply.

Steve didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The thunder in his silence said it all.

As they descended, the voices from the breakfast hall grew louder—laughs, gossip, clinks of silver against porcelain. Perfumed and posturing, the candidates flanked by mothers and maids and sharpened ambition.

He stepped into the room like a storm.

The temperature changed.

Chairs shifted. Smiles faltered.

No one knew what was about to happen—
But every woman in that room knew something had changed.

And the Choosing?

Was about to begin early.

The doors to the breakfast hall slammed open with a reverberating thud.

Every head turned.

Every fork froze midair.

Gasps scattered like dry leaves as King Steven strode into the room, shoulders square, his gaze sharp as a blade. Bucky flanked him on one side, Natasha on the other—both silent, deadly, and utterly unimpressed.

Chairs scraped. Dresses rustled. The women scrambled to their feet in practiced grace, some bowing, some curtsying, some simply blinking in disbelief. No one had expected him this early. Not without warning. Not like this.

“Be seated,” Steve said flatly. No one dared move until he did.

He stopped at the head of the table, hands braced on the carved wood. His eyes swept the long stretch of faces—all polished smiles and wide eyes—and settled into a calm so still it crackled with danger.

“In light of the behavior I witnessed yesterday,” he said, his voice carrying cleanly through the hall, “I’ve decided the Choosing will proceed… a little differently.”

Whispers stirred. A few mothers shifted in their seats. One girl let out a tiny, strangled sound.

Steve continued.

“I have no interest in performances. Or pretense. Or cruelty masked in court politeness.”

He straightened, slowly scanning the room. “So let’s start here. This morning.”

Then he lifted one hand—and pointed.

“You. You. You.” He didn’t bother with names. Didn’t need them. “You. You.”

Six fingers. Six faces turned pale.

“You.” Seven.

“You.” Eight.

Two more, pointed out with the same deliberate precision.

Ten in total.

Each had mocked Grace. Had rolled their eyes at Sienna. Had sneered at the wrong girl or treated this entire ceremony like a game to be won by bloodline and deception.

Steve didn’t raise his voice.

But his words cut like knives.

“You are dismissed from the palace. Rooms are being packed. Carriages are waiting. I expect you gone within the hour.”

The silence that followed was louder than any outcry—a silence packed with disbelief, wounded pride, and the unfamiliar taste of consequence.

And then one voice broke it.

“This is absurd,” a mother sputtered, rising to her feet. “You can’t—my daughter is a Marquinelle—”

“I can,” Steve said coldly. “And I just did.”

He looked to the guards stationed by the doors. “See them out.”

The room sat frozen as the guards moved forward. The ten chosen stood—or were pulled upright by their flustered kin—and were escorted from the hall, their shoes echoing like the death of entitlement.

Steve watched them go.

Then turned back to the rest of the table.

“You have today to rest. Reflect. Prepare.”

His voice was low. Final.

“There are many who remain—not because you’ve earned it, but because I can’t cut the field in half in one day.”

Silence crackled across the room.

“Tomorrow, the trials begin—hopefully you will show that you are still worthy to face them.”

And with that, he turned and left the hall as abruptly as he’d entered, the doors booming shut behind him.

The Choosing had begun.
And the king had made it clear: he would not choose a crown of thorns.
———

The war room smelled faintly of steel, ink, and storm-wet stone. Maps lined one wall, glowing sigils shimmered across another, and a long table anchored the center—already surrounded by the king’s most trusted.

Bucky was the first to speak after the doors shut behind them. “You sure you don’t want to burn the whole palace down and start fresh?”

Tony leaned back in his chair, boots kicked up, utterly unbothered. “Well. That was certainly a first evening for the books.”

Steve didn’t look at him. “It wasn’t an evening. It was a disaster with a string quartet and honeyed pears.”

Coulson gave a low snort from the corner. “Technically, the pears were excellent.”

Clint shrugged. “I’ve heard the Chosen were less so.”

Natasha arched a brow, arms crossed. “Ten down. Twenty-nine to go.”

Steve dropped into the high-backed chair at the head of the table and scrubbed a hand down his face. “They came here for a crown. Not a marriage.”

Tony tilted his head. “And here I thought you wanted a partner, not a performance.”

“I do,” Steve said tightly. “But that girl—Grace—walked into a den of wolves, and not one of them bared their teeth at the actual threat.”

“Threat?” Pepper asked quietly, arms folded where she stood beside Tony. “You mean Grace?”

“No,” Steve said. “I mean me.”

The room stilled.

Fury cleared his throat. “You think they’ve forgotten?”

“I think they think I’ve forgotten.” Steve’s jaw clenched. “What war costs. What power means. They saw a crown and assumed it made me soft. Or stupid.”

“Then remind them,” Natasha said calmly.

“I started this morning.”

“And you’ll keep going,” she said, certain.

“But it wasn’t all a loss,” Clint offered with a smirk. “I’ve heard the Barton girl? Smart. Quick. Knows how to listen. Stark’s kid has manners—and a spine. Lady Watson pulled out a chair for Sienna when no one else moved.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I’m not marrying your teenage daughters, Clint. They’re only here so we can control at least some of the field. And that poor girl…”

“I already spoke with the court healers,” Pepper said gently. “They’ll say it was a burst appendix. Just like you ordered. No rumors. No scandal.”

Steve nodded once, silent.

Tony’s voice was quieter than usual. “And Lady Grace?”

“She didn’t sleep,” Steve murmured. “Sat by Lady Sienna’s side all night. Didn’t eat this morning until I made her. I think she’s too used to doing without.”

He paused, voice darkening. “We need to send people to the border towns. I want reports of the conditions in all the outlying villages. If one of the most important healers in the Hollow looks like that… I don’t even want to imagine what the rest of our people are facing.”

He exhaled. “And gods—she apologized for bleeding on the dress I chose for her.”

Sam blinked. “So… she’s kind, loyal, humble, brave, and healing strangers in a palace that wants her gone.”

Clint raised a brow. “Sounds familiar.”

Steve’s mouth tightened. “She has no idea who I am to her. Not really. But her power’s stirring. Her omega instincts already know.”

Natasha gave him a sidelong glance. “And you pretended you were just some guy who met her on the road?”

“She wasn’t ready,” he said. “Frankly, she still isn’t. And I don’t want her to choose me because of a title. Or a bond. I want her to choose me.”

Bucky clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Then earn it.”

Steve nodded.

“Tomorrow, we begin the trials.”

A pause.

“Let’s see who’s still standing after that.”

Chapter Text

The little table in the sitting room had already been set—porridge with cream, slices of honeyed pear, bread still warm from the ovens. Natasha must have done it while Grace was asleep. Or had it brought quietly, without a parade of servants.

Grace slid into the chair nearest the window, careful not to jostle the fresh bandage on her arm—just a knick from the night before, when she’d turned too quickly reaching for something to help Sienna and caught herself on the sharp corner of a medical tray. But she was also still sore from too many things to count.

Nat took the seat across from her, knife already in hand as she peeled a pear with assassin-like precision.

“Eat,” she said gently. “Don’t make me spoon-feed you like Steve threaten to do.”

Grace made a face but reached for the bread.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, save for the faint clink of dishes and the muted birdsong outside the window.

Then Grace set down her spoon.

“Why me?” Her voice wasn’t angry. Just… tired. Curious. “You said you’d be my escort. My guard. But I’m no one important. I don’t have the pedigree, the training—hell, even the temperament for these court games. I won’t be here past the next round. So why?”

Natasha looked at her for a long moment, the corner of her mouth twitching. “That’s not my story to tell.”

“Then whose is it?”

Nat shrugged. “The King’s, I imagine.”

Grace blinked. “He barely knows me.”

Nat gave a little snort. “You’d be surprised.”

That hung in the air a moment too long.

Grace stirred her porridge slowly, not quite looking up. “He’s the King.”

“He’s also a man. And a wolf. And a soldier who listens more than people realize.” She glanced up. “He knows something. Feels something. And he’s not wrong.”

Grace looked up then. “What do you mean?”

Nat set the knife down and leaned back. “I mean I’ve seen a hundred women cross these halls in my time. Some with charm. Some with lineage. Some with all the ambition in the world. But you—” she paused, eyes narrowing in thought, “—you walked in ready to fight for a stranger’s life with nothing but your hands and your stubbornness. You didn’t care about titles. You cared about doing the right thing. That scares people here. Which is why he needs you.”

Grace’s breath caught. She looked down at her bowl.

Nat reached forward and nudged the vase slightly closer—the one full of flowers with either medicinal uses or symbolic meanings. “And it’s why he left those. It’s his way of saying thank you. And sorry. And probably ten other things he’s too thick to say out loud.”

Grace touched one of the petals. “They’re beautiful.”

“So are you. And that’s before we get you into something that doesn’t smell like stress and blood and herbal salve.”

Grace huffed a laugh. “I should probably change, huh?”

“You will. But eat first. Then we’ll talk about what happens next.”

Grace nodded slowly.

And for the first time in longer than she cared to think about, she let herself finish the entire bowl—eating until she actually felt full.

—

She was halfway through brushing out her damp curls when Natasha reappeared, this time with a smirk and a folded letter in one hand.

“You’ll be glad to know the medical review is happening today.”

Grace raised a brow. “Should I be worried?”

“You were going to be,” Nat said dryly, “until Steve found out what the tradition entailed.”

“…Which was?”

“All the candidates lined up. Naked. Evaluated like livestock.” She waved the letter. “A centuries-old relic from when the court was more interested in breeding contracts than marriage.”

Grace grimaced. “That’s barbaric.”

“Steve thought so too. He nearly tore the war table in half when one of the advisors tried to defend it.”

Grace blinked. “Seriously?”

“He’s since issued a royal override. Medical interviews are now private. Conducted by Doctor Simmons—one of the finest minds in the kingdom and a trusted ally.” She gave Grace a look. “Also a woman. And unlike most doctors, she thinks the old practices of healers are a lost art worth preserving. You’ll like her.”

Relief hit Grace like a tide. “Thank the gods. The last thing I want is to debate the validity of everything I was raised to do just because someone uses different tools to do the same thing.”

Natasha folded the letter again and handed it over. “You’ll be seen here, in your room. She’ll ask questions, check basic vitals, and be done in under half an hour. The worst part will be the physical, which I’m assuming you know how those go. I’ll be right outside the whole time. If you need me.”

Grace nodded, still clutching the paper. “I won’t. But thank you.” A pause. “What about the others?”

“They’re being seen one by one in designated guest chambers.” Her voice cooled. “The ones who don’t like the change are welcome to leave.”

Grace smiled faintly. “So the king’s not all brooding glares and clenched jawlines.”

Oh, he’s definitely that,” Nat said with a wink. “But he’s also yours.”

That startled something warm in Grace’s chest—but she shoved it aside and stood. “Guess I’d better look alive for the good doctor.”

“You already do,” Nat said simply.

There was a knock at the door precisely when Natasha had said there would be.

Grace opened it to find a woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a crisp navy coat embroidered subtly with the crest of the royal medical guild. Her short curls were tucked beneath a scarf, and her expression was one of calm, practiced authority.

“Lady Grace?” she asked.

Grace nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Doctor Jemma Simmons. May I come in?”

“Of course.”

Grace stepped aside. The sitting room had been quietly rearranged—someone had moved a small chaise near the window and laid out a tray of medical supplies. Natasha gave a nod from her post near the hearth, then slipped out to give them privacy.

“Right,” Simmons said, already scanning a parchment clipboard. “Let’s begin.”

Simmons worked methodically. Grace sat with her hands folded while the doctor took her pulse, checked her eyes, gently pressed against her lymph nodes and the bones of her wrist.

“You’re underweight,” Simmons said plainly. “At least fifteen to twenty pounds below optimal baseline. Possibly more, depending on muscle retention.”

Grace didn’t flinch. “It was a hard winter.”

Simmons nodded without judgment. “And anemia?”

“Since the last thaw. I’ve been self-medicating with nettle and liverroot, but it’s not a cure.”

“Supplements?”

“I brew my own. Twice a day when I can. With bone broth when I can’t afford the tea.”

“Suppressants?”

Grace sighed. “Since I was eleven.”

“Any breaks?”

“Once. When we ran out.”

Simmons’ brow furrowed. “Then your first heat—your true one—will be… difficult.”

“I assumed as much.”

Simmons made a quiet note, then looked up. “I heard about what happened last night.”

Grace stiffened slightly. “Lady Sienna?”

“She’s doing marvelously. All things considered,” Simmons said. “I checked in on her just before this. No sign of infection. Vitals stabilizing.”

Grace exhaled in relief. “Good.”

“I would have come sooner,” Simmons added, a hint of wryness in her voice, “but no one summoned me. Apparently, your work was deemed… sufficient.”

Grace arched a brow. “Sufficient?”

“You stabilized her. Controlled the hemorrhaging. Cleared the fever before it spiked. I read the healer’s log—what little there was.”

“You mean the part where I had to yell at a court medic to boil his own damn instruments?” Grace muttered.

Simmons cracked a smile. “I do, actually. You were right to. That man’s been relying on his name for years. And yet you—you worked with nothing but cloth strips and boiled herbs.”

Grace shrugged. “You do what you have to.”

Simmons tilted her head. “That’s what makes a real healer. Not the crest on your coat, but the instinct in your hands.”

There was a beat of quiet. Mutual understanding. And, maybe, respect.

Simmons leaned back slightly in her chair. “You know… I’ve worked in this palace nearly twelve years. Treated kings, generals, dignitaries. I’ve held the hand of a soldier dying from a frostbite wound we couldn’t reverse, and helped deliver a duchess’s child in the middle of a siege.”

Grace’s brows lifted. “Which was worse?”

“The duchess,” Simmons said without missing a beat. “Her mother-in-law fainted twice.”

That drew a soft laugh from Grace.

Simmons smiled. “My point is—this court… it doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

Grace blinked. “Someone like me?”

“Someone who doesn’t perform,” Simmons said simply. “Someone who walks into a medical crisis and doesn’t ask whose blood it is—just how much they’ve lost. That unsettles people. Especially here.”

Grace’s voice was quieter now. “You’ve been here a long time.”

“I have.”

“So why stay?”

Simmons met her eyes. “Because if I leave, then the only people making decisions are the ones who’ve forgotten what it’s like to get their hands dirty. I may not change everything. But I can be a line. A voice. A reminder.”

Grace swallowed.

Simmons softened. “And maybe now, I’m not the only one.”

That silence stretched—solid, steady.

Then, finally, Simmons sat forward again and flipped a fresh page on her parchment.

“Now—healer to healer,” Simmons said, her tone shifting just slightly back toward the clinical, “have you noticed any changes?”

Grace’s fingers curled around the edge of the chaise. “Other than what?”

Simmons didn’t rush. She set the quill down, folding her hands in her lap. “Anything that felt… different. Sudden surges of emotion. Moments of unnatural strength. Changes in scent or rhythm. A sense of being… called. Or pulled. Dreams that feel more like memories. Or—” her voice dipped lower, more careful now, “—a shift.”

Grace stilled. The word landed with weight.

“You think I’m a shifter?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Simmons said honestly. “But there are signs. Your scent signature fluctuates. And your file—what little we were able to reconstruct—includes early anomalies. Reflexes. Bone growth. Adrenal response. None of it lines up neatly with standard omega physiology.”

Grace looked down at her hands.

“My mother said I was born early. Barely made it. I was small. Sick for weeks.”

Simmons nodded. “That could be connected. Some children born near the edge—near death—carry fragments of something else. The Veil doesn’t always close cleanly.”

“The Woven One,” Grace murmured. “You think the gods have… touched me?”

“I think,” Simmons said gently, “that something tried very hard to keep you alive. And left a mark doing it.”

Grace looked up, her face unreadable. “Is that why I didn’t get the fever last year when everyone else did?”

“Possibly. Or it’s why you sense things before they happen. Why you’ve always been a little off-rhythm with the rest of the world.”

A long pause.

Grace’s voice was low. “And here I thought I was just… strange.”

“You are,” Simmons said. “Wonderfully. Strangely. Precisely. And it’s not a diagnosis. It’s a beginning.”

Another beat. Then Simmons leaned in, her expression warm but firm.

“If anything shifts—if anything starts to rise in you, change in ways you don’t expect—I want you to come to me. No court rumors. No palace whispers. Just healer to healer.”

Grace nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Simmons rose, brushing her hands on her coat. She moved back to the tray, reorganizing vials and scrolls with neat, practiced efficiency.

“Before I go,” she said, tone brisk but not unkind, “let me be clear.”

Grace looked up.

“You are miraculously alive. Your vitals are ridiculously stable. Your heart is strong. But you are underweight to a point that concerns me—deeply.”

Grace didn’t argue. She didn’t need to.

Simmons continued, “I understand hard winters. Scarcity. Survival. But if there is even the possibility you’ll be expected to complete the mating bond—never mind carry a child—your body will need reserves it does not currently have.”

She turned back, meeting Grace’s eyes.

“You need to eat. You need to rest. And you need to start caring for yourself not just as a healer, or a potential queen—but as a woman who has been in survival mode far too long.”

Grace swallowed. “I know.”

“Then act like it,” Simmons said, not unkindly. “Let the palace serve you for once. It is a rare occasion to have someone spoil you. Let them. Let your body remember what safety feels like.”

She reached the door, then paused one last time.

“And Grace?”

“Yes?”

“There’s more than one kind of power. Don’t let them convince you yours is the wrong kind.”

Then she was gone.

The room was quiet after Dr. Simmons left, the kind of quiet that felt full of thoughts Grace wasn’t ready to say aloud.

She’d barely moved when Natasha reappeared, another plate of fruit and toasted bread in one hand, her expression unreadable.

“You alright?” Nat asked.

Grace nodded, too tired to lie.

“I know I need to eat. But when you haven’t for a while… too much can hurt too.”

Nat set the plate down and crossed to the window, pushing open the panes. Sunlight spilled across the sill, the soft hush of birdsong filtering in from below.

“Fine. Garden looks good today,” she said casually. “Not many people out yet. Just a few of the better ones.”

Grace followed her gaze.

Stone pathways looped through hedges and flowerbeds, dew still clinging to the grass. A bench sat in the far corner beneath a cluster of trees, half-shadowed and private.

Nat glanced over. “You up for a walk?”

Grace hesitated—then nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

Nat didn’t say good girl, but something in her eyes softened like she wanted to.

“Alright,” she said, already moving to the wardrobe. “Let’s get you into something that won’t scandalize the royal gardeners.”

She pulled out a soft blue dress with embroidered sleeves, simple enough for walking but still elegant. Grace started to change, and this time, Nat helped without teasing. Just quick, practiced hands—tying stays, brushing out curls, handing her flat-soled slippers.

“You look better,” Nat said as she stepped back.

“I feel better.”

“Good. Let’s make sure it lasts.”

They slipped through the halls, down the stairs, and out into the fresh air. Grace closed her eyes as the sun touched her face, then followed Natasha into the garden—one step at a time, not quite awake, fatigue still sat in her body, but stronger than she was this morning .

And for now, that was enough.

The garden air was cool and clean, laced with the scent of damp stone and sun-warmed earth, and the faint rustle of leaves overhead. Grace let it fill her lungs as they followed the curved path, her fingers brushing along low hedges and blooming lavender.

They walked in silence for a while—Nat letting her set the pace—but eventually Grace slowed, brow furrowing.

She crouched near a raised bed just off the path. Among the ornamental flowers and sculpted shrubs, a patch of golden calendula nodded gently in the breeze. Nearby: feverfew, yarrow, chamomile, and what she was almost certain was a young valerian plant.

“That’s… strange,” she murmured.

Nat glanced over. “What is?”

Grace looked up. “These herbs. They’re all medicinal. Useful ones too. But this is a formal garden—it’s all symmetry and flourishes. These don’t belong here.”

Nat smiled faintly. “Most never notice, or even know.”

Grace rose slowly, brushing her hands on her skirt. “Someone had to put them here on purpose.”

“She did,” Natasha said. “Steve’s mother. Queen Evelyn .”

Grace blinked. “The queen planted them?”

“Thirty-four years ago,” Nat confirmed, her voice quieter now. “She was a trained healer before she married. Refused to give up her work just because she wore a crown. Started these beds herself—said a queen should know how to save lives, not just sign decrees.”

Grace looked around again—really looked. The way the herbs were subtly tucked between the showier plants. The care taken to keep them healthy but hidden from casual view. It wasn’t vanity. It was purpose.

“She sounds…” Grace trailed off, unsure how to describe it.

“Unforgettable,” Nat finished. “From what I have heard you would’ve liked her. She would’ve loved you.”

The words landed somewhere deep in Grace’s chest, tender and unexpected.

“Come on,” Nat said after a beat. “Let’s sit. That bench over there is where she used to take her tea—and where Steve sulked through most of his childhood lessons.”

That made Grace huff a small laugh. “He would.”

Nat just raised a brow and led the way.

They reached the bench tucked beneath the shade of an old maple, its roots curling gently around the stone foundation like fingers. Grace lowered herself carefully, legs still weak from riding too long, then squatting awkwardly for too many hours. Natasha remained standing, watching the path behind them.

“You alright?” she asked, glancing down.

Grace nodded. “I just needed a moment.”

“Good. Because you’re about to have company.”

Grace looked up—and sure enough, Steve rounded the path.

He’d clearly dressed down again—loose shirt, dark trousers, boots that had seen real use. No crown. No heavy cloak. No announcement. Just a man approaching quietly, hands at his sides, eyes fixed on her.

Her pulse quickened in spite of herself.

“Morning,” he said softly.

“Your Majesty,” Grace replied, voice polite but distant.

Steve winced. “You… don’t have to call me that. Not here.”

“I think I do.”

Natasha watched the exchange for a beat, then stepped back with a muttered, “I’ll give you two a moment. Try not to make it worse.”

She disappeared down a side path.

Steve shifted his weight. “I came to check on you. Simmons said you were still recovering.”

“I’m fine.”

“You nearly collapsed this morning. And you stayed up all night saving a stranger. That’s not fine.”

Grace arched a brow. “What would you prefer I’d done? Let her die because it might wrinkle my dress?”

His jaw flexed. “Of course not. That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?” she asked, rising to her feet. “Because from where I stand, you only tell me the truth after the damage is done—and then you get angry when I respond.”

Steve looked pained. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“No,” she said. “You just let me think you were a kind stranger on the road. A stablehand, maybe a guard. And then I walk into the hall and find out you’re the king—and I am in a world where everyone treats me like I don’t belong.”

“You do belong.”

Grace folded her arms. “Do I? Or is that just something else you’ve decided without asking me?”

The wind stirred the herbs at her feet, the scent of mint and chamomile curling between them.

Steve swallowed. “I didn’t mean to deceive you. I just… I didn’t want to be the king with you. Not at first. I wanted to be me. And you… it’s just easy to forget the rest of it.”

Grace’s expression softened a fraction. But only a fraction.

“I’m still angry,” she said, voice quieter now.

“I know. You’ve told me. Several times,” Steve replied. “You’re allowed to be.”

“Good. Because I am.”

He gave a short, almost helpless nod. “Then I’ll wait. However long you need.”

Grace didn’t answer. She just sat back down on the bench, her shoulders still tight, her eyes on the garden path.

Steve didn’t leave.

He just sat beside her in silence, close—but not too close—as the morning sun climbed higher through the trees.

They sat in the quiet of the garden for a long moment. Birds chirped somewhere near the edge of the garden wall. A breeze lifted the scent of lavender, brushing against the hem of her dress.

Finally, Grace stood like she had decided something. “Except you have a time line, that we all have to follow don’t you. Your Majesty.”

Steve looked up quickly. “Leaving?”

“I have a patient I need to check on.”

He blinked, then nodded once. “Of course.”

Grace didn’t elaborate. She just adjusted her skirts and started down the path, posture steady, chin high. She didn’t look back.

Steve stayed on the bench, watching her disappear around the bend.

Still mad. Still brilliant. Still his.

And worth every moment of waiting. Even if she killed him in the process

Chapter Text

Grace left him in the garden.

She’d told herself it was about checking on Sienna. About the bandages. The bleeding. Anything but him.

But the truth clung to her—like the scent of crushed lavender on her hands, impossible to wash away: she couldn’t look at him without her pulse rising, her chest tightening, her anger flaring for reasons she didn’t fully understand.

She understood his reasons. She really did.
But he made her feel like an idiot when she wasn’t prepared.

And something about that combination made her furious.

Worse, she was more mad at herself than him.

Not that she’d let him know that.

Grace let the door fall softly shut behind her and started down the corridor, her steps quick and quiet. The castle halls were still new. Still too grand. Too full of people watching, whispering. Measuring.

Here, she could breathe again.
Here, her hands could do something useful.

When she reached Sienna’s room, Grace paused only long enough to adjust the linen wrap on her arm. Then she knocked gently and slipped inside.

The air was warm and dim, thick with the scent of steeping herbs and cooling iron. The blood had long been cleared, but Grace could still feel it in the room—the memory of it, sharp and metallic, clinging to the stone.

Sienna lay curled on the bed, propped slightly on a nest of pillows, her skin still too pale against the dark linen sheets. Her eyes were closed, but her breathing was steady. A fresh broth sat untouched on the table beside her.

And by the hearth—her back to the door—stood a woman.

She wore her greying hair in a thick braid, the ends tucked neatly into her collar. Her hands moved with practiced ease as she adjusted a compress at Sienna’s hip, murmuring something low and gentle in the old healer’s cadence.

It took Grace a moment to place her. Two decades older. A little more worn. A little more careful.

But unmistakable.

“Maela?”

The woman turned.

Those warm, clever eyes lit with recognition—and something that almost broke Grace.

“My girl,” Maela whispered, voice cracking. “You’ve grown into your mother’s fire and your father’s steadiness.”

Grace’s throat tightened. “I thought I’d never see you again. My mother will be so happy to know you’re well. What are you doing here?”

“I help where I can. Word travels fast when the healer’s daughter shows up at a Choosing.”

Maela’s smile was a little crooked, a little teary. “I wasn’t going to come. But then I heard what you did for this one.” She nodded toward Sienna. “And I thought, maybe… maybe I could be of use again.”

Grace crossed the room in a heartbeat and wrapped her arms around the older woman. Maela smelled like clove oil and rose soap, just as she had when Grace was little. A grounding scent. A memory turned real.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

They held each other a long moment before Maela pulled back slightly, brushing Grace’s cheek with a dry, calloused thumb.

“You’re too thin. Don’t you eat?”

“I do,” Grace said. “Just… not well, sometimes. This winter was hard.”

“It shows. But your eyes—your eyes are still sharp.”

“Too sharp, some say.”

Maela smiled faintly. “The sharp ones survive.”

She turned back to her work for a moment, but her voice softened. “How is your mother?”

“Still bossing the Hollow with a broken wrist and a smarter mouth than anyone has time for.”

Maela huffed a fond little laugh. “Good. I worried when the storms dragged on. And the crops—?”

“Held better than expected. We’ve had enough to share, even with the border camps. Olivia’s been helping with distribution—she’s halfway through her training now. Has your steadiness, I think, but my mother’s opinions.”

Maela chuckled. “That’s a dangerous combination.”

“She’ll be a councilor soon enough, if she doesn’t burn the whole place down first.”

“And the others?” Maela asked, glancing up. “Nicola? Elias?”

Grace made a face. “Still insufferable. Elias has grown into the kind of man who talks over his own echo. Nicola’s become very good at pretending to listen. The Woven One terrifies them both.”

Maela raised a brow. “She always did.”

“She hasn’t changed,” Grace said, then paused. “Well—no, that’s not true. She’s watching me more closely now. Like she’s waiting for something.”

Maela gave her a look that said she’d circle back to that later. “And Matt?”

“Finally proposed to Lydia.”

“Truly?”

“They’re getting bonded next new moon. It only took him a decade and a near-fatal brush with frostbite to get there.”

Maela snorted. “I always said he was more stubborn than brave.”

Grace smiled. “That’s why he fits in.”

Behind them, Sienna stirred, shifting against the pillows with a low groan. “You two could at least try to whisper quieter.”

Grace let out a breath of laughter, then softened immediately. She crossed to the bedside and took Sienna’s hand, checking her pulse with a gentle press of fingers.

“You’re awake.”

“Unfortunately,” Sienna muttered, her voice dry, raspy. “Was hoping I’d still be unconscious. Less pain that way.”

“You’re stable,” Grace murmured, brushing a hand along her wrist. “The worst of the bleeding has passed.”

“For now,” Maela said, re-wrapping the fresh cloth around Sienna’s middle. “She’ll need a week of real rest. And more than just broth if she’s going to get her strength back.”

“Noted,” Grace said. “I’ll oversee her care myself.”

“I heard that,” Sienna mumbled. “You’re both tyrants.”

“We are,” Grace said softly. “And you’re lucky we are.”

The three women fell into a familiar rhythm—Sienna drifting in and out of consciousness, Grace and Maela working side by side. The healing was steady, deliberate, sacred in its way. There were no grand declarations. Just warm water, clean linens, hands that knew what to do.

And yet—

Somewhere beneath the quiet, Grace felt it.

A faint buzz, barely more than a whisper. Not a sound, exactly. Not even a feeling. Just… a presence.
Like a thread tugging loose in the back of her mind.
Like the pressure behind a coming storm.

She paused only briefly, thinking it might be her exhaustion catching up with her again. But the sensation didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened—low and patient and strange.

She blinked, shook her head once, and reached for a bowl of fresh water.

Maela didn’t notice. Or if she did, she said nothing.

Grace dipped the cloth, twisted it out, and began again.

———
The courtyard was alive with movement—shouts, laughter, the dull clang of steel—but Steve felt removed from it.

Like watching the surface of a stream from far beneath, the world wavered just out of reach. Familiar shapes distorted. Sound dulled. His body moved, but something essential was elsewhere.

He stood at the edge of the practice ring, one arm braced on the hilt of a training sword, sweat drying on his skin. He’d run drills until his legs burned. Sparred until the guards begged for a break. But nothing settled the noise inside his head.

Nothing dulled the low, persistent hum of the bond.

It pressed behind his sternum like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
Not urgent. Not painful. But off.
Like a drumbeat he couldn’t follow, or a melody that had dropped a note.

He tilted his face up to the overcast sky and exhaled slowly.

She left.

He hadn’t meant to fight with her. Not again. Not so soon after she arrived. But being near her made it impossible to think clearly. Every glance cut sharper than it should. Every silence filled with everything they didn’t say.

She’d walked away without looking back. And he’d let her go.

He kept replaying it—her eyes, her voice, the way her shoulders squared just before she turned.

He hadn’t meant to hurt her. But somehow, he always did.

Steve wiped the back of his neck with a towel and crossed to the water basin. The castle loomed in his peripheral vision—its stone towers too tall, its windows too narrow, its halls too full of people with expectations.

He didn’t belong here any more than she did.

A footfall behind him cut through the haze.

He turned slightly, hand twitching toward his belt, before the voice stopped him.

“You’re brooding.”

He didn’t need to turn to know the voice.

Natasha came to stand beside him, arms crossed, her hair pulled back in a sleek knot. “And don’t bother denying it. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re thinking about saying something you’ll regret, and wishing you already had.”

Steve gave a tired huff of a laugh. “She’s not wrong about me.”

“No,” Natasha agreed easily. “But she’s not entirely right either. Where is she?”

He turned to face her fully. “She said she was going to check on Sienna.”

Natasha’s brow creased. “You let her go alone?”

“I didn’t let her do anything,” Steve said, sharper than he meant. “She walked off. I figured she needed space.”

“That was over an hour ago.”

He frowned. “The bond’s quiet. I’d know if she was in danger.”

“Would you?” Nat’s voice was cool, but not unkind. “Because if she was angry—really angry—you’d feel that too. And you didn’t go after her?”

Steve didn’t answer.

“She hasn’t been seen in the halls,” Natasha went on. “No one saw her at the infirmary. I just checked her room. Empty.”

“She’s not stupid,” Steve said quickly. “She wouldn’t just disappear.”

“No,” Natasha said, studying him. “But she might slip away without meaning to. Especially if something pulled her.”

He straightened, jaw tightening. “She’s not in the infirmary?”

“No. And if she is with Sienna, she didn’t tell anyone.” She looked up at him, sharp as a blade. “We’re not in the Hollow anymore. She doesn’t get to vanish like that—not without someone noticing.”

A beat of silence passed.

“I’ll find her,” Steve said quietly.

“No,” Natasha said, already turning. “I will. You storming in there in a mood will only make it worse.”

He opened his mouth to argue.

She held up a hand. “Stay put. I’ll bring her back—or send word.”

Then she was gone, boots sharp against the stone path, disappearing into the castle like smoke.

Steve stayed where he was.

But the hum in his chest only grew louder.

Not her panic. Not her pain.

Something older. Calling.

He closed his eyes for a moment, willing the sensation to settle. It didn’t.

There were things to do. People waiting. A council meeting he couldn’t skip, no matter how much he wanted to chase the feeling threading down the bond like a rising tide.

He clenched his jaw and turned toward the main hall.

One step. Then another.

But the storm was building.

And it carried her name.
————-

The knock was soft—too soft to be Natasha.

But when the door opened without waiting for an answer, Grace wasn’t surprised to see her.

Nat stepped inside with the careful control of someone barely leashed. She took in the room with one sweep of her eyes: the low light, the herbs steeping in bowls, Maela bent over Sienna’s blankets—and Grace, halfway through wrapping a fresh binding around her friend’s ribs.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Grace straightened, blinking. “What?”

“I leave you alone for half an hour, and you vanish.” Natasha’s voice was low, steady—but each word landed like a blade slipped neatly between ribs. “Not a note. Not a guard. Not even a damn whisper.”

“I went to check on Sienna,” Grace said quietly. “I didn’t realize I needed permission to—”

“You don’t need permission,” Natasha cut in. “You need escort. You’re not just some girl from the Hollow anymore. You are a member of the Chosen.”

That stung more than it should have.

Grace tightened the wrap at Sienna’s side just a little more than necessary, her fingers twitching with unspoken tension.

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You didn’t,” Natasha said, even as her arms folded tighter across her chest. “Steve did. He thought you needed space. I thought you understood the risk.”

Grace opened her mouth, but Maela—without lifting her head—said calmly, “She was working. Helping me tend the girl. Not gallivanting off to the wilds.”

“Maela,” Grace murmured.

The older woman held up a hand. “I’m old, not mute.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t soften. Not entirely. But her shoulders eased.

“Look,” she said, finally stepping forward. “I know you’re not used to this. The eyes. The rules. But like it or not, people are watching you now. If something happens—if you disappear—it becomes my problem. And his.”

Grace nodded, the heat behind her eyes sharp and immediate. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were thinking like a healer,” Maela said, giving her a sideways glance. “Not a consort.”

Natasha pointed at her. “Exactly.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Nat said. She exhaled, jaw tight with restraint. “Just… promise me you won’t leave your rooms—or any room—without letting someone know. Even me. No—correct that. Especially me.”

“I promise.”

A beat passed.

Natasha nodded once. “I’ll send someone back in a bit to walk you out.”

Then she turned and left as swiftly as she’d come, her boots echoing down the stone hall.

Silence returned like a breath held too long.

Grace stood still for a moment, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the table. The room was warm again, the herbs steeping softly in the corner, the flicker of the hearth casting long shadows across the stone floor.

But something was… off.

Not the room. Not Sienna.

Her.

That strange sensation again—like a breath caught just behind her ribs. Not a thought. Not a voice. But a hum. A gentle tug at the edges of her awareness, persistent and quiet, like the pull of a tide she hadn’t noticed she was standing in.

She blinked and turned toward Maela, brushing her hand on a cloth without realizing it trembled faintly.

The older woman finally looked up, deadpan. “You’ve never been one to follow every rule.”

Grace let out a breath and offered a tired smile. “And yet somehow, here I am. Center stage.”

Maela gave her a look. “Let’s just hope the gods enjoy a bit of rebellion.”

Maela gave her a look. “Let’s just hope the gods enjoy a bit of rebellion.”

The corner of Grace’s mouth lifted, but it didn’t hold. A breath caught behind her ribs again—faint and electric. She shook it off and turned to the hearth.

Sienna had slipped back into a shallow doze, her breathing soft and even. The bowl of salve rested on the table beside the bed, half-used. A pot of steeped herbs still warmed gently on the coals.

Grace wiped her fingers clean on a square of linen, then crouched beside Maela’s satchel. The old leather bag sat open, worn soft by time and travel. Its contents were as chaotic as ever: clinking vials, loose herbs, poultices, crushed paper bundles tied with twine.

But the pull was stronger now.

Not pain. Not even sound. Just… direction.

As though something in the bag already knew she was reaching for it.

She told herself it was muscle memory, that she was just helping Maela sort—but her hands were moving without command, sifting deeper, past the useful, the obvious, the known.

“You still pack like you’re three steps from a battlefield,” she said, voice a little too even. “This is part healer’s bag, part minor disaster.”

Maela gave a low chuckle. “You never know where the work will take you. Or how fast you’ll have to run.”

Grace wasn’t listening anymore.

Her fingertips brushed a strip of gauze. Then a twist of fever bark. Then—something else.

Cool. Dense. Breathing.

She froze.

The hum inside her deepened. A vibration behind her breastbone. A heatless flicker crawling up the back of her neck.

Her hand hovered above the object.

And then—

A flicker.

Just for a second, the world fell away.

She saw stone. Wet with blood. Moonlight breaking over a field of ash.
She saw a face—hers, but not.
Older. Worn. Crowned with something she did not recognize.
Eyes burning. Voice screaming without sound.

Then it was gone.

Grace gasped and jerked back, her pulse racing.

But her hand moved anyway—like it had been waiting.

Fingers closed around the relic.

It fit her palm exactly. Too exact. As if it had been carved for her.

Dark stone—or perhaps bone—cool to the touch, inscribed with faint sigils so old they seemed etched into the world itself. The edges were not sharp, but they pressed against her skin with weight. With intent.

The moment her skin touched it fully, the pull became a grip.

Her heart lurched.

“Maela…” she said, barely above a whisper. “What is this?”

The older woman looked up, her face already pale.

“That…” Her voice dropped, tight and ancient. “That shouldn’t be here. Put it down. Now.”

“I—” Grace tried, but her hand wouldn’t open.

The relic throbbed.

Not with light.

With memory.

“Grace,” Maela said sharply now, rising. “You can’t—”

But it was too late.

The air folded inward. The fire guttered low. And something ancient cracked open.

The relic flared.

And Grace gasped.

Chapter Text

The council chamber smelled like old parchment and older egos.

It wasn’t a formal session, just a “discussion”—which somehow meant three straight hours of thinly veiled complaints dressed up as tradition. Steve sat near the hearth, spine straight, jaw clenched, doing his best not to snap the inkwell in his hand in half.

“…and what precedent does it set,” Lady Seraphine of the Glassenberg, her already thin-lips narrowed, “if we allow modesty to interfere with ritual? The physical inspection is not about comfort—it is about transparency. History. Purity of line.”

Steve blinked slowly. “It’s about lining up half-dressed strangers to be ogled like livestock.”

She bristled. “It’s about safeguarding the bloodlines of the kingdom.”

“It’s dehumanizing.”

“It is custom.”

“Either way it’s already done, so it a moot point.”

He opened his mouth to continue —but the world shifted beneath him.

Not literally.
Not visibly.

But something inside him went still.

Then tugged.

It wasn’t pain. Not alarm. But something deeper. Quieter. Like the bond—barely formed, barely tethered—had flared and snapped taut. He couldn’t breathe for a second. His heart stuttered. Heat flushed the back of his neck, his vision narrowing in on nothing at all.

Her essence.

A ripple shuddered through him—hot, cold, and sudden.

He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

She’d touched something she wasn’t meant to.

Grace.

He stood so abruptly that his chair scraped hard against the stone floor, tipping over behind him with a crash.

Every head turned.

“Your Majesty—” Tony started bust Steve didn’t hear him at all.

He was already moving.

He didn’t run.

He moved—with purpose, with power, with something deep in his chest clawing toward her. The guards in the corridor barely had time to react before he’d passed them. He didn’t know where he was going, not with logic—but his feet knew. His body knew.

The bond was pulling him like a thread yanked tight between ribs.

Down the east corridor. Through the wing that housed the injured. Past a startled kitchen maid and a guard captain mid-sentence.

He turned a final corner—

—and heard Maela scream Grace’s name.

⸻

She hadn’t meant to reach for it.

Her fingers had just… moved.

Drawn not by curiosity but by recognition—a pull in her chest that wasn’t hers alone. A thrum beneath her skin, old and echoing. The shape of it fit her palm like it remembered her.

Or like it had been waiting.

A flicker bloomed behind her eyes—not memory, not dream, but something older.

A vision.

Just a flash: silver trees under a red sky, a figure cloaked in shadow turning to look at her—eyes not quite human. The wind howling like a name she couldn’t hear.

Grace gasped. Her hand clenched.

The relic met her skin fully.

And the world shattered.

The relic burned cold in her hand.
Then hot.

The hum became a roar—not in the room, but inside her bones. Her knees buckled.

“Grace—” Maela’s voice sounded miles away.

The room tilted, colors bleeding at the edges. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her limbs jerked once, violently. The relic slipped from her fingers, clattering to the stone floor with a sound like shattering glass—though nothing had broken.

Grace convulsed.

Her back arched sharply, her heels scraping against the stone. Hands twitching. Eyes wide and white.

Maela lunged for her.

But she wasn’t fast enough.

The world blurred again—a crash, a growl, a blur of movement and heat—

Then arms caught her. Strong, sure. Just before her skull would have struck the ground.

Steve.

He dropped to his knees with her cradled tight against his chest, heart hammering hard enough to shake them both.

“Grace—” his voice cracked. “I’ve got you. You’re okay—Grace, look at me—”

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

Her body had gone rigid, then limp.

Her eyes—still open—glowed with a soft, unnatural light. Silver, almost white. Unseeing.

And then she went utterly still in his arms.
———

The room was gone.

The heat, the stone, the scent of herbs and iron—gone.

In its place: wind. Cold and ancient. It sliced across her skin like glass, catching the edges of her breath and hurling it into a sky the color of dried blood. The horizon rippled like heat haze, but the air was bitter. Metallic. It tasted like something old.

She stood barefoot on dark soil—cracked and veined like something once living. The cold seeped up through the soles of her feet, gnawing at bone. Her toes curled instinctively. She looked down.

She was dressed in white. Or what might have once been white—now torn and smudged, soaked at the hem. Her fingers trembled where they hung by her sides, scraped and bloodied, knuckles raw like she’d tried to catch herself from a fall that had never ended.

Her limbs ached with it. Her spine throbbed. Her teeth felt loose in her mouth.

She wasn’t alone.
The air shifted first—like breath held in the lungs of the world.
Then, the figures appeared.

Figures that moved in the distance—hazy, half-formed. Some staggered. Some knelt. One lifted its head and howled, long and low and mournful.

Another stepped forward.

A woman in ceremonial robes. Blonde hair braided like a crown. Eyes like hammered metal.

She raised a hand—and the wind died instantly.

Silence dropped like a stone.

The woman didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She just watched Grace with eyes too steady, too still.

Then, as Grace stepped forward—just once, just enough to test the dream’s edge—the woman tilted her head.

And her face changed.

Not all at once. Not like a mask being torn away. It was softer than that. Slower. Like watching moonlight shift through water. The silver braid unraveled. The robes dulled into a road-worn cloak. Her shoulders narrowed. Her mouth softened.

And suddenly, impossibly, it wasn’t a stranger standing before her.

It was Hope.

Not the myth Grace had built from old stories and faded memories —but the girl she’d last seen by lantern light, seventeen and furious, her eyes still full of the Hollow and the future she’d never gotten to live.

“Hope?” Grace whispered, breath catching hard in her throat.

The air held still.

Hope looked at her—truly looked at her—and for a moment, something flickered behind her eyes.

Recognition.

Sorrow.

Resolve.

But she didn’t smile.

Instead, her voice rang out in a hollow echo:

“The storm is waking.”

Behind her, the massive black wolf stirred. Not a shadow this time—but real. Muscled and massive, silver-eyed and still. Its fur moved with the wind that no longer blew. It watched Grace with knowing.

“The key is bound, but not broken,” Hope said. “The bond will hold… unless it is tested.”

And then she lifted her hand.

The earth screamed.

It cracked wide beneath Grace’s feet, a jagged burst of white-gold light splitting the plain in two. For one impossible second, she teetered—arms windmilling, heart in her throat.

Then she fell.

Weightless.

Breathless.

Burning.

The air rushed past her like fire. Her body jerked in freefall, limbs pulled in every direction. The pain wasn’t sharp—it was crushing. Like gravity was made of grief. Her ribs ached with the pressure. Her eyes flooded.

She tried to scream, but the wind tore the sound away.

Then—

Darkness.

Stillness.

Nothing.
————

Grace’s body convulsed again—hard.

Steve barely managed to hold her. Her frame snapped tight like a bowstring, then slammed as if struck from beneath by some invisible force. The impact jarred his arms and nearly knocked him backward. Her head whipped to the side, her breath catching in a soundless gasp—like her lungs had forgotten how to work.

Then limp again.

“Shit,” Steve breathed, tightening his grip, fighting the urge to shake her. “Grace. Grace, come on—stay with me—”

“Lay her flat,” Maela barked, already ripping blankets off the bed. “Her spine—her neck—gently, now.”

“She’s not breathing right—”

“She’s somewhere else,” Maela snapped. “We need to anchor her back before the tether frays.”

Steve moved fast but careful, lifting Grace onto the bed next to Sienna with the desperation of someone trying not to break porcelain. His movements were all edges and restraint. Her body sagged into the linens, but her eyes—still open—glowed faintly. Sightless. Her fingers twitched like they were reaching for something unseen.

Maela hovered beside her, murmuring a prayer in a tongue older than any court-sanctioned rite. Her hands moved in practiced, urgent rhythm—pulse, pupils, skin. Her expression turned grimmer by the second.

“Come on, girl,” she hissed, not at Steve but the spirit caught in Grace’s body. “You’re not done yet.”

Steve leaned in, eyes locked on her face. “She touched something. Did you see—?”

“I know what she touched.”

Maela’s face had gone pale, drawn tight with dread. “And I don’t know how the gods-damned thing ended up in my bag—but gods help us, if she’s opened it—”

The door creaked.

No—groaned.

Then it gave way completely, swinging wide on its ruined hinges with a final splintering shriek before crashing to the floor.

Three Chosen stood just beyond it—young, breathless, flushed from wherever they’d been heading before fate rerouted them. They froze.

And stared.

At Grace, unconscious and glowing.

At Steve, blood smeared down one forearm where her nails had broken skin.

At Maela, pale and muttering words no one was supposed to know.

“What in the—” one of the Chosen gasped, voice cracking.

“Out,” Steve said.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. The growl in his voice was low and dangerous, something not quite human flashing behind his eyes.

Two of them fled without a word.

The third—Lady Helena Thorne—lingered half a heartbeat longer. Long enough to see everything. Long enough to understand just how much she wasn’t supposed to.

Steve didn’t move.

He just looked at her.

And she bolted.

Maela didn’t pause. She leaned over Grace, pressing her palm to her sternum, her voice rising in intensity now.

“Grace. Come back now, girl,” she whispered fiercely. “Come back before it’s too late.”
———

She was still falling.
Or maybe drifting.

Everything around her had gone black—not empty, but vast. Heavy. Like deep water with no surface. The wind was gone, the voices silenced. Even the echo of Hope’s warning had vanished.

There was so much pain. She struggled to breathe.
There was nothing.

Just pain and cold.

It pressed against her skin, her ribs, the hollow space behind her eyes. Something inside her began to flicker—faint and fragile. Fear, maybe. Or surrender.

She didn’t know which.

But then—

A pulse.

A warmth. Barely there.

She turned toward it instinctively.

At first, it was nothing more than a thread of light. Soft gold, woven into the black. It shimmered like a line of firefly dust in the dark—distant, flickering, calling.

She reached for it. Each step set her body aflame with pain, but she kept moving.

The closer she drew, the warmer it became. It wasn’t a place, exactly, or a path. It was a presence. Familiar. Steady. The kind of warmth that lived in firelit cabins, in hands cupping bruised faces, in laughter held tight behind clenched teeth.

The light widened.

And standing at its center was a wolf.

Not the one from before—not that massive shadow with burning eyes. This one was massive and strong, but pale gold fur caught the light like silk. It stood still, watchful, head tilted slightly.

Waiting.

Grace’s breath caught. Or maybe she imagined it.

Maybe it was memory.

The wolf stepped forward once, then twice. Close enough that she could see the bright blue of its eyes.

She reached out—slowly, without fear.

“Grace.”

The voice echoed inside her like a heartbeat.

Steve.

“Grace, please come back.”

The wolf lifted its head and howled—once.
Low and rich. A sound full of longing. Of memory. Of pull.

The light shimmered. The darkness thinned.

Grace stretched her hand forward—fingers trembling, just inches from the wolf’s pale fur. So close she could see the way it moved with breath, soft and radiant. So close she swore she felt the warmth of it against her skin.

Her fingertips brushed the edge of its shoulder—

And the world wrenched.

Not like waking from a dream.
Like being torn from it.

⸻

She gasped.

Not gently. Not slowly.

Her whole body jerked with the force of it, air rushing into her lungs like she’d been drowning. Her back arched, her fingers clawed at the material beneath her fingertips—blankets, linens, maybe the edge of Steve’s shirt.

Steve was already there, arms bracing her, voice trembling. “I’ve got you—I’ve got you—it’s okay, you’re safe—”

Grace blinked up at him, eyes still rimmed with silver, lips parted. Her mouth worked soundlessly for a second before she whispered, “I saw… a wolf.”

Steve stilled.

Maela let out a shaky breath and crossed herself with fingers that trembled. “Gods be merciful.”

But Grace didn’t look afraid.

Just tired.

And alive.

Steve’s arms were still around her, grounding them both. But Grace tried to shift—tried to sit up—and immediately sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth.

“Easy,” Steve murmured, tightening his hold. “Don’t rush—”

“I’m fine,” she lied, voice hoarse.

Maela was already moving, rolling her over with efficient care.

“No, you’re not.” The older woman reached around her carefully. “Don’t move just yet, let me—”

She tugged at the back of Grace’s lacings, fingers testing along her spine with clinical precision.

Grace flinched and hissed, muscles seizing.

Maela pulled the fabric aside—and swore under her breath.

Steve leaned forward to see—and his stomach dropped.

Bruises. Deep and blooming.

Not mottled like old wounds, but fresh—sharp-edged and violent in color. The kind that spoke of sudden impact. A dark wash across her lower back, scattered bursts up one shoulder, another like a bloom of shadow just beneath the base of her neck.

“What the hell…” Steve’s voice was low, cold.

“It’s like she fell from a damn rooftop,” Maela muttered, already reaching for a salve. “There’s no external trauma, no torn muscle, but look at this. The pattern. The shape of it. She hit something—hard.”

“But she didn’t move,” Steve said, still half in disbelief. “I caught her. She never hit the ground.”

“Not here,” Maela said. “Wherever she went.”

Grace’s eyes fluttered open again, hazy with pain. “I didn’t… fall, exactly.”

“You did,” Maela corrected gently, smearing the cool salve across the worst of the marks. “Not physically. But your spirit took the hit. And your body kept the score.”

Steve reached up, brushing a damp curl from her cheek. “You shouldn’t be talking. You need to rest.”

“I need to understand,” Grace murmured. Her head lolled slightly toward him. “I saw her. Hope.”

Maela’s hand stilled mid-motion.

Steve blinked. “Who?”

“My sister,” Grace whispered. “In the vision. She wasn’t… dead. She was watching me. She gave the warning.”

“A storm,” Maela said, eyes narrowing. “And a bond.”

Steve’s jaw clenched ignoring the comment about a bond hoping that Grace wouldn’t catch it either. “What did you touch?”

“A relic. An only village talisman for the hollow” Maela said holding it carefully in a wrapped clothe. “It’s been missing since Hopes death. I have no idea where it can from though. I swear.”

“Who else has been here this morning since you arrived?”

Maela paused “Ladies Morgan, Lila and MJ. Lady Thorn with ladies Arlise and Verena. There were several maids. Dr Simmons and a few of the other healers.”

“Fuck” Steve muttered. “Another change to today’s plans I guess. I will have them all talked too.”

Grace gave a weak, half-laugh. “I’m really tired of things changing.”

Steve stroked her temple with the back of his hand. “Then stop scaring the hell out of me, and maybe we can have a quiet afternoon.”

She gave him the ghost of a smile.

And this time, she didn’t argue when he eased her gently back into his arms.

——-

The chamber had dimmed to candlelight.

Grace slept, finally. Her breathing was steady and deep, one hand resting palm-up against the blankets as she lay on her belly. Her back was wrapped in cooling linens, the sharp edges of her bruises hidden, if not forgotten. Her brow was still furrowed faintly, as if the dream hadn’t fully let go.

Steve hadn’t moved from his chair beside the bed in over an hour.

He hadn’t needed to.

Her hand was still in his.

The only sound was the low hiss of the hearth, the occasional creak of timber, the soft rattle of wind against the windowpane. Maela had retreated to the far corner of the room, murmuring something over her herbs, giving them space. But the relic—that hadn’t left.

It sat on the table beside the bed, still wrapped in Maela’s cloth, its shape barely visible beneath the folds.

And yet it buzzed.

Not audibly—not to anyone else, maybe—but Steve could feel it. A presence. Like it watched even through fabric. Cold at first, then oddly warm. His fingers itched every time he looked at it. Like some instinct long-buried in his blood wanted to react.

Whatever it was, it didn’t belong here.

Not in this room. Not near Grace.

He stood slowly, untangling his fingers from hers, brushing a kiss against her temple before crossing the space. The closer he got, the heavier the air felt. Charged. Like the pressure before lightning strikes.

He reached for the cloth—then paused.

The wrap was damp. Just slightly. From the outside in, as if it had sweated.

Or bled.

Steve curled his fingers into a fist and stepped back.

“We need to seal it,” he said quietly.

Maela looked up. Her face was lined, her eyes sharper than they’d been in years. “I know.”

“What is it, really?”

Maela hesitated. Then rose, walking over slowly, knees stiff. She didn’t touch the relic again. Just stared at it.

“It’s not just a talisman,” she said. “It’s a memory stone. Hollow-made, Hollow-bound. Used in the oldest rites—when blood ran wild and the veil between worlds was thinner. They were thought to amplify power. Anchor souls. Pass vision between generations.”

She glanced toward Grace, still sleeping.

“Most were destroyed during the old purge. The rest lost. This one was the last one in the Village. Their mother, Sarah, gave it to Hope the night before her Healers Rite.”

“And now it’s here,” Steve said darkly.

Maela nodded. “And now it’s awake.”

He looked at the cloth again. The corner had begun to smolder—just a faint wisp of steam curling up from the weave.

Steve didn’t ask permission.

He grabbed an empty iron box from the shelf, dumped its contents, and dropped the wrapped stone inside.

It hissed.

The box clicked shut.

And for the first time in hours, the room was still.

He sat back down at Grace’s side, heart still rattling in his ribs like a warning bell.

Her fingers twitched in her sleep.

Steve caught them gently, threading his own through. And the bond between them, stretched thin and glowing, held firm.

Chapter Text

A quiet knock sounded at the open door—two soft raps, then a pause. No urgency. Just practiced politeness.

Steve didn’t look up. “Come in.”

Coulson entered as if he’d already known what he’d find. He was dressed neatly, as always, his silver-threaded sash perfectly aligned, his hands folded behind his back.

“Majesty,” he greeted, calm as a steady tide. “Forgive the intrusion.”

“You’re not intruding.”

Coulson looked toward the bed, took in the flicker of candlelight on Grace’s bruised face, and nodded once, unsurprised.

“There are… rumors,” he said gently. “From the eastern hall. Three of the Chosen happened by. Unconfirmed, but already moving fast.”

“I figured,” Steve said, voice low.

“They’re saying she collapsed. That she glowed. That she seized in your arms.”

“She did.”

“Some are calling it a vision. Others…” Coulson’s brow lifted slightly, dry as ever. “Are suggesting darker forces. The word cursed has already made its way into one courtier’s lips.”

Steve finally looked up, eyes like stormglass.

“Let them gossip.”

Coulson nodded again, accepting the weight of it without question. “Very well. There is still the matter of the formal dinner. Shall I cancel?”

“No,” Steve said, rising slowly, his joints stiff from staying still too long. “Let them drink. Let them speculate. The schedule will resume tomorrow.”

“And your seat?”

“Empty,” Steve said simply. “They’ll get the message.”

Coulson inclined his head. “I’ll see to it.”

He turned to go, then paused.

“She’s stronger than they think,” he said without looking back. “So are you.”

And then he was gone, the door shutting gently behind him.

Steve sat back down and folded Grace’s hand more tightly in his own.

“Let them talk,” he murmured. “I only answer to you.”

—

The soft rustle of fabric and the sting of cool air on her back stirred her before sound did.

Grace blinked slowly, vision unfocused, the room dim and golden from candlelight. She could feel the gentle tug of fingers along her spine—someone peeling back damp linen, replacing it with fresh cloth. Maela’s voice murmured low near her ear, and Natasha’s lighter touch steadied her shoulder.

She shifted slightly, breath catching at the pain.

“She’s waking,” Maela said gently.

“She needs a few more minutes,” Nat replied, already reaching for the next wrap.

Before either of them could finish—

“Give us the room,” Steve’s voice said from just behind them. Quiet, firm. No edge, no command. Just weight.

Maela paused, but only for a second. “Five minutes. Then I want broth in her, and salve reapplied. And no dramatics.”

Natasha exchanged a look with Steve but didn’t argue. “We’ll be right outside.”

They slipped from the room, the door closing with a soft click.

Grace lay still for a moment, breathing through the ache, then rolled slightly to the side so she could see him. He sat back down beside the bed, elbows on his knees, watching her like a man who hadn’t looked away in hours.

“You look like hell,” she rasped.

Steve huffed a breath. “So do you.”

Her lips curled faintly. Then she winced. “I take it I missed dinner.”

“Technically, you were quite the stir at dinner.” His tone softened. “They’re all talking.”

“I honestly do not care. Let them talk.”

Steve nodded once. “That’s what I said.”

He was quiet for a beat, then reached out—just a gentle brush of his fingers against her forearm, grounding them both.

“Grace… what did you see?”

She looked at him, uncertain.

He didn’t press.

Eventually, she said, “It started with someone I didn’t recognize. A woman. She spoke in riddles. Said something about storms waking. That I was a key. That the bond would hold… unless it was tested.”

Steve’s jaw shifted slightly.

“I didn’t know what she meant. And then she changed. Her face—” Grace’s breath caught. “She became Hope… my sister. My Dead, sister. Just as I remember her… as she was right before she disappeared. She warned me, Your Majesty. My dead sister warned me.”

She didn’t realize her fingers had curled into the sheets until his hand covered hers, steady and warm.

He didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t pretend to know how that felt.

Instead, he asked, “Was that all?”

She hesitated again. Then: “No. There was a wolf. At the end. Golden, bright blue eyes. It didn’t speak, but it called to me somehow. I followed it.”

She glanced at him. “I know it sounds strange.”

His mouth twitched—half smile, half something sadder.

“Do you think you can trust me?” he asked.

That caught her. She blinked. “I…”

“I know you’re angry,” Steve said quietly. “And frustrated. And I don’t blame you for any of it. But there are things happening here that you don’t know yet. Things that need to stay quiet until it’s safe—for you. For all of us.”

Her brow furrowed.

“And I know I’ve handled some of that badly. Maybe more than some.”

“But I never once saw you as weak. Or foolish. Or anything less than mine to protect. Even when I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

He exhaled slowly, as if weighing every word before speaking again.

“This morning—before the vision, before the rumors—I cut ten candidates from the Choosing.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

“You what?”

“They weren’t here for the kingdom. They were here for power. For the crown—not the people. One of them tried to bribe a guard for the ritual schedule. They mocked you. The others too—especially Sienna. I won’t let women like that help rule our country.”

He looked at her, unflinching. “I need someone strong. Someone fearless. Someone who puts others first, no matter the cost. Someone like you.”

Grace stared at him.

He didn’t apologize.

He just said, “You don’t have to trust all of this yet. But I need you to try to trust me.”

She didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched—thick, thoughtful. Her hand lay motionless under his, her breath still shallow. But her eyes were clear now. Awake. Processing.

And just a little conflicted.

She wasn’t sure what that meant yet. But she meant it.

Finally, Grace let out a slow breath. “I don’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“I don’t trust… any of this.”

His jaw tensed—but he didn’t speak.

“I don’t trust the process,” she added. “I don’t trust the court. I don’t trust half the people pretending to be interested in me because of attention I didn’t ask for.”

Then she looked at him—tired, bruised, but steady. “But I’ll try.”

Steve’s eyes met hers, something flickering in their depths.

“That’s enough,” he said quietly. “For now.”

A beat passed.

Grace’s voice was rough when she asked, “So… what now?”

“Now?” He smiled—small and tired. “Now, food. For you.”

She gave a faint groan. “Of course it’s food.”

“And more rest.”

She rolled her eyes. “Naturally.”

“And after that…” He leaned back slightly, lips twitching. “Well, for the first time in recorded history, a king has dismissed a quarter of his Chosen on the first day. Two others have been severely injured. At this rate, by next week I’ll have no one left but the cooks and Coulson.”

Grace couldn’t help it—she laughed. A soft, startled sound.

Then winced hard as it pulled at her ribs.

Steve reached out instantly, brushing a loose strand of hair off her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear.

It was the first time he’d touched her face that she didn’t react.

She didn’t flinch.

He let his hand linger just a moment longer than necessary, eyes studying her.

Then he stood.

“You need rest.”

“I need answers,” she muttered.

“They’re coming,” he said, voice low. “Soon.”

She didn’t argue. Just let her eyes flutter closed again.

Steve leaned down, close enough that his breath stirred the curls at her temple.

“I’ll check on you in the morning.”

Then he pressed a kiss—soft and unhurried—to her hair.

And left her with nothing but candlelight and the echo of his promise.

————

The door clicked shut behind them as the others returned.

Grace’s eyes were still closed, but her cheeks betrayed her. Warmth bloomed there—slow, unsteady, unmistakable.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Lighter footsteps padded across the floor.

She opened one eye just as Maela and Natasha stepped back into the room.

Nat paused halfway across the threshold, one brow already raised.

“Well,” she said dryly, “should we ask how you’re feeling, or skip straight to the part where you explain why the king just kissed you like a bedtime promise?”

Grace groaned softly and covered her face with her hand.

“I’m injured,” she mumbled.

“Yes,” Maela said calmly, setting a steaming bowl of broth on the side table. “But I’m neither blind nor suffering memory loss. That was absolutely a kiss. And not a political one.”

“You two are impossible.”

“You’re flushed,” Natasha observed, crossing to sit at the edge of the bed. “Is it the fever, or was it the hand-in-your-hair part?”

Grace peeked at her through her fingers. “I hate both of you.”

Maela smirked, tucking in the edge of a fresh poultice beneath the bandages. “You’ll forgive us eventually.”

Nat leaned in a little. “What did he say?”

Grace hesitated. Then, finally: “That I could trust him. That he’s doing what he has to to keep me safe. And that I don’t have to like it. Just… try.”

Maela and Natasha exchanged a look over her head. Something thoughtful passed between them, but neither said it aloud.

Instead, Maela patted Grace’s ankle under the blanket. “Eat. Before I start pouring this broth down your throat.”

“And no more fainting, collapsing, glowing, or spirit-walking,” Natasha added. “At least not before breakfast.”

Grace huffed softly. But her hand dropped from her face. “Deal.”

Grace had just managed a few sips of broth—Maela’s stern gaze firmly locked on her the entire time—when the door opened again.

“Don’t say a word,” Natasha muttered without turning.

Bucky stepped inside anyway, clearly expecting her to be alone. When he saw Maela, his brows lifted slightly. Then he caught sight of Grace—swaddled in sheets and blankets, hair tousled, bandages peeking out from beneath her shoulder, trying to subtly disappear into the mattress.

“Well,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “This looks cozy.”

“Get out,” Grace groaned, yanking the blanket higher.

“Oh no,” Natasha said sweetly, not looking up from the cloth she was folding. “He knows. You broke the seal.”

Grace squinted at her. “What?”

“You let Steve into your bed,” Nat said flatly. “Now they’ll all think it’s a revolving door.”

Grace sat up a little straighter, scandalized. “He was not in my bed.”

Natasha blinked once. “Grace. He sat on the bed for half the afternoon. Holding your hand. Whispering sweet nothings.”

“Those weren’t sweet nothings—”

“He kissed your hair.”

“That doesn’t count!”

“He tucked your blanket in. Twice.”

Maela chimed in mildly, “He also ordered us out of the room like he owned it. Which, granted, he technically does.”

Grace groaned and flopped back. “I hate it here.”

Bucky made a thoughtful noise. “That’s true. It’s like a wolf-pack rule. First one claims the territory, the rest get visiting privileges.”

“Don’t say territory,” Grace muttered into her pillow.

“I was looking for you,” Bucky said to Natasha, utterly unbothered. “Was gonna head down to the kitchens. You want anything?”

“And get something for Grace,” Nat added. “If you come back with just broth, I’ll knife you.”

“I’m already bringing food for half the wing,” Bucky said. “You’ll eat like war criminals, don’t worry.”

“And coffee,” Maela called after him as he backed out of the room. “Real coffee. Not that chicory nonsense.”

He waved a hand in acknowledgment and vanished down the hall.

Grace sighed. “I hate everyone.”

But she didn’t mean it. Not really.

“No you don’t,” Nat said smugly. “You just hate that you can’t leave this bed.”

“She’s going to hate it more in ten minutes,” Maela murmured, adjusting the linens again. “That food’s never coming back just for us.”

⸻

Ten Minutes Later

The door opened again.

Then again.

And again.

“Please no—” Grace moaned as footsteps approached.

But it was too late.

Bucky strolled in carrying a tray large enough to be a piece of furniture, followed by Sam Wilson—grinning like he lived here—and Maria Hill, who looked so unimpressed it had to be deliberate.

“Knock knock,” Sam said brightly. “Heard the princess was taking visitors.”

“I am not taking visitors,” Grace said, trying to sink beneath the pillow.

“Too bad,” Maria said, already taking a seat on the bench near the window. “Because I brought wine.”

Grace looked at Natasha in open betrayal.

Nat just shrugged. “I warned you.”

Plates appeared. Cups. A full loaf of bread. A roast. Two kinds of cheese. Something Grace was pretty sure still had feathers on it. Sam was carving meat with his combat knife like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Why,” Grace asked, voice muffled, “is everyone eating in my bedroom?”

“I am literally half-naked,” she snapped, tugging the blanket tighter. “There are protocols for this. Knock. Announce yourselves. Have shame.”

“We did knock,” Bucky said mildly.

“You knocked once and then marched in like you owned the place.”

“Technically,” Maria murmured, already buttering a roll, “we kind of do.”

“Because you’re here,” Bucky added, handing her a mug of something that definitely wasn’t broth.

“And you’re too banged up to come to us,” Sam said cheerfully. “So we’re adapting.”

“This isn’t adapting,” Grace muttered. “This is a tavern. This is a feast.”

Bucky leaned down just enough to whisper, “Also? Pretty sure Steve threatened to burn down the council chamber this morning, so everyone’s giving us space.”

“Good,” Natasha said, mouth full of bread. “He needed the practice.”

Grace gave up.

She flopped back against her pillows, sheets still tucked tightly to her chest, cheeks bright pink, surrounded by warriors eating lunch like she wasn’t half-naked and absolutely dying inside.

She would have screamed.

But someone passed her a perfectly toasted bite of bread with honey.

And she did feel a little better.

The food had settled the worst of the nausea. The wine had numbed the worst of the pain.

But the humiliation?

That was alive and well.

Grace sat propped against a stack of pillows, blanket pulled under her arms like a shield, while Bucky and Sam argued about goat cheese, Maria leaned over a war map of dessert options, and Maela calmly reapplied another round of salve to her bruised shoulder like this was any other Tuesday.

Natasha, naturally, had claimed the seat with the best view and the most snacks.

Grace had had enough.

She cleared her throat. “I’m getting up.”

Maela didn’t even look up. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m fine,” Grace said, lifting the edge of the blanket. “I need to move.”

“You’re still healing,” Maela warned. “Your muscles will lock the minute the painkillers wear off. Sit. Still.”

Grace swung one leg over the edge of the bed.

Sam looked up. “Don’t.”

“I’m not staying in this bed like an invalid while all of you picnic in my room.”

“Grace.”

“I’m not fragile. I can stand—”

She pushed herself up. Her foot touched the floor. Victory lasted about three seconds.

Then her knees buckled.

Sam was there before anyone else moved—catching her easily, one arm around her back, the other under her knees.

Grace let out a startled yelp as the blanket slipped and she clutched it desperately to her chest.

“I’ve got you,” Sam said, voice low but undeniably smug. “No sudden movements. Blanket’s still secure. Dignity hanging by a thread.”

She glared at him. “Put me down.”

“Absolutely not. You’re a danger to yourself and my dinner.”

Grace flushed, the heat rushing to her ears.

Bucky whistled. “Ten points for style, Wilson.”

“Appreciate that,” Sam said, easing her gently back onto the bed like she was made of glass and ego.

Grace huffed as he fluffed a pillow under her head. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Correction,” Sam said, handing her back the blanket. “We are.”

Natasha popped a grape into her mouth and saluted her with the stem.

Even Maela smirked.

Maria, sipping wine without looking up from a bite of tart, said dryly, “For what it’s worth, you’re handling this better than Steve did the first time someone had to carry him.”

Grace buried her face in the blanket.

“Someone please assassinate me,” she mumbled.

“We could,” Bucky offered. “But then who would we eat with?”

The chaos settled into quiet.

Bucky and Sam lounged by the window, trading jokes and half-hearted insults. Maria had claimed the bench, boots off, wine in hand, legs stretched out like she owned the place. Natasha sat at Grace’s bedside, weaving gauze with automatic precision. Maela checked the salve jars again, mumbling about “court stock being no better than pig glue.”

Grace lay still beneath the blankets, blinking up at the canopy above her bed, brow slightly furrowed.

“Why?” she asked suddenly.

Natasha looked up. “Why what?”

“All of this,” Grace said, gesturing vaguely around the room. “The food. The jokes. The entire army in my bedroom. You’re all acting like I’ve been here for years.”

Her voice was quiet. Not accusing. Just honestly confused.

“I don’t even have the crown,” she added, more to herself than anyone else. “We still have nearly a month left for that to be decided.”

There was a pause.

Then a collective shrug—almost in sync.

Natasha didn’t even blink. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re one of us,” Maria said simply.

Sam added from the window, “Welcome to the Pack.”

Bucky lifted his mug. “God help whoever tries to take you out of it.”

Grace sighed—long, dramatic, and half-hearted. “You people are ridiculous.”

“Correct,” Maela said, adjusting the compress on her back. “Now hush. You’re healing.”

⸻

Sleep crept in slow, warm waves.

Grace blinked less often. Her breaths deepened. The soreness in her limbs dulled into something distant and manageable. Her body no longer felt like it belonged to the earth or the vision, but to herself again.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But when Natasha gently tucked the blanket higher across her chest and someone dimmed the last lantern, her eyes finally closed.

“She’s under,” Maela murmured.

“Good,” Natasha replied. “I’ll take the first shift.”

Maria stood, rolling her shoulders. “Wake me at second bell. I’ve done worse nights.”

Maela nodded. “I’ll cover the rest.”

Natasha eased into the chair beside the bed and pulled off her boots with a sigh. “You think he knows how stubborn she is?”

“He’s starting to,” Maria said, already heading for the door.

Maela, on her way out as well, paused just long enough to glance back. “She’ll need it. The rest of this month won’t be quiet.”

The door clicked shut.

And the queen-that-wasn’t-yet slept on—safe, warm, and for the first time in days, held.

Chapter Text

The study smelled like old wood and new paper.
Ink, smoke, and dust.

Maps were unfurled across the central table—each marked with delicate threads of ribbon and tokens representing guard rotations, planned challenges, ceremonial routes. A second, smaller board to the right was cluttered with names, sigils, and carved glass tokens for each of the remaining Chosen.

Steve stood at the center of it all, hands braced against the table’s edge, brow furrowed.

He hadn’t spoken in several minutes.

Nick Fury leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, watching with the kind of patience that came from surviving three kings and a failed coup.

“This is tighter than it looks,” Fury said, tapping one of the glass tokens toward the edge of the board with his gloved knuckle. “Three more cracks like this morning, and the whole thing falls apart.”

Steve didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached for one of the markers near the southern quadrant—an iron filigree etched with the sigil of House Thorne—and turned it slowly between his fingers. He didn’t place it. Didn’t discard it either. Just let the sharp edges press against his palm.

Fury tilted his head. “That vision stunt? Hell of a way to open a courtship.”

Steve looked up, expression unreadable. “It wasn’t a stunt. She nearly died.”

“Yeah,” Fury said mildly. “And half the Chosen think it was an act. Or worse, a power play.”

Steve straightened. “She didn’t plan it.”

“I know she didn’t. You know she didn’t. But the court? They don’t care about truth. They care about story. And you handed them a messy one.”

Fury circled the table slowly, gaze flicking across the maps. “Your father once had a woman exiled for fainting at a harvest banquet. Said it showed weakness. You remember that?”

Steve’s jaw ticked. “I was twelve.”

“Twelve and smarter than him. You asked why it mattered that she fainted when half the court did worse after their fourth glass of wine.”

“She was a healer. She’d been up three days tending plague victims.”

Fury nodded. “Didn’t matter then. Still doesn’t. They didn’t exile her because she fainted. They exiled her because she made them uncomfortable.”

There was a pause.

Then—from below them—a faint burst of laughter filtered up through the floorboards.

A soft exhale. Something clinking. Muffled voices. A woman’s low mutter—probably Natasha.

And then a bright, unmistakable giggle.

Grace.

Steve’s shoulders eased almost imperceptibly.

Fury watched him.

“You know,” he said, almost conversational, “your father would’ve had her locked up after a display like that.”

Steve’s jaw ticked again. “My father’s dead.”

“Doesn’t mean his advisors are.” Fury’s tone sharpened slightly. “And a few of them are already calling what happened a staged claiming ritual. They’re whispering about blood magic. About prophecy. You let this spiral, and by next week they’ll be accusing her of seduction by spellcraft.”

Steve’s knuckles whitened against the table. “That’s enough.”

Fury held up a hand in mock surrender. “You’re the king.”

He moved to the smaller board and gestured to the remaining tokens. “You’ve got twenty-eight candidates left. Half are furious. A third are terrified. And the rest? They’re trying to figure out how to spin this into advantage.”

“I’m not looking for someone who spins.”

“No, son,” Fury said. “You’re looking for someone who fits. Who doesn’t just survive this mess—but changes it. I get that. Hell, I admire it.”

He reached out and flicked one of the tokens—an elaborate golden crest—off the board. It hit the stone floor with a delicate ping.

Steve didn’t flinch.

“But you keep making choices like today? The kingdom’s going to ask who exactly you’re choosing for.”

Steve’s reply came slow and quiet.

“I’m choosing the one I can trust.”

Fury nodded once. Not approval. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

“And tomorrow?” he asked. “You still want to run the trial pairing event?”

“Yes.”

“Public?”

Steve’s voice didn’t waver. “Yes.”

Fury smiled faintly. “Bold.”

Another quiet roll of laughter drifted from below.

Fury raised a brow. “She’s laughing. That’s either a miracle… or a warning.”

Steve allowed himself the smallest smile. “Both.”

______

The receiving hall had been designed to impress: towering windows, burnished columns, and an elevated throne dais currently left conspicuously empty.

Coulson stood in front of it, spine straight, hands neatly folded behind his back, expression calm as ever. Which was impressive, considering the noise.

“…and we’ve had no clarity about the next events!”

“…she collapsed, visibly, in the arms of the king—what message does that send?”

“…absolutely no protection detail in place, and you expect us to just smile for the crowd—?”

“…what if it had been one of our daughters? What if it was meant for them?”

The Chosen had gathered like stormclouds. Twenty-eight remained—each flanked by an escort, parent, maid or advisor—and nearly every one of them was either furious, terrified, or calculating. A few had mastered all three expressions at once.

More than one candidate wore court silk so stiff it barely shifted as they gestured with righteous indignation. One advisor clutched a scroll like a weapon. Another fanned herself furiously, as if the air itself had wronged her.

Coulson let the wave of complaints roll over him without blinking.

Behind him, at a smaller cluster of chairs near the dais, sat a very different audience:

Morgan Stark, Lila Barton, and M.J. Watson—clearly not members of the formal drama, clearly not caring. They sat with plates of pastries and fruit pilfered from the lower kitchens, leaning comfortably against their mothers and aunts—Pepper Potts, Laura Barton, and Mae Parker—who were equally unbothered and, in Pepper’s case, openly working on something else.

Morgan broke a scone in half. “Is this what court always sounds like?”

“Only when they’re not getting their way,” Pepper said, dry as dust.

“They’re exhausting,” MJ muttered. “Ten bucks says one of them cries before the end.”

“I’m already crying,” Lila deadpanned. “No dinner. No mercy.”

“They do realize it’s not about them, right?” Morgan added. “Like, someone almost died.”

Mae murmured, “Careful. Logic isn’t always welcome in this room.”

One of the louder noblewomen turned, catching sight of them and scowled. “Do those children have clearance to be in here?”

Pepper looked up without smiling. “They are omegas of the age range, representing their communities. So yes they do. And surprisingly better behaved tonight than most of the others here.”

A few sharp inhales. One outright gasp.

Amid the rising voices, one cluster remained perfectly still.

Lady Helena Thorne sat with her spine straight and expression unreadable, a faint smile hovering just shy of disdain. To her right lounged Lady Elise Zemo, fingers draped lazily over the arm of her chair as if the entire event bored her. On Helena’s left, Lady Arlise of Blackmoor tilted her head in consideration—watching the court like a hawk watches a field mouse. And flanking the end, poised like a sculpture, was Lady Aemelaia Eastmarch, her silence more pointed than any accusation.

The four had not spoken since entering. They didn’t need to. One lean of Helena’s shoulder, one whispered word behind Elise’s fan, and the ripple it caused moved like smoke across the court.

Where others roared, they calculated.

Power—real power—didn’t shout. It smiled. And let the room tear itself apart.

One whisper too sharp, one move too bold—and the court might turn from noise to knives.

Coulson cleared his throat.

The room quieted by degrees—reluctantly.

He stepped forward.

“The King,” he said, calm and clear, “has spent the day addressing threats to the safety of this court—including the unauthorized relic that nearly killed a member of this assembly.”

A ripple of murmurs.

Coulson didn’t flinch.

“He will not be attending this gathering this evening.”

An audible gasp from somewhere in the back. A whispered, “He’s avoiding us.”

“But,” Coulson continued, “he has authorized me to assure you: tomorrow’s event will proceed as scheduled. Trial pairings. Public venue. All participants are expected to attend, regardless of speculation or rumor.”

One of the candidates’ mothers—a woman with a chin so sharp it could cut glass—sputtered. “You mean to tell us the king is absent entirely? No address? No assurance of order?”

Coulson tilted his head. “He is ensuring order. With his time. Not his presence.”

A few of the older advisors bristled. Someone muttered, “That’s not how his father would’ve handled it.”

Another escort chimed in, sharper now. “We demand to know what’s being done about her influence over him. This—this Grace—”

Coulson’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Lady Grace of the Hollow is under protection. Her medical status is stable. Further commentary on her position will be noted and reported to the royal advisory circle.”

A longer silence followed. But not an easy one. The court was a room full of masks—and some were beginning to crack.

Behind him, Lila popped a grape into her mouth and said, “Translation: keep running your mouth, and you’ll be on the next cut list.”

Laura gently reached over and plucked the grape bowl away. “Not helping, sweetheart.”

“She was helping,” Morgan said. “Subtly.”

“Try more subtle next time,” Mae murmured.

Coulson continued without blinking. “You may all return to your quarters. An updated schedule will be distributed by dawn. If any candidate wishes to withdraw from the Choosing, accommodations will be made.”

A few of the younger ones exchanged panicked glances. One of them— with wide eyes and trembling fingers—looked like she might actually bolt.

A voice near the back rose, trembling with effort. “You can’t just—”

“I just did,” Coulson said, with a polite incline of his head.

No one moved.

He offered a slight, courteous smile.

“That will be all. Good day.”

And then he turned, walked up the dais steps, and joined the girls and their mothers, accepting a mug of tea from Mae Parker as if he hadn’t just faced down a full court of political sharks.

______

The room was dark, lit only by the low flicker of the hearth.

A cool cloth peeled gently away from Grace’s back, followed by the soft drag of linen smoothing salve across tender skin. The scent was warm and earthy—comfrey, mint, and something faintly floral she couldn’t quite name at the moment. Maybe lavender. Maybe something older, something from the Hollow.

She stirred, not fully waking, but enough to murmur, “Still here?”

Natasha’s voice, low and dry: “Told you. We’re on rotation.”

There was a pause as she folded another cloth. The quiet wasn’t awkward. Just necessary.

“And you’re due for more pain tincture.”

Grace made a face but didn’t argue. Nat helped her sit up just enough to sip, steadying her with one hand behind her shoulders—in one of the few safe places left to touch. The rest of her skin was marbled in bruises, scorched in places by something older than fire.

It burned going down. Not badly—but enough to draw a wince.

“Better?” Nat asked, easing her back.

Grace gave a sleepy, noncommittal hum. Her eyes flickered—open, then closed again.

The fire cracked softly. Somewhere nearby, water dripped in a slow rhythm—herbal tinctures left to steep on the windowsill. A wardstone glowed faintly where it had been set near the bed, casting cool silver light between the shadows.

Her limbs no longer felt sharp or heavy. Just distant.

Then—quietly, from above—she heard his voice.

Muffled. Deep. Steady. Speaking low, but clear enough that she knew it was him.

The King.

Steve.

She couldn’t make out the words. Didn’t need to.

It was something in the cadence. The warmth of it. The way his voice cut through the layers of stone and air and anchored her like nothing else had all day.

Her fingers twitched, as if reaching.

Natasha glanced down, saw it, and didn’t speak. Just tucked the blanket higher and kept one hand resting near Grace’s arm. Not touching. Just present.

Grace exhaled slowly.

Her breathing softened.

And as Steve’s voice carried down through the floorboards, she finally let go.

Sleep found her, held her close—

And didn’t let her go.

Chapter Text

Grace woke to the faint creak of footsteps in the hallway and the low murmur of familiar voices.

Natasha and Maela.

“…still not eating enough—”

“Because the broth’s terrible.”

“She needs rest more than she needs flavor.”

Grace blinked up at the ceiling, groggy but not in pain—not the way she had been yesterday. Just sore. Bruised. Achy in the bones, not the soul.

She shifted, and the compress at her back squelched with unpleasant warmth.

Ugh.

She pushed the blankets back, sitting up with a groan. Every muscle protested, but it wasn’t unbearable. Just… stupid. Stupid and tender and tight.

She wanted clean. Not to be swaddled in sweat and medicine and pity. Just five minutes to herself. A moment of dignity.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed—bit back a curse—and stood.

Unsupervised for ten seconds and already making poor decisions.

She winced again and made her way to the adjoining bath chamber, grabbing the clean wrap Natasha had left folded near the hearth. She stripped down slowly, gritting her teeth, and slid into the tub before she could overthink it, as it filled.

The water was blessedly warm.

The silence even better.

She exhaled for the first time all morning.

Then—

From the hallway—

“—I’ll grab the fresh salve—”

“—and I’ll check her wrap—wait. Nat. The door’s open.”

“…she’s not in the bed.”

A full beat of silence.

Then:

“She’s gone.”

The door burst open a second later.

“Grace—?!”

Natasha’s voice rang like a thrown blade.

Maela followed two steps behind, apron half-untied, worry written all over her face—until she spotted the trail of rumpled blankets, the discarded compress, and the steam curling from the open bath door.

Nat’s shoulders dropped a full inch when she saw her.

Grace, already neck-deep in the tub, looked up with a bland expression and said:

“I’m not gone. I was reclaiming the last shreds of my dignity.”

“You’re soaked in bruises,” Maela snapped.

“I’m well aware. Believe me.”

Nat stepped closer, folding her arms. “You realize if you’d passed out in here, we’d have had to fish you out.”

“I’m not a trout.”

“You’re barely functional.”

Grace closed her eyes and sighed dramatically. “And yet, somehow, still cleaner than I was ten minutes ago.”

Maela looked heavenward. Natasha just laughed under her breath.

Maela finally gave a huff that could’ve powered a forge.

“Fine,” she muttered, grabbing her apron ties. “You want to be difficult? Be difficult with her.”

“I am right here, you know,” Grace said from the tub.

“Yes, and I’m ignoring you on purpose,” Maela replied, already heading for the door. “I have another patient who might actually rest when I tell her to.”

“Tell Sienna she’s still my patient even if I can’t physically attend her right now. I’m thinking of her.”

“I will. She’ll be pleased.”

With a final glare for emphasis, Maela swept out and closed the door firmly behind her.

Natasha raised a brow. “You really know how to charm healers.”

“I’m irresistible. And since I am one, I’m the worst kind of patient.” Grace muttered, shifting in the water with a grimace as she tried to raise her arms and couldn’t. “Could you… help me wash my hair?”

Without a word, Nat grabbed a cloth and knelt beside the tub. She dipped it carefully into the water and began to wet Grace’s hair, gentle but efficient.

“Let me guess,” Nat said, tone casual. “You’re planning to sneak into the event this afternoon.”

“Not sneak,” Grace corrected. “Attend. Officially.”

Nat gave a small snort. “In your current condition?”

“I can walk. I can sit. I can talk without slurring. That makes me functional.”

“You nearly drowned in a vision, Grace.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. By the goddess… you are stubborn.”

Grace’s jaw tightened. “I won’t stay in bed while strangers argue over whether I belong here.”

There it was. Raw. Honest. No flippant tone to hide behind.

Nat stopped rinsing and looked her in the eye. “You do know you don’t have to prove anything to us.”

“I’m not trying to prove it to you.”

Nat was quiet for a moment. Then she wrung the cloth out and gently tucked it over Grace’s shoulder.

“You’ll need something looser,” she said, standing. “No corsets. Nothing with tight sleeves. You’ll be bandaged under the dress.”

Grace exhaled slowly, eyes slipping closed. “So you’re not stopping me.”

“No,” Nat said. “But if you collapse mid-trial, I am carrying you out over my shoulder and making loud comments about fragile future queens.”

Grace cracked one eye open. “That seems fair.”

It took effort just to climb out of the tub.

Nat was already waiting with a large drying cloth and zero patience. She didn’t comment as Grace winced with every step, just helped her stand steady and begin the slow, awkward process of toweling off without pushing on half-healed wounds.

When Grace was mostly dry, Nat helped her into the loose linen under-wrap and guided her to the tall mirror in the corner.

“You need to see it,” Natasha said quietly.

Grace didn’t want to.

But she looked.

Her breath caught.

The bruises down her back weren’t just dark—they were violent. Deep purples edged in black. Blossoms of blue and green bloomed along her ribs and down the backs of her thighs. And her cheek, she didn’t even realize she had one there until now. Her skin looked like a map of impact. Of pain. Of proof.

For a moment, she didn’t see herself.

She saw failure. Weakness. Every rumor whispered behind closed doors.

Then she looked again.

And saw someone still standing.

“Gods,” she whispered.

Natasha met her eyes in the mirror. “Still want to go?”

Grace nodded, slow and stubborn. “Now more than ever.”

“Then we wrap.”

And wrap she did.

Natasha moved like a field medic: quick, sure, practiced. She bound Grace’s entire torso in soft, cool layers—first a cushioning weave to hold the salve, then a tighter brace to hold her upright. She wound support bands around Grace’s thighs and knees, her hands steady even as Grace winced through the process.

By the time she was done, Grace looked like a sculpture of herself, wrapped in cream linen and willpower.

“You look like someone preparing for war,” Natasha murmured, stepping back.

“Aren’t I?”

Then they turned to the closet.

Nat scanned the row of corseted gowns with a look of pure contempt. “These were made for decoration. Not function.”

“Welcome to the Choosing,” Grace muttered.

Nat shoved aside one embroidered bodice, then another. “You can’t wear any of these. The laces alone will undo everything I just reinforced.”

Grace leaned on the edge of the dressing table, eyes half-lidded. “Guess I’m going in a bedsheet.”

But Nat paused.

Then reached to the back of the wardrobe and tugged out a hanger holding a dress wrapped in nearly sheer cotton and delicate embroidery.

“This one was for the last trial,” she said. “Carmen finished it early.”

She peeled the wrap away carefully.

Grace blinked.

Turned slowly toward the mirror.

The gown flowed around her like mist caught in moonlight—light cream silk, hand-dyed so subtly that it faded from soft ivory at the hem to a breath of pale rose and sky along the bodice. Embroidered wildflowers bloomed up the edges, delicate vines curling along the seams. The outer layer split slightly at the front, showing a second nearly sheer underdress beneath, embroidered with even finer detail. The straps were barely there—just thin bands of threadwork resting on her shoulders—but the structure held.

Even wrapped in bandages from neck to knees, she looked…

Powerful.

Feminine. Unexpected. A little ethereal. And sexy as hell in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

For a moment, she forgot the bruises. Forgot the court. Forgot the Choosing.

She just saw herself.

Natasha moved behind her, hands half-buried in Grace’s curls, gathering and smoothing with practiced ease.

“You want it up?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?” Nat asked, gently loosening a tangle near her temple. “Leaving it down would hide most of the bruising.”

“Exactly,” Grace said.

She met Natasha’s eyes in the mirror, voice steady despite the pain still etched faintly around her mouth. “Let them see what couldn’t be wrapped.”

Nat paused. Then gave a small nod of approval. “Alright then.”

With deft fingers, she twisted Grace’s hair into a soft crown braid, securing it low at the nape, letting a few wisps fall just enough to frame her face without concealing the dark purpling along her collarbone and shoulder. The bruises were harsh in color, but oddly elegant against the softness of the dress—like shadows clinging to light.

When Nat stepped back, Grace reached for the jewelry box on the vanity.

“I’m not wearing anything heavy,” she murmured. “No gold. No symbols. Just something that’s me.”

Her fingers brushed across the contents—rings and trinkets collected from both her home and the court—before she selected a single pair of earrings: small moonstone drops, almost iridescent, and a thin silver cuff for her upper arm, resting just above one of the worst bruises.

When she looked up again, Natasha was already preparing a palette of soft tones for her face.

“Sit,” Nat said. “Let me work.”

Grace did, and within minutes her features were brought into quiet focus—soft definition at her eyes, a hint of rose at her cheeks, her lips a bare tint deeper than their natural hue.

Nothing extravagant.

Just enough to draw the eye. And hold it.

“You ready?” Nat asked, setting down the brush.

Grace stood, slow and steady, spine tall despite the pain.

“Yes.”

And she was.

⸻

The ballroom doors were already open when they arrived, light spilling into the corridor like a flood of heat and tension.

Inside, the Chosen and their entourages clustered in curated groups—silks and jewels, low murmurs and barely concealed stares. Council members and nobles lingered around the dais, clearly unsettled by the king’s earlier absence.

And then—

Grace stepped into the doorway.

Conversation faltered.

A few heads turned. Then more. Then all.

She wasn’t announced.

She didn’t need to be.

She walked into the ballroom in a dress meant for sacred rites, her hair braided like a crown, and the evidence of her near-death vision still written across her skin in brutal, unmissable detail.

The bruises were dark. Unforgiving.

And she wore them like regalia.

Natasha followed two steps behind—arms crossed, gaze daring anyone to speak first.

The silence stretched.

And somewhere near the dais, someone murmured:

“…gods.”

The hush hadn’t fully broken when the patter of quick feet split it wide open.

“You’re here!”

Morgan launched herself forward—then adjusted mid-leap at the sound of Natasha’s warning tone.

“She’s still wrapped in bandages,” Nat said dryly. “Maybe don’t tackle the woman who just survived a divine seizure.”

Morgan pivoted expertly, grabbing Grace’s hands instead. “But you look like a fairy queen.”

“I feel like a walking bruise,” Grace muttered.

“That too,” Lila chimed in, appearing at her side, flanked by M.J. “But you’re terrifying, so it balances out.”

“You walked in like a curse,” M.J. added, grinning. “Ten nobles nearly fainted.”

Grace couldn’t help it—she laughed. Soft and surprised. “You three are a menace.”

“We’re support,” Morgan corrected, looping her arm through Grace’s carefully. “You’re the menace.”

“Deal with it,” Lila said, linking arms on the other side.

And then—

From the far side of the ballroom, movement stirred.

Not nobles. Not advisors.

Three of the other candidates.

Girls she barely knew. Girls from distant provinces—country-born, stone-faced, and until now, silent observers of court hierarchy.

One of them stepped forward first. Her dress was plain but well-made, her knuckles still rough from work that didn’t start in silk. She inclined her head.

“Lady Grace. I heard what happened yesterday,” she said softly. “And what the others are saying.”

Grace didn’t speak—just met her eyes, steady and open.

“They can call it what they want,” the girl continued. “I call it surviving. And I’d rather follow someone who survives than someone who never got blood on their boots, I’m Adelaide by the way…”

She held out her hand.

Grace took it. “Lady Adelaide.”

The other two followed—one pressing a bundle of wildflowers into her palm, the other simply nodding, eyes shining more than she probably intended. Ladies Vanessa and Melissa.

From the shadows, Natasha’s arms slowly uncrossed.

And for the first time since stepping into the palace, Grace felt something more than strength.

She felt a shift.

Like the room had tilted, ever so slightly, in her favor.

——————-

The ballroom transformed.

Court attendants swept through like wind, rearranging furniture, rolling out ceremonial rugs, adjusting banners and carved markers representing each of the provinces.

Then Coulson stepped forward, scroll in hand.

“By the will of His Majesty, today’s trial pairings will begin in accordance with ceremonial tradition. Each pairing is intended to assess compatibility in values, composure under public scrutiny, and mutual capability. This is not a formal betrothal—only a demonstration.”

A ripple moved through the room.

“And,” Coulson added, voice sharp, “these pairings were made at the king’s directive. No substitutions.”

That, of course, was a lie.

Grace knew it the moment her name was read aloud.

“Lady Grace of the Hollow will join Lady Thorne of Highmere.”

Silence.

Then a murmur.

Even Natasha blinked. “What.”

Lady Thorne stepped forward from the right side of the dais—tall, severe, dressed in precise folds of black and steel-blue silk. Her hair was coiled into a crown of silver pins, her expression unreadable but utterly unwelcoming. She moved like a blade sheathed in etiquette.

Grace stood frozen for half a beat.

That was not who Nat said she’d be paired with. She had spoken to the king that morning. Coulson had read the list aloud. Her name was meant to be beside a quiet provincial envoy—a diplomatic, harmless match for optics.

But someone had changed it.

Not by accident.

Across the room, she saw him—Steve—stepping into the far entrance just a moment too late, confusion flashing across his face as the name echoed.

Coulson faltered for half a breath.

He’d noticed too.

Grace swallowed the spike of nausea, adjusted her shoulders, and stepped forward.

Lady Thorne inclined her head by half an inch. “Lady Grace.”

Grace met her gaze without flinching. “Lady Helena.”

They stood side by side beneath the court’s scrutiny, stark as fire and frost.

From the shadows, Natasha muttered under her breath, “Someone’s playing a long game.”

And Grace, wrapped in linen and defiance, thought:

Then let’s play.

______

The moment Grace stepped into place beside Lady Thorne, Steve’s stomach dropped.

That wasn’t the name he approved.

That wasn’t the match he gave them.

And the look on Grace’s face—composed, still, but unmistakably braced for impact—confirmed it.

He was moving before the next name could be read.

Two corridors and one startled steward later, he shoved open the council antechamber doors hard enough to make them slam against the stone.

Coulson looked up from the seating chart he’d been adjusting.

Fury, of course, didn’t look up at all.

“Who changed the pairing?” Steve demanded.

Neither answered.

“Don’t play court games with me,” he snapped, stepping fully into the room. “Lady Thorne was not on Grace’s trial list.”

Coulson straightened the edge of a parchment with calm precision. “I read the list exactly as it was presented to me this morning.”

“You mean after someone altered it.”

Fury finally looked up, one brow arched. “She’s still standing, isn’t she?”

Steve’s jaw clenched. “You think this is about whether she can stand?”

“I think,” Fury said slowly, rising to his feet, “you’ve got twenty-eight remaining Chosen and one woman the court’s whispering about like she’s written in prophecy. You made a choice, son. You put a mark on her back the moment she walked into that ballroom looking like defiance in a dress.”

Steve’s fists curled. “So someone decided to test her.”

“She’s being seen,” Coulson said calmly. “Pairing her with Thorne accelerates that. Conflict, tension, spectacle. You told us to make her impossible to ignore.”

“I didn’t say throw her to the wolves.”

Fury stepped closer, voice low and hard. “You didn’t say not to.”

A long, grinding pause.

Steve’s glare could have cracked stone.

“Thorne is a strategist. A manipulator. She’ll bait her with every word, twist every answer.”

“Then let’s see if Grace bites,” Fury said. “So far, she hasn’t.”

Another beat of silence. Heavy. Loaded.

Then Steve said, quiet and furious: “You pull something like this again without telling me, I’ll treat it as sabotage.”

Fury didn’t flinch. “Then stop giving us reasons to maneuver around you.”

Coulson, ever diplomatic, offered, “The damage is done, sire. Best to watch how she handles it.”

Steve’s voice turned to ice. “Then pray she walks out of that ballroom on her own terms.”

And he turned and left—because Grace was already walking through fire.

And he wasn’t going to miss another second of it.
______

The court had grown silent.

The ballroom floor—once cleared for dancing—now bore a long table dressed in dark velvet. At its center stood two wooden trays, each lined with carved tokens: grain sacks, miniature soldiers, treaty scrolls, carved animals to represent towns and provinces.

A small placard was placed before each participant.

A third sat between them, etched in elegant script:

Scenario: Famine in the South. Threat of Rebellion in the East. Limited Funds. Limited Forces. One Royal Decree.

Lady Thorne stepped forward first, chin high, hands gloved in silver-threaded lace. The court watched as she studied the pieces, then began her arrangement—decisive, elegant, efficient.

She formed a blockade at the eastern border. Diverted grain to noble strongholds. Proposed rationing for the lower classes.

Her plan was clean. Ruthless. Calculated for maximum order and minimum loss—at least, loss that mattered to her.

Coulson raised a brow but said nothing. A few courtiers nodded, murmuring.

Then Grace stepped forward.

She moved slower—her hands still slightly unsteady from the bruises beneath her skin. She studied the tray. The court. Then the tray again.

And began.

Her plan was strange at first. Unexpected.

She sent grain not to noble estates, but to crossroads and temple outposts. She placed guards in the villages themselves. She sent envoys instead of soldiers—diplomats trained in conflict resolution, not enforcement.

Forgoing punishment. Favoring negotiation.

“She’s trying to keep peace,” someone whispered.

“She’s gambling everything.”

And yet—when she finished, the layout was clean. Not symmetrical. But balanced. And every token—every person—remained standing.

Lady Thorne’s plan would have quelled the chaos.

Grace’s might have prevented it entirely.

The judges deliberated for less than a minute.

“By margin of one,” Coulson announced, “Lady Thorne’s strategy is deemed more structurally sound.”

A polite round of applause followed.

Thorne bowed. Expression unreadable.

But the flicker in her eyes—almost too quick to catch—betrayed her glee.

Grace, still standing, inclined her head. Not smiling. But not defeated.

She stepped away from the table without fanfare.

From the back of the room, a small voice cut through the murmurs.

“She saved more people, though.”

Lila Barton sat with her feet tucked under her chair, chin resting in her hand as the judges finalized the tally. She already knew the answer. Everyone did.

Lady Thorne won, because she was better on paper —not because she actually was better.

Because she looked the part.

Because she knew how to make cruelty sound like strategy.

Next to her, Morgan Stark leaned forward over the banister, arms crossed.

“She’s limping again,” Morgan murmured.

Lila frowned. “She was earlier too. Thorne didn’t even look.”

“They’re all pretending not to see it.”

“Pretending really hard.”

They fell quiet as the next pair was called—one of the lesser nobles, and the river-border girl.

Neither seemed to know what to do with the tokens. The court barely paid attention.

But Lila was still watching Grace.

She now sat in the row of competitors who had completed th, hands folded in her lap, posture composed. Her face unreadable.

“She saved more people,” Lila said again, louder this time.

Morgan nodded. “And she didn’t throw anyone away to do it.”

A pause.

Then Lila glanced at her cousin. “Did you see the way she looked at Thorne? Like she didn’t care if she lost.”

“She doesn’t.” Morgan smiled slightly. “That’s why she didn’t.”

Their names were called next.

And they stood.

______

The trial table had barely been reset when their names were called.

Morgan Stark rose first—smirking like she’d been waiting for this since breakfast. Lila Barton followed, equal parts resigned and delighted.

Coulson, seated beside the judges, gave Steve a long-suffering look.

The King—seated at the head of the judges’ table—tilted his head slightly, lips twitching into something not quite a smile.

“I had to pair you two,” he said aloud, tone dry. “Just to see if the castle would survive.”

Morgan stood, tugging Lila to her feet. “Better question,” she muttered as they passed him, “which of us do you think would win?”

He didn’t answer.

Because they both already knew the answer to that one.

Steve just sipped his tea.

“Scenario,” Coulson read, “Pirate raids along the northern coast. Trade routes severed. Unrest brewing in the merchant guilds. Budget restrictions apply.”

Lila whispered, “Do pirates have a union? Because that might change my answer.”

Morgan: “What? No. Wait. Actually…”

The court leaned forward.

Morgan reached the tray and didn’t hesitate—she began lining up miniature ships along the coast, but reversed one row so they pointed inward.

Lila frowned. “You’re—inviting the pirates?”

“Negotiating with them,” Morgan said. “You don’t think they’d rather get paid to be coastal guards? Nobody likes being cold and hungry and hunted. We just make it a better gig to stay legit.”

Lila blinked. “You’re hiring them.”

Morgan grinned. “Rebrand or perish.”

Lila rolled with it—setting up pop-up trade ports, a rotating diplomatic envoy, and a fake festival to cover the public reintroduction of the now-not-pirates.

“You realize you’ve just built an economy on salt, subterfuge, and unhinged optimism,” Coulson said, leaning forward.

Lila gave a little bow. “So… a typical Tuesday in this court.”

Several noblewomen choked back laughter. Someone—probably Mae—clapped once.

Lady Thorne looked personally offended.

The judges conferred in a low, visibly confused huddle. Then one raised a hand.

“There’s… no clear ruling. It shouldn’t have worked. But it does.”

Morgan beamed. “That’s the family motto.”

Lila deadpanned, “It’s really not.”

Morgan shrugged. “It should be.”

They curtsied in sync and sauntered off.

⸻

As they rejoined the other Chosen in the gallery, a ripple of murmurs followed. Grace—still seated nearby—watched them with wide eyes.

The trial had barely ended. Dignitaries and nobles were still whispering about strategy, recalibrating alliances, polishing compliments for Lady Thorne.

Morgan and Lila had other plans.

They slipped away the moment their trial ended—Morgan with a smug grin, Lila barely containing laughter.

Down one of the side corridors just off the ballroom, they found their target: a long, gleaming table lined with ceremonial favor boxes—small, ornate parcels gifted by noble families to curry favor with promising candidates. Each was sealed, perfumed, and labeled in calligraphy so delicate it might as well have been spun gold.

“Remind me,” Morgan said, scanning the names, “why do these exist?”

“Because flattery works better when you hide it in a box with a ribbon,” Lila muttered, crouching low. “And because adults are ridiculous.”

Morgan reached into her sleeve and pulled out a marker.

Lila blinked. “Where were you even keeping that?”

“I’m wearing Stark-tech. Don’t ask stupid questions.”

With the stealth of two girls who knew they’d be grounded later and didn’t care in the slightest, they got to work.

By the time they were done:
• Lady Thorne’s box read: “To the Future Queen of Ice. Do Not Shake. May Contain Feelings.”
• Lady Zemo’s was relabeled: “Return to Sender: Entitled and Redundant.”
• Grace’s—still unopened and modest—was left untouched.

Except for a tiny crown doodled in the corner.
Just small enough she might miss it.
But probably wouldn’t.

⸻

Ten minutes later, Pepper found them leaning very casually against the wall, whispering like nothing had happened.

Laura spotted the marker first.

“Morgan.”

“Hi, Aunt Laura.”

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Lila, without missing a beat: “A civic service.”

Pepper pinched the bridge of her nose. “We are not bribing judges to expunge your records again.”

“You say that now,” Morgan muttered. “But wait until Lady Thorne reads hers out loud.”

From the far end of the corridor, someone snorted.

Steve.

Just loud enough for both girls to hear.

⸻

Sam intercepted the stack before they could be handed out.

Just barely.

He’d spotted Morgan’s smug little smirk from across the ballroom and followed his instincts—which, unfortunately, were never wrong when it came to Stark-blooded mischief.

Now, tucked behind one of the banquet partitions, he stared at the favor boxes in disbelief.

“‘Return to Sender: Entitled and Redundant’?” he read aloud. “Really?”

Pepper groaned. “I told her—”

“It was a civic service,” Lila said brightly, appearing at Sam’s elbow like a summoned gremlin. “You should thank us.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “Should I?”

Morgan, leaning smugly against the pillar, added, “Just look at Grace’s.”

Sam turned it over—and laughed.

A tiny, hand-sketched crown sat in the corner. Lopsided. Barely there. Perfect.

He shook his head. “I’m rewrapping all of them. Except this one.”

Pepper opened her mouth to protest—and then Steve stepped in.

“What are you rewrapping?”

Sam tossed him the box.

Steve caught it.

Saw the crown.

And laughed.

Loudly. Unapologetically. The kind of laugh that cracked open the court’s stiff silence. A few nobles nearby went quiet, blinking at the sound.

“Leave this one,” he said. “Exactly as it is.”

Then he turned to the others.

“And tell Grace… she’s earned every scribble of it.”

Chapter Text

By afternoon, the tone of the court had shifted.

Formal trials gave way to soft blankets rolled out beneath the orchard trees. Platters of fresh fruit and spiced bread were passed between Chosen and escorts alike. A low harp played from the shaded stone terrace.

Those who had participated in the morning’s strategy trial were called forward one by one, by order of merit.

The winners were granted fifteen minutes with the king.
The rest? Ten.

It was ridiculous.
Petty.
Calculated.

And it worked.

Because every Chosen knew—even a minute in that man’s presence could change the course of their standing.

Morgan and Lila went together, still riding the high of their “unjudged chaos win.”

Grace sat quietly near the edge of the lawn, a basket in her lap, her bruised legs stretched carefully beneath a linen cover. She wasn’t first, or last, but somewhere in the middle.

Natasha sat nearby. Not commenting. Just watching every person in the garden like a hawk.

Helena Thorne moved like a queen-in-waiting.

She glided across the orchard lawn with flawless posture, her gown a crisp cascade of cream and gold. Her attendants adjusted her train before she stepped into the shade of the royal pavilion, where Steve sat waiting—sleeves rolled and collar undone in a way that still made half the court lean forward.

She curtsied deep. Low. Practiced.

“Your Majesty,” she said smoothly. “I hope you found my strategy today… compelling.”

Steve nodded once. “You were thorough.”

“Efficiency is key in uncertain times,” she replied, glancing at the others still waiting for their turn. “As is knowing where alliances might prove… most beneficial.”

Her eyes lingered on the now-empty patch of grass where Grace had been seated.

Steve’s gaze flicked up. Neutral. Flat.

“I was raised for court,” Helena continued, stepping closer. “Groomed for leadership. And unlike some of the others here, I have no illusions about what this Choosing is really for.”

He didn’t respond immediately.

And when he did, his voice was polite. Distant.

“That clarity may serve you. If you’re chosen.”

Helena tilted her head slightly. “Of course. Though I imagine clarity isn’t the only quality you’ll need in a queen.”

She let the words hang—just long enough to imply what she wasn’t saying.

“Grace,” she added, voice perfectly calm, “has many… admirable traits. But clarity has never been one of them.”

Steve’s eyes sharpened.

Helena only smiled, unbothered. “Still. She makes quite the impression.”

She turned slightly, letting her gaze drift toward the rest of the court. “Some of the others—well, their charm is… youthful. Improvised. A bit more theater than substance. It’s sweet, in its way. But not sustainable.”

She returned her focus to Steve. “Whereas I bring structure. Stability. A foundation that won’t crack under pressure.”

His jaw tightened—but he didn’t interrupt.

She stepped closer. “I know what it means to carry power. And how to protect it.”

Steve’s voice was quiet now, clipped. “You speak with certainty.”

“It isn’t certainty,” she said, eyes gleaming. “It’s preparation.”

He didn’t smile.
⸻

Grace wandered.

No set direction. Just a soft aimlessness, like the body’s instinct to move when the mind is tangled—even though the movement hurt.

She passed the orchard’s edge, trailing her fingers along the pale stone wall that curved through the garden. The sunlight hit her bandaged arms in fragments. Her hem caught on a root, and she paused to free it gently.

The dress fluttered in the breeze.

Behind her, the girls who had begun to orbit her—country-born, a little bruised by court but still hopeful—sat watching. They didn’t crowd. They didn’t speak.

But one girl quietly set down a plum and followed, barefoot on the grass.

⸻

The bell rang to signal the end of her allotted time, but Helena lingered.

Steve stood, always polite, but already distant in that way he’d mastered—shoulders squared, gaze composed, jaw tight with barely leashed restraint.

Helena stepped forward anyway.

“May I speak… frankly, Your Majesty?”

He gave a slow nod, though his expression didn’t shift.

She took one more step, too close to be proper. “I understand the game being played here. I’ve watched the others. The simpering. The scheming. The clumsy attempts at charm.” Her voice dipped low. “And then there’s her.”

Steve’s brow arched.

Helena’s smile didn’t falter. “She’s fascinating, I’ll admit. Wild. Wounded. A flicker of defiance dressed up in bruises and silk.” A pause. “But not made for court.”

“That’s not your call to make,” Steve said, tone cool and final.

Helena didn’t retreat.

Instead, she lifted a hand—delicately, deliberately—and rested it against his chest. “It could be easier,” she said, low and coaxing. “For you. For the realm. For everyone. Choose someone born to rule beside you. Someone who won’t fracture under pressure.”

Steve didn’t move.

She rose slightly on her toes.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t passion. It wasn’t longing. It was performance—nothing more.

A claiming gesture. One designed for the witnesses just beyond the hedge, for the rumors it would spark, for the fear it would plant in the hearts of every girl still waiting for their turn.

He let her finish.

Then stepped back, cold and deliberate.

“You’re dismissed, Lady Thorne.”

He turned before she finished curtsying.

She glided back across the lawn, chin high.

Not triumphant. Not humiliated.

But rattled.

Because he hadn’t flinched.

⸻

It rippled like blood in water.

Helena Thorne’s exit was all poise and polish, but the tension she left in her wake buzzed across the orchard like a broken wire. A few of the other Chosen froze mid-bite. One girl dropped her goblet entirely. The nobles flanking the picnic edge began whispering behind fans.

And Steve—still seated—let the silence stretch just long enough to make it clear what he hadn’t said.

Then, without lifting his gaze, he reached for his cup—jaw tight, silence heavier than steel.

“Structure means nothing,” he murmured, “if it costs someone their soul.”

Pepper muttered something under her breath that made Laura snort aloud.

Lady Mae leaned toward Morgan and murmured, “Tell me she didn’t—”

“She did,” Morgan confirmed. “Full-on the mouth. I mean… points for guts?”

Across the lawn, Sam let out a low whistle.

“Well,” Maria said, leaning back in her husband’s lap, arms crossed. “So much for dignity.”

“I liked her better in the war game,” Lila added, deadpan. “Less saliva.”

Steve returned to his seat beneath the pavilion like nothing had happened.

As if Helena Thorne hadn’t just kissed the king in full view of half the court.

He called the next name. Then the next. Cool professionalism layered over a quiet, rising tension: a polite question, a long pause, a nod of thanks. Repeat.

But something had shifted.

His foot tapped.

His gaze kept flicking—subtle, habitual—across the lawn.

She wasn’t there.

He stood at the edge of the tent as the final name was called. A breeze caught the pavilion cloth and lifted it, offering a clear line of sight across the orchard.

Still no Grace.

No soft cream gown.

No silver-cuffed arm. No pinned curls tugging loose. No wide, wary eyes tracking every movement.

She was gone.

Steve didn’t wait.

He stepped down from the pavilion, ignoring the murmurs and the attendant still holding the slate of names. He wasn’t running—but his stride had purpose. Sharp. Focused. Somewhere between command and something harder to name.

He passed rows of nobles and lesser houses—the ones still waiting to be called—his eyes scanning each shaded alcove, each patch of garden lawn. No Grace.

Not at the orchard tables.

Not beneath the cypress arch.

Not anywhere she was supposed to be.

Until—

A flicker of cream silk through the trees. And a sound—soft, unguarded laughter.

Unbothered. Unhurried.

Steve turned the corner.

And froze.

There, by the old stone fountain, was Grace.

Feet bare and splashing gently in the water, her gown hitched just high enough to reveal bandaged calves and bruised knees. Her hair was still pinned up, exposing the mottled blue-black along her shoulder and neck—unhidden, unapologetic.

She was sitting along the curved basin edge, skirts pooling around her, hands gesturing as she spoke. Around her sat a small circle of young women:
• Morgan, perched like a cat with a smirk half-formed.
• Lila, cross-legged and sharp-eyed, braiding a strand of grass.
• MJ, half-listening, half-plotting something chaotic.
• Three of the country girls—Vanessa, Adelaide and Melisa, if he recalled correctly—in simple silk gowns, hanging on every word.
• And Lady Alira, all silver velvet and braided pearls, her expression thoughtful. Respectful.

From a shaded trellis just behind, Natasha and Pepper watched silently. Natasha leaned against the arch with arms crossed, eyes narrowed—but not in warning.

“She’s fine,” Pepper said quietly.

“She’s better than fine,” Nat murmured. “She’s holding court.”

Steve stepped forward slowly.

At the fountain, Grace pointed to a sprig of silvery-green herbs growing wild in a crack of the stone. “…and that one’s good for nausea. But only if you dry it first. Fresh, it’ll give you the opposite problem.”

Vanessa blinked. “How do you know all this?”

“I had no crown. No court. Just people who needed healing.” Grace smiled faintly. “And old women who weren’t patient with bad memory.”

Lady Alira gave a soft huff. “Well. If nothing else, you’ll keep us alive through winter.”

Morgan grinned. “And she could probably poison anyone who crosses her, too.”

Grace didn’t deny it.

And for the first time all afternoon, Steve smiled.

He cleared his throat softly.

The air shifted instantly.

The younger girls turned first—MJ grinning like she’d been caught mid-prank; Morgan offering a two-finger wave. Lila smirked and sat a little straighter, unrepentant.

But the other Chosen scrambled.

Silk rustled. Fans snapped open. Two girls from the country provinces dropped into low curtsies so quickly one of them nearly lost her balance.

Grace didn’t rise.

She tried—he saw it.

Felt it.

She adjusted her grip on the fountain’s edge, angled like she might stand. Every part of her resisted the motion—her knees ached, her ribs flared, her whole body tensed beneath the fragile mask of calm.

Not here.
Not in front of him.
Not in front of them.

But her legs buckled before they moved. Pain bloomed hot behind her eyes.

No. She wouldn’t stumble. Not when so many had already decided she didn’t belong.

Her jaw clenched.

She stayed seated.

Met his gaze. Steady. Quiet. Proud.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. And didn’t ask for help.

It was the most honest thing she could give him.

Steve saw it. Saw her. And gave the smallest nod—barely perceptible. Permission. Understanding. Something like respect.

Then he looked around the gathered circle.

“I believe,” he said, voice even and warm, “that each of you earned ten minutes with me this afternoon.”

A few blushed. One of the country girls looked like she might faint.

Steve continued, tone light but deliberate. “There are eight of you here now. That’s a full hour and twenty minutes, give or take.”

He paused, letting the idea hang there.

“If you’d be willing to share it… I’d be glad to spend it here, with all of you.”

Lady Alira raised a brow, amused. “An audience with the king—shared among commoners and chaos gremlins. How novel.”

Morgan grinned. “We accept your offer.”

“No refunds,” MJ added.

Lila nodded sagely. “And you’ll leave smarter for it.”

Steve smiled and stepped forward, lowering himself to sit beside Grace on the edge of the fountain. He angled his body just slightly toward her—close, but not imposing.

She didn’t lean away.

But she did brace herself.

Her muscles remained taut. Alert. Not quite trusting this moment to last.

His presence was a comfort and a risk, all in one.

When he dipped his fingers into the water beside hers, the gesture was so simple it made something ache behind her breastbone. It wasn’t dominance. It wasn’t pity. It was… presence. Choice.

He glanced up at the circle of girls.

“What were we talking about?”

“Poisons,” Grace said dryly, not missing a beat.

“And how not to accidentally cause diarrhea,” MJ offered helpfully.

Steve just blinked. “Excellent. Royal topics.”

The laughter that followed was easy, earned.

And for the next hour, the court would watch from a distance as the king sat among bare feet, bruised bodies, and unvarnished truth—choosing not what looked best.

But what was.

The sun had dipped low enough to throw honeyed light across the garden, casting long shadows and catching in the curls of the girls clustered around the fountain. Their laughter had mellowed into easy conversation—Grace still seated, legs tucked beneath her, her tone confident as she explained the differences between two nearly identical herbs.

Steve hadn’t moved from his spot beside her.

But the moment finally cracked when Fury appeared at the edge of the green—sharp as flint in court-neutral garb, like a shadow made manifest. He didn’t belong in a garden. He never did.

“Your Majesty.” His tone was polite. Controlled. Calculated. “You’re needed.”

Steve didn’t stand. Yet.

He glanced over his shoulder, voice dry. “You’ve been playing your games all day, Director.”

He looked back to the girls, then down at Grace.

“I figured I was allowed one of my own.”

Fury didn’t respond. Just faded back into the path like mist pulled by wind.

Steve exhaled, then rose.

Before he stepped away, he leaned slightly toward Grace—just enough for only her to hear.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded. “Tired. But fine.”

“I’ll need a word once I’m done. About your patient.”

That was new. He hadn’t spoken as king then—but as a commander, maybe. Or something else. Something that felt earned.

Grace nodded once. “Of course.”

Then—without waiting for anything more—she turned back to the girls and picked up the conversation as if nothing had changed.

But every one of them watched the king walk away.

And every one of them knew something had.

The conversation shifted from poisons to tinctures, then to basic stitching technique, Lady Adelaide chiming in with her own experiences. She helped along the boarder skirmish near her village. While not formally trained, Grace learned quickly the other woman could do everything from set a broken bone to cauterize an injury from a blade. She made a mental note to find time to try to spend of one on time with the other woman so they could compare notes.

By the time Adelaide finished demonstrating how to wrap a sprained ankle using a length of ribbon borrowed from Morgan’s hair, three of the mothers had joined the circle—Lady Mae, Pepper, and one of the southern women whose daughter had sat beside Grace earlier.

Grace then showed them how to make an herbal compound that can assist with preventing infections and lowering fevers.

“Could you show us that again?” the woman asked, eyes wide. “I’ve always sent for a healer, but—if I’d known how simple some of this could be…”

Grace smiled. “Simple’s a strong word. But I can absolutely show you.”

So she did.

By the time Steve returned, the fountain had become a quiet gathering place. Lila was offering her wrist to be mock-splinted by Adeleine. MJ was directing traffic. Morgan had started labeling the garden herbs with strips of cloth and charcoal. Vanessa and Melissa we both going through the process on how to make the tincture.

Even the more skeptical Chosen—those who’d stood apart earlier—had drifted close enough to listen.

Steve paused at the edge of the scene—not intruding, just watching. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face as he took in the easy way Grace held the group in orbit around her.

She was still seated, the same position as before, but the difference was striking.

She wasn’t just being tolerated.

She was the axis around which the moment turned. Calm, sure, magnetic without trying.

She was leading.

He cleared his throat, softer this time.

It only took a moment. Heads turned. Conversations paused.

Grace looked up.

“I apologize for the interruption, Ladies,” Steve said, voice pitched carefully.

He addressed the group, but his eyes never left hers.

“There’s been a development regarding your patient’s condition. I’ll need you alone for a bit, Lady Grace.”

Grace nodded. Calm. Professional. “Of course. Your highness.”

She shifted her weight forward to stand—and instantly regretted it. Pain flared behind her ribs, sharp and deep, and her right leg twinged with the echo of too many bruises. Her hands were steady, but her jaw clenched, breath briefly catching.

You’re fine. You’ve stood before. You can do this.

But then a gentle touch—MJ’s hand at her elbow, pretending not to notice. Lila moving just slightly in case she needed a second arm. No pity. Just readiness.

Grace straightened slowly, chin high. One breath. Then another. And stood.

The girls stood too—no curtsies this time, just quiet understanding.

The older women followed, gathering their daughters with murmured goodbyes. One by one, they left the garden behind, trailing laughter and whispers and glances over shoulders.

But not one of them looked confused.
They didn’t need to be told what had changed. They had seen enough stories to know when one had just turned its page.

So did Steve.

⸻

As the last footsteps faded and they were alone again, he gestured toward the shaded path just off the fountain terrace.

“Can you walk with me?” he asked, offering his arm. “Or should we find somewhere to sit?”

Her body still ached. Her knees burned. Her back screamed with every breath she took.

She didn’t mind the effort.
It was the pain that wore her down.
She’d been carrying too much of both lately.

“I can for a bit,” Grace said, trying to hide the pain in her voice. “But I’m not sure how far I can go.”

She could handle pain. It was uncertainty that scraped at her nerves.

She took his arm.

And followed him into the dusk.

They walked in silence for a few steps, the garden thinning into a shaded corridor lined with stone arches and climbing ivy. The warmth of the day had begun to fade, replaced by the still hush of evening.

Grace didn’t ask. Not yet.

She was still watching him from the corner of her eye—reading the set of his jaw, the way his hands flexed slightly at his sides.

He hadn’t come with an apology. He hadn’t come with an answer.

Just the quiet ache of someone still trying.

When they reached the alcove just past the old sundial, Steve finally stopped. He didn’t sit. Didn’t pace.

Just looked out toward the last light brushing the castle walls.

Grace waited a beat longer before prompting, “What about Lady Sienna?”

Steve turned to her slowly.

“She’s stable. Of course.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly. “That’s not why you brought me out here, is it.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”

Another pause.

“I needed to see you,” he said simply. “Not in front of a crowd. Not with someone else watching. Just you.”

Grace’s expression didn’t shift, but something in her posture softened—just barely.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d even want to speak to me today,” he added, quieter. “After… everything.”

She was quiet a moment, then: “You could’ve just asked.”

He gave a tired smile. “I didn’t think you’d say yes.”

Grace tilted her head. “And yet… here I am.”

He looked at her then—not as a king, not as a man trying to manage a crumbling system, but as someone who was simply trying.

“I need you to know I didn’t plan for any of this. I didn’t expect… you.”

“You mean you weren’t planning on having someone bleeding on your floor the first night?” she said lightly. “Or the crazy woman who fought to save her?”

“I mean someone who challenged everything I thought I’d already decided.”

Grace exhaled. The soreness in her body was beginning to creep higher, a pulsing ache beneath her ribs. But still, she stayed.

“What exactly do you expect from me, Your Majesty?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped in—just close enough that she could feel the heat of him.

“Not an answer. Not yet,” he said. “Just… trust. A little of it.”

She searched his face. “That’s a lot to ask, considering.”

“I know.”

Another beat of silence stretched between them, until Grace finally murmured, “I don’t know what this is.”

His voice was quiet. “Neither do I.”

She looked down, then back up. “But it’s something.”

Steve nodded. “It is.”

A few heartbeats passed before she said, “You used my patient to get me out here.”

“I did,” he admitted, unflinching.

She huffed a soft, tired laugh. “At least you’re honest.”

“Painfully.”

Then, gently—his voice barely more than a thread:

“Can I walk you back?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then gave a single nod.

“You can.”

She wasn’t sure what she was walking toward.

But she didn’t walk away.

They walked longer than intended.

The path curved through the inner gardens—quiet and half-lit—far enough from the main halls that they felt almost alone. Steve made no move to turn back, and Grace didn’t ask him to. Every so often, their shoulders brushed. Once, she caught her foot on a loose stone, and he steadied her with a hand at her elbow—just a brief touch, then gone.

By the time they reentered the castle through a side corridor, the sun had fully slipped behind the horizon.

No formal dinner had been held that night, but the salons and public parlors still hummed with low conversation. Nobles drifted between rooms, drinks in hand, gossip in full swing.

They stepped into one of the wide crossing halls just as a small cluster of people rounded the far corner.

Helena Thorne led the group.

Her eyes found them immediately—Steve’s hand lightly guiding Grace, the pair of them close, aligned, unbothered by appearances.

Her expression didn’t falter. But her smile sharpened.

“Oh!” she said far too brightly, speeding her pace. “Grace, I didn’t even see—”

She tripped.

Or rather, she performed a trip. All sweeping skirts and flailing arms. A calculated arc of silk and chaos.

Helena pitched forward—straight into Grace.

There was no time to sidestep. Grace’s body braced on instinct, but her balance faltered under the weight of pain and surprise. Her knees struck stone, and sharp heat radiated through her limbs.

She gasped.

A cry slipped out—thin, involuntary, torn from somewhere deep.

Steve moved faster than thought.

One hand at her shoulder, the other around her waist as he dropped beside her.

“Grace—”

“I’m fine,” she ground out, already pushing herself upright.

“You’re not,” he said, low and furious, eyes flicking to the bruises now visible where her wrap had shifted. “Damn it.”

Around them, the hallway had gone still.

One of the southern ladies let out a soft gasp. Another woman halted mid-step, drink forgotten in hand.

Helena straightened with graceful poise, adjusting her sleeve like nothing had happened. “Oh dear. How terribly clumsy of me.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I wasn’t watching—”

“Clearly,” Steve said, his tone like ice.

“These old halls,” she added, all wide eyes and faux regret. “So easy to misstep.”

“I’m sure,” he said flatly, without even glancing at her.

He turned back to Grace, crouched on the cold stone, hands braced behind her, jaw tight with pain.

“Can you walk?”

She nodded once, swallowing hard. “Just… help me up.”

He didn’t hesitate. One arm around her back, the other beneath her knees, he lifted her as gently as he could—ignoring the way gasps rippled through the gallery.

Grace didn’t protest.

Not this time.

Because when her eyes met Helena’s across the space—sharp and clear despite the pain—she didn’t look fragile.

She looked furious.

And Helena, for the first time all evening, looked shaken.

The crowd parted in stunned silence as the king of the realm carried Grace through the corridor, jaw set, expression unreadable.

Behind them, Helena stood frozen, lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

And the whispers began.

He didn’t stop until they reached her rooms. A startled guard leapt to open the door before Steve could so much as kick it down.

Inside, the air was cool from the open windows. The scent of salve and crushed lavender lingered—remnants of pain, of healing.

Steve lowered her gently onto the edge of the bed. But before he could fully draw away, Grace caught his wrist.

Her grip wasn’t strong, but it was steady.

“Don’t do that again,” she said.

He blinked. “What?”

“Carry me through the halls like I’m made of glass.”

“You are hurt.”

“I am hurt,” she snapped, breath catching. “I’m bruised, I’m exhausted, and I’m technically still recovering from what we’re calling a magical seizure. But I’m not weak, Steve.”

He opened his mouth—then closed it again.

“I’m not just some girl,” she continued, softer now but no less fierce. “Not just an omega. I’ve survived worse than Helena Thorne’s elbow and a few stairs. I am still here. That matters.”

His jaw flexed. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

This time, he really looked at her—not at her injuries, not at the tremble she couldn’t quite hide, not at the soft fall of a borrowed gown over battered skin.

Just her.

And in that silence, something shifted.

“You need me to trust you,” Grace said. “But if you want my trust, then you have to offer it in return. You don’t get to make every choice for me. Not like that. Not in front of them.”

A long silence followed. Her words lingered—hot, clear, earned.

Then Steve nodded once, slowly.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re not weak. I know that.”

A beat passed. His voice dropped lower.

“I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, rough. “I saw you fall. And I panicked.”

“That’s fine,” she said, her tone gentler now. “You can panic. After. Next time… let me stand up on my own. I will let you know when I need your help.”

He let out a breath—half-laugh, half-release. “Deal.”

She softened, just a little. “But thank you.”

“For?”

“Catching me. And not throttling Helena. Yet.”

“Oh,” he said with a dangerous glint, “I haven’t ruled that out.”

Grace rolled her eyes. Then hissed softly, her body shifting too quickly against the mattress. “I’d like the honor when the time comes.”

Steve stepped back at once, hands raised in surrender, but a smile tugging at his lips.

“I’ll send Nat in,” he said. “She’ll want to murder me slightly less.”

He made it halfway to the door before her voice called out, quiet but certain:

“Steve.”

He turned.

“Thank you. For listening.”

His reply was just as soft. “Always.”

Then he slipped out the door.

And Grace, alone now in the hush of lavender and dusk, finally let herself exhale.

Chapter Text

He didn’t go back to the war room. Didn’t return to the council chamber, where Fury waited with revised evaluations and another passive-aggressive reminder that time was running out.

Instead, Steve found himself in the east wing courtyard, where the scent of pipe smoke still hung faintly in the evening air and someone had dragged two mismatched chairs beneath a crumbling trellis.

Sam was already there, legs stretched out, arms crossed behind his head.

“Took you long enough,” he said, without opening his eyes.

Steve dropped into the second chair with a grunt. “How’d you know I was coming?”

“Because you only come find me when you’re either about to punch someone… or when you’re in your feelings.”

“Pretty sure it’s both today.”

“Thought so.”

A beat passed.

Sam cracked one eye open. “Your girl give you hell?”

“She called me out.”

“Good. She should.”

Steve blew out a breath. “She said I don’t trust her. That I made a decision for her instead of with her. And… she’s not wrong.”

“Nope,” Sam said, stretching. “She’s not.”

Another pause.

“Maria nearly decked me the first time I opened a door for her. Council summit. Six trade envoys watching.”

Steve blinked. “Seriously?”

“Swatted my hand away and said, ‘Your job is to back me, not box me.’”

Steve groaned.

Sam grinned. “Listen,” he said. “You and I were raised to protect people. Run toward the fire.”

He paused, then added, “It’s the alpha instinct. Protect. Shield. Take control.”

Steve nodded once. “And when your partner’s an omega, it’s easy to confuse instinct with obligation.”

“Or strength with role,” Sam said. “But Grace? Maria? They were never the ones who needed protecting. Not really.”

He leaned back again. “Being with someone like Grace—or Maria—means learning to let them burn when they need to. Even if it scorches your pride. Sure, there are some omegas who want to be coddled, protected—seen only as a mother… But ones like are want to make the word better for everyone. There’s strength in their presentation.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face.

“She’s not weak, that’s for sure,” he said. “She’s—gods, she’s stronger than I ever expected. And I keep forgetting that. Especially when I’m scared.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” Sam said quietly. “You just have to stop making Love look like fear.”

Steve looked over, jaw tight. The words hit harder than he wanted to admit.

Sam shrugged. “Trust goes both ways. If she gave you hers, you better give her something real to hold onto.”

Steve nodded slowly.

Then: “You’re smarter than people give you credit for.”

“Damn right,” Sam said, stretching again. “Now get out of here. Go be regal or whatever.”

——-

The windows were open again, letting in the cool spring night breeze.

Grace sat half draped on the chaise, her shift loosened at the back as Maela smoothed salve along the worst of the bruises—slow, steady strokes that made her grit her teeth more than once. The ointment smelled faintly of sage and something sharper, bitter and clinging. It burned a little at first. Then it sank in.

The breeze stirred the curtains, cool against her overheated skin. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open and shut again. A nightbird called once, then fell silent.

Nat sat nearby, combing through Grace’s hair with a silver-handled brush. Each pass caught softly on drying curls, the rhythm soothing despite the stiffness in Grace’s shoulders.

“You know,” Nat said, “you might be the only woman in history to nearly die and then command half the court’s respect before lunch.”

Grace gave a half-hearted snort, but didn’t argue.

Maela clucked softly. “These are deep,” she murmured, pressing gingerly at the base of Grace’s spine. “You landed hard.”

“I didn’t land,” Grace muttered. “I was shoved.”

“I meant from the vision, girl.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

Grace winced as the next layer of cool salve touched her skin. Each press sent a ripple through her ribs, like her body was remembering the fall more slowly than her mind.

“Where do you think it came from—the relic, I mean?”

“It was in the village until your sister died,” Maela said. “Everyone thought it was destroyed in the fire. It’s odd that it’s just shown up again.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient for whoever planted it,” Grace grumbled.

“Someone’s in a mood,” Nat teased.

“Sorry. I’m…” Grace faltered. “I’m angry. That I can barely stand. That I need help just to walk.”

Her voice dropped. “That Helena got to—”

“Helena exposed herself,” Nat cut in smoothly. “To the king. To the court. To half the palace staff.”

“She humiliated me.”

“She revealed you,” Nat corrected. “And you stood taller, sitting at that fountain, than half those girls will with their backs straight and titles recited.”

Grace didn’t answer. But her breath trembled.

It wasn’t just the bruises. It was the ache of being seen—too much, too clearly—without having chosen it.

⸻

“You undermined the entire structure,” Baron Zemo snapped, his voice sharp and high-pitched. “Dismissals before trials? Physical challenges before alliances are assessed? And fraternization—in plain view?”

Steve stood at the head of the table, arms folded.

“I made the terms clear,” he said evenly. “The trials will reflect the realities of leadership. That includes cooperation. Judgment. Integrity. And no—I don’t regret dismissing candidates who failed those tests.”

Lady Seraphine, An older woman in silver robes narrowed her eyes. “You’ve compromised the sanctity of the Choosing.”

Steve leaned forward. “The Choosing isn’t sacred. The people are. I’m not looking for a throne accessory—I need someone who can stand beside me.”

“You made a spectacle of Lady Thorne,” Baron Zemo argued. “And you allotted my daughter only ten minutes.”

“I made a scene?” Steve snapped. “She kissed me. In public. Without consent. If she wanted to be seen as a viable match, she should’ve shown restraint, not strategy. And your daughter earned ten minutes when she lost her challenge.”

A hush fell across the chamber.

Then: “And the healer?” Lord Thorne asked delicately. “The Hollow girl. You walked with her for almost an hour.”

Steve’s voice cooled. “Her ten minutes were combined with those seated beside her. The walk that followed was strictly business—I was inquiring what else she needed for Lady Sienna’s recovery.”

“Yet you looked like you were having a lover’s stroll,” Zemo said, lifting his chin.

Steve didn’t blink. But the air shifted.

His voice dropped to a warning growl. “I would be very careful what you say next.”

⸻

“They’re going to keep pushing me,” Grace murmured, as Maela began wrapping fresh linen across her torso. The fabric was stiff, scratchy against her skin, anchoring her even as it stung. “Trying to prove I’m fragile.”

“Then let them try,” Nat said, looping Grace’s hair into a soft knot. “And you’ll keep doing what you do best.”

“What’s that?”

“Surviving. Healing. Making allies without even realizing it.”

Maela tied off the bandage with a firm, practiced tug. “And driving that poor king to distraction.”

Grace smiled faintly. “He’s not so poor.”

“Not yet,” Nat murmured. “But he will be. You’re going to cost him everything he thought he knew about power.”

Grace looked down at her hands. They were still for once. Too still.

“And if I’m not ready?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

“You are, sweetheart,” Maela said gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. “But we’ll hold you up until you realize it.”

————
The council chamber still echoed in his ears as he strode down the corridor, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He’d held the line. He’d said what needed saying.

But gods, it had felt like trying to convince stone to bleed.

The guards posted outside Grace’s door straightened as he approached.

“Is she still awake?” Steve murmured.

They nodded. “Yes, sir.”

He knocked—soft, hesitant. Just once.

Inside, a voice rasped, dry and drowsy: “If it’s not Maela or Natasha, you’d better have tea or sedatives. Correct that—both.”

He pushed the door open gently, chuckling under his breath.

The room was lit only by the fire and a few scattered candles. Grace lay on her stomach across the bed, bandages wrapping most of her back and ribs, a thin sheet draped across her hips. Cold compresses were tucked beneath her arms, at her temple, and down her spine. Her hair was braided, but damp strands had come loose, curling softly against the pillow.

When she turned her head and saw him, something shifted in her expression—not soft exactly, but surprised. Vulnerable. A faint flush rose along her cheekbones, but she held his gaze.

“You’re not either of those,” she said quietly. “No tea. No sedatives.”

“No,” Steve said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “Just me.”

He stood there a moment, awkward and uncertain, then slowly approached the side of the bed.

“I… wanted to check on you.”

Her brow lifted. “Didn’t think I was on the council’s priority list.”

“You’re above it.”

She blinked at that.

Steve hesitated, then sat carefully in the chair beside her.

“I heard what happened this afternoon. Helena… Any other competitors try to kiss you that I should know about?”

He gave a dry, short laugh. “You’ve been busy.”

Grace exhaled. “Busy surviving. Though Nat and Maela love to gossip while they wrap me like a mummified relic. I guess now I know why she shoved me..”

“No one else tried to kiss me, Little Moon. Especially not the one I wanted to.”

Her breath caught just slightly, but she didn’t answer. The silence between them warmed, thickened.

His voice softened. “You scared me. When you fell. Again, when I carried you. And I keep doing the wrong thing trying to fix it.”

“I don’t need fixing,” she said gently.

“I know,” he said—and this time, he meant it.

A pause stretched between them. He studied her carefully.

“Can I… do anything?”

Grace’s gaze drifted to the space beside her.

“You could sit. Just… be here.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

He didn’t hesitate. But when he sat, their shoulders nearly touched, and he didn’t quite breathe right for a moment.

He pulled off his jacket, settled gingerly on the edge of the bed beside her, and reached for the linen to replace a nearly warm compress. His fingers brushed her skin—cool cloth meeting warm flesh—and lingered for a beat too long, tracing the curve of her ribs before pulling back.

Her breath hitched. She felt the warmth rush to her cheeks and hated that he probably noticed. But still, she didn’t flinch.

“Cooler?” he asked.

She nodded.

He adjusted it gently.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He swallowed. “Rest. I’ll stay until you sleep.”

And she did.

Not because she was weak.

But because he made it safe to let go.

Chapter Text

He had tried. Really.

Tried to follow Coulson’s advice. Tried to take the day off, clear his head, let the dust of the last forty-eight hours settle without stirring it up again.

But every time he closed his eyes, he saw Helena’s smug little curtsy. Heard the brittle sneer of the council. Felt the phantom weight of Grace collapsing in his arms—again.

He went to the training yard. Too loud. Too crowded.

Tried walking the outer gardens. Ran into two of the merchants’ daughters attempting to “accidentally” trip near him.

He was ten seconds from climbing the damn tower wall when Coulson, likely sensing the incoming tantrum, casually mentioned that most of the remaining Chosen had taken the opportunity to spend the day in the city shopping.

“Quiet halls, Your Majesty.”

So Steve followed the silence.

And it led him—unexpectedly, unerringly—to the library.

He hadn’t meant to linger. Just walk through. Breathe it in. The scent of parchment and old wood, the hush of thought and ink. A place untouched by all the expectations pressing against his skin.

But she was there.

Tucked into one of the oversized chairs near the window, legs curled beneath her, a book balanced in her lap and another open on the side table. Her hair was braided loosely, strands falling around her face, and her back—carefully braced by a folded cushion—rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

She was so absorbed in the page, she didn’t even glance up.

Steve didn’t speak. Not at first.

He just watched her read.

The way her brow furrowed in concentration. The little sound she made when she flipped a page too quickly and had to go back. The gentle way her fingers traced a diagram of noble lines, as if learning the names of every duke and count was as sacred as stitching a wound.

Finally, he stepped closer. Quiet.

Grace’s voice, without looking up:

“Are you here to scold me for not resting, or because you’re hiding too, Your Highness?”

Steve blinked. Then, slowly,

“Mostly hiding, my lady.”

She looked up, eyes narrowing.

“We both know I’m not really a lady—let’s not pretend here. Aren’t you not supposed to be working today?”

“No. I was told to rest. Clear my head. Focus on the Chosen. And yet…”

She tilted her head.

“You don’t trust your advisors?”

“I trust some of them,” he said. “Not all.”

She nodded once.

“Smart.”

He glanced at the book in her lap.

“What are you reading?”

“Court protocols. Cultural history of the coastal houses. And a short summary of trade routes from the northwestern border—apparently that’s the hot topic this year.”

He blinked again.

“That’s… a lot.”

“I figured if I’m going to be dragged into politics, I might as well know which families outwardly hate each other and which ones are just pretending not to.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then faded, slowly, as he looked at her again—really looked.

She was pale. Still too thin. Swaddled in a soft dress that disguised more bandages than most would guess. But her eyes were clear. Steady.

“You’re really trying,” he said quietly.

“Of course I am.”

“I didn’t expect…”

“That I’d take it seriously?” Grace asked, voice light but edged. “That I’d fight you the whole way?”

“No. I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, trying to stop another argument—something they seemed oddly good at. “Just… most wouldn’t. And I didn’t expect to admire it this much.”

That gave her pause.

Their eyes held.

Steve swallowed, then gestured to the chair across from her.

“May I?”

She nodded.

“Only if you’re not going to interrupt my study session. I’m behind as it is.”

He smiled again, wider this time.

“I’ll be quiet.”

He eased into the chair, one boot braced against the hearth, elbows resting on his knees. The fire cracked softly behind him, casting a warm glow across the room.

It was only then he noticed the parchment spread across the table beside her. Half-filled with notations, carefully inked lines, and sharp underlining. A second quill rested in the inkwell, still wet.

“You’re taking notes?” he asked, surprised.

Grace didn’t look up.

“Of course I am. Do you think I just absorb political nuance through osmosis?”

“I mean…” he scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “I kind of hoped?”

She shot him a glance over the top of her book.

“That might work for you, Your Royal Hotness.”

He blinked.

“Royal—what?”

Grace kept reading, lips twitching.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Steve stared at her, stunned into silence, then leaned forward slightly.

“Is that what you call me when I’m not around?”

“Not always. That one I picked up this morning, during breakfast with the other Chosen.”

A beat.

“What else do you call me?”

She turned a page slowly.

“Depends how mad I am… mostly ‘asshole.’”

Steve laughed, low and honest, and Grace smiled despite herself.

“Why don’t you just call me by my name?”

Grace looked at him, a slight frown creasing her brow—like the thought hadn’t occurred to her. Or maybe it had, and she’d chosen not to.

His eyes drifted to the parchment again.

“You’ve really been doing all this… just to prepare?”

“Just to keep up,” she said. “I’m behind. Your High… Steve. I didn’t grow up with court tutors or strategy lessons. I know healing and plants and what a dying person looks like two hours before anyone else does. But here? I’m learning the shape of the world from scratch. Even Vanessa and Melissa had some formal training. I had none. Which puts me behind.”

He went quiet again.

When he finally spoke, his voice had gentled.

“You’re not behind. You’re just unafraid to start where others pretend they already know. And honestly? You already understand more about the world than most ever will.”

That made her pause.

Her gaze lifted to meet his—and for a breath, neither of them looked away.

Then Grace cleared her throat, glancing back down at her notes.

“Well. That’s unnecessarily flattering.”

“Not really,” he said. “It’s just accurate.”

She reached for the quill again, muttering,

“Keep that up and I might actually like you.”

Steve leaned back in the chair, watching her with a small, crooked grin.

“Dangerous territory.”

“I’ve been in worse,” she said, flashing a soft, flirty smile.

He didn’t respond right away. Just sat there, quietly listening as she returned to her reading, her quill dancing softly across the parchment.

And for the first time all day, the pressure eased—just a little.

The sun had shifted by the time the quiet broke.

Grace had tucked her legs up again, the book resting open on her knees, a sheet of parchment balanced beside it. Steve sat across from her, one boot braced on the edge of the hearth, elbows resting on his knees as he flipped to a marked page in an older volume.

“See here,” he said, tapping the faded map with one finger. “These river clans don’t deal in coin like most territories. Everything’s barter—goods, favors, sometimes even time.”

Grace squinted at the page, brow furrowing. “They trade… chores?”

“In a way. One family might repair another’s roof in exchange for use of their fishing nets. Or safe passage. Or a neutrality pledge at the next clan gathering.”

She blinked. “That’s chaos.”

“It’s tradition,” he said—but the curve of his mouth suggested he agreed.

Grace reached for her quill, scribbling something in the margin. “And they’ve kept that system for how long?”

“Centuries. Even the crown doesn’t interfere. Too many tangled alliances—one wrong move and you’ve got a feud that lasts a generation.”

She hummed, then looked up at him through her lashes. “So I shouldn’t try to modernize them with a single unified currency?”

“Not unless you want three clans declaring war and one proposing marriage out of spite.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I used to negotiate their treaties before I was crowned,” he said. His voice had gone soft. “It’s not glamorous work. But it matters.”

Grace tilted her head. “You’re a better teacher than you let on.”

“Don’t let that get around.”

She smiled. “I’ll keep it a secret. For now.”

“Anyway,” he said, tapping another inked line, “these three clans form what they call the Split Fork Pact. Sounds dramatic, but it’s mostly about fishing rights and spring festivals.”

Grace made a thoughtful noise and jotted a note in the margin. “And still no coin?”

“Nope. Only goods, favors, or shared labor. They measure trust in sweat, not silver.”

She laughed softly. “That sounds exhausting, yet surprisingly honest.”

“It is.”

They settled into quiet. The fire cracked gently. Steve watched her absently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Then she tapped the edge of a page, thoughtful.

“Did you know noble houses sometimes use flowers to send coded messages?”

Steve looked up, eyes warm. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Each bloom carries a meaning—pink lilac for first love, golden thistle for political unrest. Ivy twisted clockwise means loyalty. Counterclockwise means betrayal.”

He didn’t interrupt—just watched, patient.

“There’s a rumor back home,” she added, “that a duchess once ended a courtship by sending wilted white heather in a crystal vase.”

Steve’s brow lifted. “Harsh.”

“Brutal,” she corrected, smiling.

He leaned forward, chin resting on his hand. “And if someone sent you night-blooming jasmine?”

Grace blinked. “That’s… longing for something forbidden.”

“Hmm.” His mouth curved. “Useful to know.”

Her eyes narrowed, amused. “Why? Planning to send me coded messages?”

“Might be safer than saying certain things out loud.”

Her cheeks flushed—but she didn’t look away.

“You already knew all this, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, still smiling. “Didn’t mean I didn’t want to hear you explain it.”

Their eyes held—soft, unguarded.

She glanced down, brushing the edge of the parchment. “Careful, your Highness. Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Is it still dangerous territory if it’s mutual?” he asked, voice low. “Little moon.”

She gave him a soft, crooked smile. “More so, probably.”

He chuckled—and just as she leaned forward to reach for another book—

The heavy double doors slammed open.

“Of course,” came Natasha’s voice, dry as winter frost, “this is where you ended up.”

Grace winced—then winced harder as the motion tugged sharply at her ribs.

Steve stood at once. Grace looked up, aiming for innocent, but even she wasn’t buying it.

Natasha crossed the floor with that slow, deliberate stride she only used when she was trying very hard not to yell.

“You said you were going to rest,” she said. “I left you with salve. Ice. Instructions. And instead, you’ve been sitting here reading manifestos for two hours while your bruises are probably blooming into a full mural.”

“I was—studying,” Grace offered weakly.

“Studying doesn’t mean sitting upright in a corset dress with your feet folded under you.” Natasha’s gaze sliced toward Steve. “You’re not off the hook either, Your Highness.”

“I didn’t make her come here.”

“But you didn’t stop her either.”

Steve looked appropriately chastened.

Grace, sensing this could spiral quickly, carefully unfolded her legs and stood—biting back a hiss as pain flared through her side.

Nat’s hands were already there, steadying. One under her elbow, the other firm at her back.

“Come on. Ice. Meds. Reclining. Non-negotiable.”

Grace muttered something that might’ve been traitor, but nodded all the same.

“I’ll go,” she sighed. “But only because the idea of cold linens and that salve is starting to sound like a religious experience.”

Steve smirked. “I’ll bring the books to your room later.”

Natasha arched a brow. “She’ll read them tomorrow. If she follows instructions tonight.”

They turned toward the door. As they reached it, Grace glanced over her shoulder—one last look.

Steve caught it. Then, lightly: “Lady Grace—what’s your favorite flower?”

She didn’t miss a step, but her head tilted slightly. “It’s never been roses,” she called back. “But… maybe I could be convinced otherwise. Although they are a bit predictable.”

His grin curved slow and crooked.

The door swung shut behind them with a soft click.

By the time Natasha had finished scolding, Grace’s cheeks were nearly as red as the bruises across her ribs.

“You said you’d rest,” Natasha repeated, standing over her like a storm cloud in tailored black. “Not ‘steal a chair, drag your ass to the library, and hold court like a demented scholar-queen.’”

“I wasn’t holding court,” Grace muttered into the pillow.

“No?” Nat’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Because it sure looked like courtship from where I was standing. Books, shared glances, matching marginalia—should I prepare an engagement announcement?”

Grace groaned, muffled. “Why are you like this?”

“You love me,” Natasha shot back, tugging a fresh sheet tighter around her middle. “But if you keep ignoring basic instructions while half your ribs are stained permanently purple, I’m going to start treating you like my idiot alpha—and tie you to a bed just to get you to listen.”

“Your alpha?”

“James. Bucky. That’s not the point.” Natasha arched a brow. “You need to behave like someone with functioning brain cells. No more upright chairs for two hours. No more folding yourself into shapes your back shouldn’t bend into. And definitely no more low-voiced library flirting with the king unless you’re horizontal and medicated.”

Grace groaned louder. “You heard that?”

“Every word,” Nat said, smug as a cat in cream. “I walked in on you whispering flower metaphors like you were starring in a forbidden courtship opera.”

Maela, who had just walked back in with the cooled salve, snorted aloud. “At least he knows the language. I’ve seen nobles who can’t tell rosemary from rue.”

Grace twisted her head enough to glare at both of them. “Please, can we not?”

“Oh, we can,” Natasha said, reclaiming her seat near the bed with far too much satisfaction. “Let’s review, shall we? ‘Is it still dangerous territory if it’s mutual attraction?’” She put on a dramatic voice, mimicking Steve. ‘Keep talking like that and I might actually like you.’ Saints, Grace. I expected you to tease him, not leave him emotionally flayed and asking your favorite flower.”

Grace buried her head again. “Let’s go back to your alpha. Is this an official thing?”

“Public, no. Mated, yes.” Natasha rolled her eyes. “But stop trying to change the subject.”

“I hate you. I truly do. Maybe I’ll ask Steve if Maela can be my escort going forward.”

“I adore you,” Maela said, dabbing a fresh compress to her spine. “Which is why I’m going to pretend we didn’t hear the part where you basically invited him to send you roses.”

Grace mumbled something incoherent.

“Hmm?” Maela prompted.

“I said I told him I don’t like roses,” Grace grumbled. “But maybe I could be convinced.”

“Oh,” Natasha said, positively delighted now. “You definitely could.”

Grace threw an arm over her head. “Please. Stop. I’m fragile.”

“You’re a menace,” Nat countered. “And if you don’t stop eye-fucking each other in public, I’m going to have to start issuing blackout curtains for the rest of us.”

“I hate you more than poison,” Grace muttered into the pillow.

Maela chuckled. “You always did have a type.”

“A what now?” Grace shot back, lifting her head enough to look betrayed.

“Tall. Brooding. Deeply responsible. And just a little too pretty for their own good.”

“I’m dying,” Grace declared, flopping dramatically—and immediately regretted it. “Let me perish in peace.”

Natasha stood and fluffed a pillow like a death sentence. “Not a chance. Now roll the other way, or your left hip is going to bruise like a peach.”

Maela pressed the cloth gently over the deepest violet mark on her spine and added, “And for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that before.”

Grace was quiet.

Then: “He asked my favorite flower.”

“And now you know his,” Natasha said dryly, reaching for the salve. “You.”

There was a soft knock on the door.

Before either of them could respond, it creaked open.

Steve stepped inside with an awkward armful of books.

“I brought you something,” he said.

Maela raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

Grace pushed herself up slightly on one elbow. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know. But you’re stubborn. And bored. So if I can’t stop you from researching, I can at least curate.”

He crossed to the nightstand and set them down with deliberate care:
• The Illustrated Lineage of Northern Houses
• Formal Etiquette and Symbolic Gestures of the Court
• Trade and Treaties: An Overview of Cultural Customs from the Borderlands
• Root & Remedy: An Ancient Compendium of Folk Healing Practices

And, nestled at the bottom, dog-eared and obviously well-loved:

• The Duke’s Forbidden Caress

Grace blinked.

“Really?” she asked, reaching for the last book, one eyebrow arched.

He shrugged, a grin tugging at his mouth. “I figured if you’re going to be flat for another day, might as well give you something ridiculous to enjoy.”

Maela snorted. “He has a point.”

Grace held it up, flipping through a few scandalously cheesy pages. “I can’t decide if I’m flattered or offended.”

“Hopefully entertained,” Steve said. Then added, softer, “I’ll check on you later.”

He slipped out before she could answer, the door swinging shut behind him.

Grace stared at the pile. Then at Maela.

“I think I might actually like him,” she admitted.

Maela just smiled knowingly, dabbing more salve along her shoulder blades. “You always did go for the ones who brought you reading material.”

Grace eyed The Duke’s Forbidden Caress with growing suspicion. The cover was faded, the edges curled with age. The duke—shirt open to the waist, hair blowing in a wind that apparently existed just for him—looked like he took brooding very seriously.

She flipped to a random page.

“My lord,” she whispered, her bodice torn and dignity shredded. “This isn’t proper.”

“Then let it be improper,” he growled, sweeping her up as the violins swelled…

“Oh gods,” Grace muttered, slamming the book shut.

Maela glanced over from where she was grinding a fresh poultice. “Ah. That one. That’s better than roses.”

Grace lifted her head. “You’ve read this?”

“Everyone’s read that,” Natasha said, sweeping into the room with a new basin of cool water. “It’s practically a rite of passage in this pack.”

“You’re joking.”

Natasha snorted. “That exact copy made the rounds through the Inner Circle for over a decade. I’m surprised it’s still intact.”

Maela chuckled, wringing out a fresh cloth. “I think I first read it waiting for the herbalist to open back home, that story’s been around for decades. Your mother used to hide a copy behind the medicinal herb scrolls.”

Grace blinked. “My mother read this?”

“Please,” Maela said dryly. “She and your father once acted out a chapter—purely for academic purposes, of course. Or so she told me… come to think of it, that was around the time you were conceived.”

“Stop now. I’m traumatized.”

“You’ll survive.” Maela dabbed more salve across the bruises above her ribs. “It’s practically required reading. Even the boys snuck it out when they thought no one would notice.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “The king read this?”

“Steve and Bucky,” Natasha said, unfazed. “The story is that they were fifteen, maybe sixteen. Heard all the older kids whispering about it during a state dinner and snuck it out of the library that night.” She grinned. “Supposedly they didn’t speak to anyone for two days. Probably too overwhelmed by the concept of strategic corset unfastening.”

Grace collapsed into the pillow, groaning. “That’s it. I’m never making eye contact with anyone again.”

“Too late,” Maela said with a smirk. “You’re one of us now.”

Grace sighed dramatically. “But he still doesn’t know my favorite flower…”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve got bruises, scandalous literature, and half the court watching. That’s enough.”

The three of them dissolved into quiet laughter as Maela wrapped the last of the linens and tucked a blanket gently over Grace’s shoulders.

Chapter Text

Steve leaned back in the high-backed chair near the hearth, one boot propped on the edge of the low stone ledge, a half-empty glass of moon brandy in hand. The room was dim, warm, quiet—the only space in the entire castle that didn’t currently reek of politics or perfume.

Bucky strolled in without knocking, dropping into the chair across from him with the weight of someone who’d had enough of court posturing for the day.

“She still alive?” he asked.

“Barely,” Steve replied. “Nat and Maela are hovering like hawks. I think Maria’s on a rotation schedule. Lila offered to help too… but the last thing Grace needs is the trouble trio organizing her recovery.”

Bucky smirked as he poured his own glass of brandy. “Sounds about right.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

Then Steve cracked a grin, one brow lifting.

“Do you remember the first time you read The Duke’s Forbidden Caress?”

Bucky nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“You were the one who found it,” Steve said, smug now. “Don’t play dumb. You slipped it out of the records room, tucked behind old trade ledgers.”

“I was curious! Everyone was whispering about it like it was some sacred scroll.”

“You were blushing for three days.”

“You reread chapter seven. Out loud. Trying to figure out if it was ‘accurate.’”

Steve snorted into his drink. “I was trying to understand omega courtship traditions. For research.”

“You were trying to figure out how one tug equals total fabric collapse of a boned corset,” Bucky shot back.

They both laughed.

Then Steve sobered slightly, swirling the last inch of his drink.

“She’s reading it. Right now.”

Bucky blinked. “Grace?”

“Half-naked. Bruised to hell. One floor below.”

Bucky groaned. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“How’d she get a copy?”

“I gave it to her.”

“You gave that to her?”

“She wanted to learn the kingdom. I figured better from me than from one of you jackals. And I did include other books. It wasn’t just that.”

“You thought you’d stop the hazing before it started,” Bucky muttered. “Does she know you’ve read it?”

“She will the minute she gets to chapter nine. It’s the annotated copy.”

Bucky let his head fall back against the chair. “You’re doomed.”

“I know.”

A beat of silence.

Then Bucky added, “You really think she’d recognize your handwriting already?”

Steve looked mildly offended. “I might’ve left a note. At the chapter. It’s not the pack’s copy anymore. Private collection now. Hopefully it will be added back to my bookshelf sooner than later though.”

Bucky lifted his glass in mock salute. “Well. I’ll add finding a new copy to my to-do list. To court tradition.”

Steve clinked his glass against his. “And to omega literature with surprisingly sound structural metaphors.”

They drank in silence for a beat.

“…Chapter seven was kind of accurate, though.”

Bucky shook his head. “You’re insufferable.”

“Tell that to the duke.”

He leaned back, the firelight casting soft shadows across his jaw. But behind the grin, his eyes flicked toward the ceiling—just for a moment, like he could feel her there.

Bucky didn’t miss it.

“You like her.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. Just knocked back the rest of his drink and said quietly,

“I think I’m way past like, Buck.”
_____

The others had finally drifted out, the cold compresses changed one last time, the lamps turned low. Grace lay half on her side, propped carefully on pillows, a thin sheet covering her torso. Every breath tugged at sore muscles, but the pain had dulled to a manageable ache.

She should’ve been sleeping.

Instead, The Duke’s Forbidden Caress sat open her hand, the aged spine bowed to a well-worn chapter.

She’d meant to read just a little. Something light. A distraction.

It was not light.

It was… educational.

Her brow furrowed as she reread the passage. Then again. Her fingers fidgeted at the edge of the page.

“He didn’t speak—just stared at her like she was both prey and dessert. Then he dropped to his knees, dragged his teeth along the inside of her thigh, and murmured, ‘I’m going to make you forget how to stand.’”

Grace blinked.

Her mouth went dry.

And suddenly, she was far too aware of her own body—every bandaged bruise, every exposed patch of skin, every flicker of tension that had nothing to do with pain.

She wasn’t naïve. She’d had her share of kisses. She knew how sex worked—anatomically, biologically, even politically. She’d studied it in medical texts, heard it dissected in gossip circles.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

Somewhere deep in her abdomen, a spiral of heat unfurled with alarming urgency. She shifted slightly—bad idea. A familiar ache flared near her hip, grounding her with a hiss.

Still. The damage was done.

She turned the page.

“He kissed her like a man who had waited through seven lifetimes of war. Like her mouth was the only peace he’d ever tasted. His hands held her thighs open—possessive, reverent—and when he finally touched her, she saw stars. Not figuratively. Actual, blinking stars.”

“Oh hell,” she whispered.

Her pulse was thrumming. The sheet felt too warm. Her spine arched involuntarily—and punished her with another sharp twinge of bruised muscle.

She should stop.

Instead, she flipped one more page.

“He didn’t ask. He promised—with every thrust of his fingers, every drag of his tongue, every ruined sound he pulled from her lips. ‘Give it to me,’ he rasped, low and wrecked. ‘All of it. I’ll worship every shaking breath out of your lungs.’”

Grace dropped the book straight onto the floor and covered her face with both hands as a pair of ocean blue eye filled her mind.

“I am never telling Maela what chapter I stopped on,” she groaned.

Unfortunately, the words had already carved themselves into her skull.

Worship every shaking breath out of your lungs.

And worse—worse—was the image that followed: Steve, storm-eyed and reverent, his hands steady on her hips, his voice gravel-deep and dangerous.

Grace whimpered softly into the pillow. “Goddess help me.”

She reached over the edge of the bed, retrieved the book, and opened to the next dog-eared chapter.

“She was trembling. Not with fear. With need. With raw, dizzy want. And when he finally entered her—slow, devastating, endless—she forgot her own name. But he didn’t. He growled it. Over and over. Like a prayer. Like a threat.”

Grace flopped flat again, arms splayed, brain screaming as Steve’s voice echoed through her head over and over again.

She shouldn’t.

She really, really shouldn’t.

But the chapter had already sunk its teeth into her imagination—and her body was still humming from it, alive with sensation, even as she lay motionless beneath the sheet.

Her hand hovered. Then turned the page.

Her breath caught.

This part was slower. Softer. Devotional.

“He traced her like a sacred map. Not asking for mercy. Just permission to stay.”

Grace’s heart stuttered.

She read it again. Slower.

And somewhere deep in her chest, something warm and reckless bloomed.

She arched again, breath caught on the edge of something sharp and hot and dizzying. Her skin buzzed with memory and imagination, with the ghost of fingers that hadn’t touched her—but might. The book pressed to her chest like a brand, the printed words still humming through her blood.

“He kissed her like a vow—slow and deep and reverent. One hand at her throat, the other mapping every inch of skin like it was a language only he could read. She came apart whispering his name, and he held her through every breathless echo.”

Grace whimpered, low and involuntary. The sound startled her—but not enough to stop. Her hand trembled where it hovered over her stomach, brushing lower, slower, learning her own shape like he might. Like he would.

In her mind, it was Steve’s hands. Steve’s mouth. Steve’s breath, warm against her throat. Not a nameless duke from a worn-out novel, but him.

She could see him—coat half-unfastened, sleeves rolled to the forearms, hair mussed from her fingers. Kneeling beside her with that look in his eyes. Steady. Unshaken. Devout.

Her free hand moved without thinking—light fingers over her collarbone, her sternum, brushing the edge of the bandage at her ribs. Careful. Curious.

There was no mirror in this. No imagined partner. Just sensation and heat and the pounding of her heart.

Except—

He was there.

In her mind’s eye. Just behind her closed lids. Steve, kneeling at the edge of her bed, palm flat against her ribs. Kissing her slow. Worshipful. Mapping her inch by inch like a prayer.

She swallowed, shifting her thighs beneath the sheet, just enough to ease the ache between them. Her fingers traced lower, brushing across the fine hairs of her stomach, down—

A gasp, quiet and surprised, left her lips.

It wasn’t release she sought. Not fully. Just connection—to something real. Something alive. Her own body, her own want. Hers.

But in the sanctuary of that want, he was there. His voice, low and breathless, murmuring her name against her skin. His hands steady as he made her feel—

She turned the next page with a trembling breath—

Her heart pounded.

The ache built again—hot and insistent—curling low in her belly.

But her fingers caught on something tucked just past the spine. A worn edge. Folded parchment.

A note.

Her breath stuttered. Carefully, she pulled it free—lips parted, chest rising in shallow waves.

Two lines, written in a hand she knew better than her own:

Chapter Nine.
You might like this part.
Or maybe I just wanted you to know I’ve read it, too.

If you’ve made it this far, I hope you know I’d never make you beg.
But gods, I’d want to try.

-S

Her pulse fractured.

Grace made a wounded noise. Possibly a whimper.

Heat tore through her like lightning—yes, not from shame or guilt or even surprise, but from the way it made her feel seen. Known. Answered.

“Gods help me,” she whispered again.

But she didn’t stop.

She turned back to the paragraph—his voice in her head, his hands imagined over her skin—and let the chapter finish what it started.

Her thighs pressed together again. Her fingers curled tight in the sheet.

And for one dizzy, breathless moment, she stopped thinking entirely.

_____

They were still sitting by the fire when it hit them.

One moment, Bucky was midway through an exaggerated reenactment of some courtier tripping over a ceremonial spear during breakfast; the next, he stopped short, nose wrinkling, eyes narrowing.

Steve went still.

The scent drifted in like smoke—heady, warm, unmistakable.

And it was hers.

Not pain. Not distress.

Want.

Bucky choked on his drink. “Oh no.”

Steve’s jaw flexed. His grip tightened around the glass until the crystal creaked. Heat flushed through him like a pulse, low and sharp.

Bucky gave a long, theatrical sigh. “Chapter nine?”

“Chapter nine,” Steve muttered, eyes closed.

He could feel it, too—not just the scent, not just the knowing, but the way the bond hummed under his skin. Subtle but steady. Like being slowly unraveled from the inside out. Like her.

Bucky stood up, smirking. “Well, I guess it’s my cue to exit before someone’s mate-bond decides to set off a territorial claim.”

“Buck.”

“Hey, I’m not judging. You gave her that copy. She’s got good taste. You gonna just sit here and let her suffer alone?”

Steve growled, low and warning.

Bucky backed toward the door with his hands raised, laughing. “Alright, alright. I’m going. Just don’t forget to hydrate and—what was it?—‘map her like a prayer.’”

Steve hurled a pillow after him. Missed.

The door clicked shut behind Bucky’s laughter.

And Steve was alone.

Except he wasn’t.

Not really.

Not with the bond pulsing in his chest like a live wire. Not with the knowledge of what she was feeling curling around his thoughts like heat and silk.

He closed his eyes.

Gods help me, he thought. I started this.

And now he had to survive it.

He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, the half-empty glass forgotten at the hearth. The fire crackled, but he barely noticed.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and exhaled slowly through his nose.

It didn’t help.

Her scent was everywhere now—faint but unmistakable, like crushed blossoms and skin warmed by fever. It hit him low, instinctual, in that part of himself he rarely let off its leash.

And worse—worse—was the pulse through the bond.

He hadn’t expected to feel it like this. Not yet. Not with her still sleeping through the instincts that had begun stirring in him weeks ago. But she was open now—unguarded. Vulnerable in a way that made every part of him want to guard her and touch her and kneel at her feet.

He could feel her want like a whisper in his blood. Not clear, not fully formed—but enough.

A phantom brush of her fingers across her own skin. The ache she hadn’t been able to ease. The imagined weight of him in her mind.

He cursed aloud.

The fire cracked in the hearth.

He shouldn’t know. She didn’t even realize the bond had begun to form—didn’t realize what she was doing to him, lying there with that damn book, mouth parted, scent rising like prayer smoke.

And yet—

She wanted.

Him.

He could feel it, taste it, like her lips were already brushing his throat.

It wasn’t just arousal. It was trust. Curiosity. Need.

And it was killing him.

He braced one hand against the mantle, breathing hard, trying to steady the hammering of his heart.

“She doesn’t know,” he muttered aloud, as if saying it would calm the heat coiled in his belly.

But the bond did.

The bond knew. The bond thrived on it—sinking its hooks in deeper, whispering go to her, claim her, show her.

Not yet.

Not like this.

He let out another low sound, this one almost a growl, and dropped back into the chair with enough force to rattle the glass.

His hands were shaking.

Don’t move, he told himself. Let her have this. Let her feel safe. Let her feel free.

He wouldn’t take that from her.

But saints, it was going to destroy him.

He felt it crest before she did.

One heartbeat, two—then a shudder that wasn’t his, but shook him all the same. A ripple through the bond, as if someone had dropped a stone into still water and set every thread humming.

Pleasure bloomed behind his ribs like fire catching air.

Not his.

Hers.

She didn’t even know she was broadcasting it—but the echo of her pulse flooded him, electric and soft and so intimate it made his jaw clench.

Steve gripped the arms of the chair so tightly the wood groaned.

He saw it in flashes—not vision, not memory. Just impression. Breath caught on parted lips. A pillow clutched tight. That damn book, pages curling with age and something wicked.

Her body curling in on itself, slow and spent and so soft with satisfaction it made his mouth go dry.

Then quiet.

Stillness.

The bond loosened. Not gone—never gone—but no longer yanking tight against his spine. She was drifting. Sliding under the surface like a leaf caught in gentle current.

Sleep was coming for her.

She’d fallen asleep with the book in her arms.

Steve exhaled—finally. A breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

He pressed his palms to his eyes again, then down over his mouth, like it would keep the instinct from spilling out of him.

It didn’t help.

His body still ached. Every nerve still on edge. But the worst of it—the raw need to go to her, to answer that call—had ebbed for now.

And gods, he was grateful for the distance.

Because if he’d gone to her like that—strung tight, half-wild, trembling with restraint—it would’ve terrified her. Rightfully.

She didn’t know yet.

Didn’t know what it meant that he could feel her pleasure bloom like fire in his chest. That her scent shifted when she wanted. That the bond—the one she hadn’t accepted, hadn’t even noticed—was already carving itself deeper into him every time she said his name.

Steve leaned forward, elbows on knees, and let his head hang.

“She doesn’t know,” he whispered again.

But one day she would.

And when she did—when she came to him knowing—he swore he’d be ready.

_____
At first, Grace thought it was memory.

The scent of pine and leather. A hand trailing lightly down her back. The press of lips—gentle, reverent—against the hinge of her jaw.

But when she opened her eyes, she wasn’t in her room.

Not quite.

It looked like the castle—but softened. Candlelight flickered at the edges of her vision, impossibly warm. The walls breathed like forest shadows, and moonlight streamed in from high, open windows she didn’t remember.

She stood in a silk slip, bare feet warm against polished stone.

And someone was behind her.

She didn’t turn.

She didn’t need to.

She knew it was him.

He stepped closer—silent, steady—until she could feel the heat of him at her back.

A callused hand slid over her hip, not possessive but grounding, like he was reminding himself she was real.

“You’re here,” he said, low.

His voice sounded the same. And somehow—closer. Like it brushed the inside of her skull.

Grace swallowed. “Am I?”

His fingers skimmed her waist. “I think so.”

She turned slowly, and there he was—barefoot, no shirt, his leather pants riding low on his hips, gaze dark and impossibly tender.

Steve.

But not as she’d last seen him.

Softer.

Unburdened.

Still fighting the pull to touch her, to take—but not out of fear. Just awe.

Grace’s breath caught. “This is a dream.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Yours or mine?”

A pause.

Then: “Does it matter?”

And in the dream, that was enough.

He reached up—brushed a strand of hair from her face, like he had in the library—and she leaned into the touch without flinching.

There was no pain here. No bruises. No tension. Just warmth. Breath. Them.

Her hand came up to press over his heart. Solid. Steady.

Beating fast.

“I don’t want to wake up yet,” she murmured.

“Then don’t.”

And they stood there—wrapped in silence and golden light—until the dream began to fade.

—

Steve jolted awake first. Breathless. Jaw tight. The fire in the hearth had burned low.

He stared at the embers, heart still thudding, the weight of her still imprinted on his palms.

In the dark, he whispered, “Grace…”

And one floor below, curled sideways in a bed she barely remembered slipping into, Grace stirred.

Fingers curled tight around a worn book.

Her lips parted around a single name.

“…Steve.”

Chapter Text

The knock came just as Grace finished toweling off the ends of her hair. Two brisk taps, then a pause.

“Come in,” she called, already reaching for her robe.

Natasha entered with her usual quiet confidence—eyes sharp, expression unreadable—but this time, she wasn’t alone. A younger blonde woman trailed behind her, all amusement and sharp elbows, dressed in plum and charcoal like a knife disguised as a lady.

“You brought backup?” Grace asked, eyebrows raised.

“I brought a witness,” Nat said flatly. “This is Yelena. My sister. And my second.”

“And pain in the ass,” Yelena added cheerfully.

“Why do you need a second?” Grace asked, smiling.

But Natasha wasn’t smiling.

Her gaze caught on something near the door. A bouquet.

Grace turned. “Oh. That wasn’t there last night.”

The flowers were unmistakable: white moon irises, petals kissed with lavender at the tips. Rare. Fragile. Only blooming under the first spring moon.

Also a symbol of love and longing.

They also happened to be her favorite.

No note. Just the bouquet, resting in a simple cut-glass vase like it had always been there.

“Those don’t grow here,” Natasha said, voice cool and even.

“They don’t ship here either,” Yelena added. “Not without five layers of permits and an escort. Looks like someone wants you thinking about Him before you even step into the ring.”

Grace blinked. “I—I didn’t… they weren’t here when I got up. They only grow near the Hollow.”

She stepped closer, brushing one soft petal. It shimmered faintly in the sunlight, like something half caught in a dream.

And then Natasha froze.

Grace turned just in time to see the flare of her nostrils—the way her body went still, like a predator catching scent.

“You smell different,” Nat said.

Grace blinked. “I… took a bath?”

“Not that kind of different.”

Natasha stepped closer, her voice lower now. “Not like blood. Not like heat.”

Her head tilted. “Like someone’s claimed you.”

Grace’s mouth went dry.

She didn’t even flinch when Natasha gently pulled back the edge of her robe, revealing the soft skin just above her collarbone.

“Hold still,” she murmured.

There it was.

A faint bruise—barely a thumbprint—pressed into her skin. Purple-edged. Half-faded. Impossible.

“I didn’t—” Grace began, then stopped. Her pulse kicked. “That wasn’t there before.”

Natasha let the fabric fall.

But didn’t step back.

Instead, she looked her directly in the eye and said, “If it was just a dream… then why can I smell him on you?”

Silence.

Sharp and immediate.

Grace looked away. Swallowed hard. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it did.

Because in the quiet space between memory and dream, she remembered.
His mouth.
His voice.
The way her body had responded like it knew him before she did.

And she remembered waking with her heart in her throat—and that ache like something unfinished still hummed under her skin.

It wasn’t real.

But it had left a mark.

And maybe… that was the problem.

“Right,” Yelena said after a too-long pause, blissfully unaware. “If we’re done with cryptic flower rituals and neck bruises from imaginary men, how about a dress that doesn’t scream ‘recovering invalid’?”

Natasha was still watching her. Still trying to calculate.

“Today’s rite is both physical and mental,” she said quietly. “First place gets dinner with the king. Second gets lunch. Third gets tea.”

Grace exhaled. Turned toward the wardrobe.

For a moment, she considered reaching for the linen again—the soft robe that didn’t cling, didn’t reveal, didn’t invite questions.

But no.

Not today.

She needed weight. Structure. Proof.

She pointed. “That one.”

It hung like a promise: deep sapphire blue, high-collared, laced with dark bronze trim in a quiet, regal pattern. The bodice was fitted, the skirt full but unencumbering. It looked like armor made of silk.

Natasha raised a brow. “You’re choosing a corset on trial day? While your back’s still more purple than anything else?”

“The boning will support my muscles,” Grace said, voice steady now. “I need to feel like myself again.”

“Or someone who can bluff through it,” Yelena muttered, but she started lacing anyway.

The dress cinched close like a second skin. It covered the bruise almost completely, its high neckline elegant and controlled. The blue made her eyes sharper. The waist drew tight; the skirt flowed like water. Natasha braided her hair into a coiled coronet. No jewelry, save for a simple pair of stud earrings.

Nat stepped back and nodded once. “You look like a queen.”

Grace glanced at her reflection.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t hide.

But she did tug the collar just a little higher.

Just in case.

She was ready.

Sort of.

Maybe.

____

She was already seated by the time he entered, perched carefully on the chair with a shawl draped over her shoulders, her hair pinned up and skin still flushed from the heat of the bath.

She was… glowing.

And worse, smiling. Like she’d slept.

“Morning, Your Grace” she said softly, glancing up from her tea.

Steve’s steps faltered.

She didn’t know.

Of course she didn’t.

She was all soft contentment, reaching for a piece of fruit with a faint wince and then relaxing again as she shifted in her seat.

His jaw clenched.

“Morning, Lady Grace” he managed, his voice lower than he meant it.

Natasha arched an eyebrow from where she was buttering toast.

Maela looked between them like she was watching a particularly slow-burning stage play.

Grace blinked. “You okay? You look—” her brow furrowed “—tired.”

“I slept fine,” he lied through his teeth.

She gave a sleepy little shrug and went back to sipping her tea.

Steve stared at his plate.

And seriously considered moving to another kingdom.

It was supposed to be a simple breakfast.

A chance for the king to appear present, attentive. To observe how the remaining chosen interacted. To gather quiet impressions.

Instead, it was hell.

The long table was dressed with early spring florals, silver spoons, and enough tension to choke a bear. Steve sat at the head, back straight, expression neutral.

On his left sat Lady Helena, radiant in bloodred silk and subtle satisfaction.

On his right…

Grace.

Wrapped in indigo like armor, hair twisted up with a single braided, she looked utterly unbothered by the drama around her. The only thing soft about her today was her floral shawl draped over her shoulders. She took her tea with honey. Nibbled fresh pears. Even laughed—laughed—when M.J. made a snarky comment about noble girls never peeling their own fruit.

Steve couldn’t look directly at her.

Not after last night.

And of course she was seated next to him, again, thanks to whoever arranged the seating chart. (Fury, probably. Or Bucky. Or fate.)

She reached forward, and the shift of her wrap moved the collar—just enough to reveal a faint bruise at her collarbone. The curve of her throat. Steve’s fingers curled around the edge of his chair.

Why did she have a bruise there.

He inhaled sharply.

It was barely there… but she smelt different. A little like him.

“Majesty,” Lady Thorne said smoothly from his other side forcing his focus on to her. “Will the results of the last trials affect housing assignments? I believe some of us assumed the upper floors would be reserved for those advancing.”

“Those who make assumptions,” said MJ coolly from the end, “often find themselves reassigned to their homes. ”

A few chuckles rippled. Helena stiffened.

Grace sipped her tea and murmured, “She’s brutal. I love her.”

Steve choked slightly.

“You alright, Your Majesty?” Morgan asked, much too innocently from four seats down.

“Fine,” he ground out.

Bucky—traitor that he was—hid a grin behind his goblet.

Steve took a sip of his tea. It didn’t help.

Grace, meanwhile, reached for a slice of pear and turned, casually, toward the rest of the table.

“So,” she said, sweet as cream, “what did the rest of you do while we were in the city?”

A few of the women glanced at one another.

Lady Helena didn’t hesitate. “Shopping,” she said with a graceful shrug. “The capital has such a dreary palette—some of us needed proper gowns for the dinner we’ll be winning tonight.”

Steve barely suppressed a snort.

Grace smiled. “Of course. Strategic preparation.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed, just a touch. “And what about you, Lady Grace? You must’ve found something to occupy your time. A bathhouse? A nap, perhaps?”

Maela made a quiet sound in her throat.

Grace kept her smile. “I was in the library.”

That made a few heads turn.

“Reading up on kingdom politics,” she added smoothly. “And court etiquette. Regional alliances. The history of the council.”

Lady Zemo—cloaked in lace and veiled superiority—arched a brow. “I’m sure there was much for you to learn.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Grace said, voice light. “But it’s so much easier when the king spends the afternoon tutoring you.”

The silence that followed was immediate.

Steve’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.

Grace turned toward him with perfect poise. “Thank you again, Your Majesty, for the reading material. I’ve finished two volumes already. Both were… enlightening.”

Natasha leaned back in her seat with quiet satisfaction.

Helena’s smile was too sharp to be pleasant. “Is that what you spent your time on? Books?”

“This morning, yes.” Grace’s tone was guileless. “I started one about the native flora of the capital region. Very useful information. Medicinal herbs, garden layouts…”

She took another sip of tea.

“But I was particularly fascinated by the final section,” she added, eyes on her plate. “The one on floral symbolism.”

A few heads tilted.

“Did you know many flowers have different meanings depending on who sends them?” she asked the table, her tone turning just faintly curious. “Some express loyalty. Some ambition. Some—” she glanced toward Steve “—speak of longing.”

Steve couldn’t breathe.

She smiled faintly, still not looking at him. “The section on the moon iris was especially lovely. I’ve always adored them.”

Lady Zemo blinked. Helena stilled.

“They only bloom under a spring moon, apparently,” Grace went on, tone still soft. “And they’re very rare outside the Hollow. Which makes it all the more surprising when one appears, doesn’t it?”

The silence snapped taut.

Steve had to grip the edge of the table.

She was baiting them.

No—she was claiming her place, veiled in flowers and footnotes, every word sharpened like a blade. And they all knew it.

Especially him.

Grace finally turned her head toward him—just a fraction.

And smiled.

“Don’t you agree, Your Majesty?”

He stared at her for a second too long. Then cleared his throat. “I… do.”

Grace nodded once and returned to her breakfast.

As if she hadn’t just detonated the entire table with a single, botanical grenade.

—

The conversation shifted—awkwardly, haltingly—to the next trial. A moon rite exercise, according to the senior steward. Several of the chosen immediately began posturing, subtly campaigning for additional information. Compliments flew. Titles were invoked. Smiles sharpened.

Grace said nothing.

She merely sipped her tea, eyes drifting across the room like she was cataloging plants, not people.

Steve made the mistake of looking at her again.

She caught him.

Smiled faintly.

And said—low, poised, maddeningly innocent—“The book last night, Your Highness, was quite enlightening in its own right. Left me begging for more. I do hope it was part of a series.”

He froze.

Bucky snorted outright, nearly choking on his toast.

“Oh and Sir James. Lady Natasha mentioned that you were all tied up last night in meetings. I do hope they ended with a favorable outcome.”

Maela coughed loudly into her napkin. Natasha literally excused herself from the table as she choked one her toast.

Grace blinked like she was the very picture of innocence… then turned delicately back to her plate.

Steve stared down at his eggs like they’d betrayed him.

He didn’t dare look at her again.
Not unless he wanted to forget where—and who—he was.

Chapter Text

The temple garden—sun-warmed, ancient, and still—held the hush of old power.

Where once the court had gathered for solstice blessings and harvest prayers, a single, completed altar now stood as the morning’s guidepost: clean and simple. A flat stone platform in the center, framed by four upright markers—north, south, east, west. Between them, a ring of palm-sized moonstones marked the lunar path. Flowers and herbs bundled by season and intention were tucked around the alter, fragrant and symbolic. Four crystals gleamed at the heart: clear, black, pale amber, and milky-white.

Then, at a silent gesture from High Priestess Wanda Maximof, the altar disassembled—as if exhaled by the wind. Stones scattered. Crystals vanished into bins. Herbs fluttered away like forgotten offerings. The entire garden became a puzzle.

Wanda raised one hand.

“You each have your quadrant. Twenty paces by twenty. Within it, everything you need—and much you do not.”

Grace could already see the problem: decoy crystals, herbs that didn’t belong, extra stones, false placements.

Wanda’s voice carried, soft but unmistakable. “You have thirty minutes to restore the altar. No magic. No servants. No instruction—unless you remember the one we were given long ago.”

Grace blinked. The song.

She glanced down at the mess of her quadrant and then up at the judges. “This’ll be fun.”

Natasha, already moving to the dais, muttered something sharp and Slavic under her breath before disappearing into the crowd.

On the high platform, Steve stood beside Bucky and Sam, hands balled into fists at his sides.

“She gonna be okay?” Bucky asked.

“She’s too damn stubborn not to be.”

Sam nodded slowly as Grace shrugged off her outer layer, revealing a sleeveless cotton dress the bruising on her arms mostly fading. “She looks like someone about to start a fire.”

Steve said nothing.

Down in the garden, Grace didn’t rush.

She knelt. Closed her eyes. Let the rhythm come back.

“In shadow born, in silver raised,
The moonlight calls, the altar’s laid…”

Her voice was soft at first—barely audible. But then it grew, steady and true, lilting with half-remembered rhythm.

She moved as she sang.

⸻

Chant of the Moon Altar
(A North Hollow version, passed down through healers and priestesses)

“In shadow born, in silver raised,
The moonlight calls, the altar’s laid.
North with strength, and south with seed,
East with wind, and west with need.

Stone for stillness, root for pain,
Crystal clear to cleanse the stain.
Dark for newness, white for old,
Amber catches grief and gold.

Place the path where moonlight bends
Count the stones to mark her wend.
Thirteen nights and two between—
Lay them round the space unseen.

Mint for breath and thyme for grace,
Bind the stems and find their place.
Lay your hands with reverent care—
The goddess walks if you prepare.”

⸻

The words curled through the garden.

Several girls glanced up.

Adelaide paused mid-sort, then adjusted the north stone. Lila froze mid-eye-roll. Helena narrowed her gaze—and redoubled her speed.

Grace didn’t notice. Or if she did, she didn’t stop.

She had already found the cardinal stones—heavy markers carved with old runes—and was placing them at each direction at the base . Her steps were careful, measured. North first, always. Then east. South. West. She brushed each with crushed thyme before pressing it into place.

Then the moonstones—thirteen white, two shadowed. She counted them out, lips still moving in song.

“Place the path where moonlight bends…”

The circle took shape. Crystals were matched to the altar’s center: black for the new moon, white for the full, amber and clear for the waxing and waning halves.

Each flower was chosen with care.

Mint for breath. Thyme for grace. Sage for protection. A single blue cornflower at the altar’s base—for clarity.

Steve could see her hand trembling as she crushed the stems with her palm. He could see the physical pain she was in from here as the bending and moving had to be bothering her back.

“Her hair fell from its pinning,” he murmured not even realized he spoke out loud

“But she hasn’t slowed,” Sam said quietly.

“She’s singing the instructions,” Bucky noted. “And they’re finally listening.”

Sure enough, three more competitors had begun to murmur along. One girl miscounted her moonstones and cursed aloud. Another placed the wrong herb and had to start her ring again.

Grace didn’t falter.

Her final gesture was simple: she laid her palm flat to the altar’s center, exhaled, and whispered something too soft to catch.

Then she stepped back.

Only three altars stood when the horn sounded.

Grace’s—flawless, softly glowing in the angled sun.

Helena’s—precise, cold, mathematically aligned.

Adelaide —slightly uneven, but full of heart and healing energy.

The rest? A mix of chaos, half-finished constructions, and one spectacular attempt at what could only be described as cosmic interpretive art. The trio of noble gremlins had added driftwood and from somewhere champagne appeared.

Morgan lobbed a cherry pit at Lila.

“Zero moonstone symmetry.”

“Negative botanical cohesion.”

“I’ve seen better ritual energy from sourdough starters.”

Steve covered his face.

“Why aren’t they disqualified?” Helena hissed.

“They technically followed the rules,” Maela murmured. “Even if the goddess is side-eyeing them from the stars.”

Grace swayed slightly, then straightened. Chin up. Not a flicker of pride on her face.

Steve made it three steps before stopping himself.

Her words echoed back: “I might be hurt. But I’m not weak.”

So he stayed where he was.

And she stood tall.

When the final bell rang, Wanda herself stepped forward.

Her voice rang like a bell. “The altar built in sacred alignment—with memory, melody, and meaning—is that of Grace, daughter of Healer Sarah of the Hollow.”

Applause. Some shocked. Some grudging. Some deeply sincere.

Grace dipped her head, face unreadable.

“Second place: Lady Helena Thorne. Third: Adelaideof the Lakebound Coast.”

Adelaide whooped and sat down hard in the grass.

Lila shouted, “Travesty!”

M.J. fanned herself. “Performance art is underappreciated in ritual culture.”

And Steve—finally—let himself smile.

But still, he did not go to Grace.

Not yet.
———

Grace hadn’t made it ten steps from the altar site when the murmurs began to shift.

At first, it was the usual fluff—envy brushed in velvet tones.

“Pretty enough, I suppose…”
“Well, of course she had help.”
“Does she even have a proper escort?”

The word sliced the air like a blade.
“Witch.”

Grace stopped.

She had heard a thousand cruel things in her life. Whispers in market stalls. Sneers outside clinics. Doubts masked as courtesy. But this—this landed with the hiss of poison.

She turned slowly.

Lady Zemo stood with a stiff spine and a smile as cold as winter glass. The woman was tall, draped in gold and heirloom pearls, her posture regal and her eyes sharp with generational disdain.

“I beg your pardon?” Grace asked, her voice low.

Zemo didn’t blink. “You heard me.”

Around them, the other conversations began to quiet—like a tide pulling back before a wave hit. A few of the younger chosen stilled, wide-eyed. Helena Thorne watched from a distance with parted lips, clearly listening.

Grace’s jaw tightened. “If you’re going to accuse someone in public, Lady Zemo, have the spine to say it clearly.”

Zemo took a step forward. “Very well, then. I accuse you of using unnatural means to sway the trial in your favor. You performed a sacred rite with no formal religious training. You placed a stone that sang like a consecration bell. The altar glowed, girl. That does not happen.”

“No,” Grace agreed. “Not when you’re doing it wrong.”

A few people inhaled audibly. The edge of Grace’s mouth twitched.

Zemo smile twisted. “Convenient, isn’t it? That you—raised in the forest, of no title, no bloodline, no temple education—just happen to outperform half the court?”

Grace didn’t move. “I was raised in the Hollow. In the mountains. Where the goddesses are still revered and the rites are practiced the old way. Where we don’t wait for the solstice to remember the names of the sacred ones. We live by them.”

Zemo narrowed her eyes. “Superstition. Folklore. The court’s future queen should be civilized.”

“And the court,” Grace said softly, “should remember what it once was before it lost its spine to silk and flattery.”

A sharp breath from someone behind her. No one interrupted.

“I didn’t sway the altar, Lady Zemo. I honored it. Maybe it responded to that.” She held the woman’s gaze. “Maybe it’s not me the court should fear—but what it’s forgotten.”

The silence between them turned brittle.

Lady Zemo’s fingers curled around the beads at her wrist. “You speak like a child playing queen.”

“No,” Grace said, “I speak like someone who’s spent their entire life listening to women like you underestimate them.”

There was a beat of stillness, sharp and full. Then—

“That’s enough,” Natasha’s voice broke in, calm but cutting. She stepped forward like a knife from the shadows. “Say another word, and I’ll assume your issue isn’t spiritual concern—it’s fear that your daughter lost fair and square.”

That stung.

Lady Zemo’s mouth pinched. She turned with the cold efficiency of someone who’d just been bested in front of too many witnesses and didn’t dare linger long enough to lose more ground.

When she was gone, Grace didn’t sway. Didn’t breathe until Natasha put a hand on her elbow.

“You good?”

Grace gave a small, tired nod. “Better than she is. Now can I please get a cold compress and a nap before I hex someone?”

———-

“—she what?”
Steve’s voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous.

Tony, lounging in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, set down his glass with a clink. “Steve.”

“Don’t ‘Steve’ me right now.” His jaw flexed. “She accused Grace of witchcraft. In public. In the middle of the court.”

“She handled it,” Sam said, from where he stood at the hearth, arms folded. “Natasha was there to back her, but your girl didn’t need saving. Not one bit.”

“That’s not the point,” Steve ground out. “Zemo’s family has influence. Ties to half the houses in the capital. She’s not just running her mouth—she’s trying to undermine the entire process.”

Tony raised a brow. “You want to send her daughter home for that?”

“I want to make it very clear that attacking Grace—personally or politically—has consequences.”

Sam sighed. “Look, man, I get it. I do. But you go scorched-earth on Zemo right now, it doesn’t protect Grace. It paints a target on her back. Makes it look like she needs your muscle to win her fights.”

Steve looked away, chest rising and falling too fast. “She’s already bruised. Already trying to keep up with people who’ve spent their whole lives training for this circus.”

“And she’s winning anyway,” Tony cut in. “That’s why they’re rattled. That’s why Zemo cracked.”

Sam stepped closer, his voice quieter now. “You saw how Grace handled that altar today. She’s got fire, brother. And not just in the bond-sense. She’s not breakable. Let her prove that to them.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. His fists slowly unclenched.

“I hate this,” he muttered.

“We know,” Tony said, already pouring him a drink. “But welcome to politics. And mating. And the gods help you—feelings.”

Sam grinned. “You’ll live.”

Steve finally exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t even know I know yet.”

“Then tell her the truth,” Sam said. “Later. In private. When it’s about the two of you, not the court.”

Steve nodded. “Fine. But Zemo or her daughter step out of line again—”

“Then you bury them in velvet and banish them with a smile,” Tony said cheerfully, handing over the drink. “But not before your girl’s done making her look small on her own.”

Chapter Text

Steve didn’t expect to enjoy this.

The tea setup was… dainty.

Too many lace doilies. Too many porcelain roses climbing the sides of the cups. Even the sugar cubes had been shaped into tiny swans. It was weird and excessive. Steve tried not to look directly at them for too long.

Across the table, Adelaide of the Lakebound Coast was already barefoot, one leg tucked under the other as she perched on the velvet-cushioned chair like she might launch into a tree if startled. Which, to be fair, he didn’t blame her—the first ten days of the Choosing had been anything but calm.

“I hate shoes,” she said by way of greeting after her curtsy, pouring them both tea with startling confidence. “I only wear them under threat of exile. Or if there’s a snake problem.”

Steve blinked. “Good to know.”

“Plenty of snakes here, though,” she added, flashing a grin that was far too self-aware for a woman who looked like she’d wandered in from a shipping dock. “In both the grass and the palace. I’ve taken to keeping a pair with me at all times.”

She nodded toward the slippers beneath her chair.

Steve huffed a short laugh. “That’s frighteningly accurate, my lady.”

She offered him a cup. “My lady, my ass. I’m barely higher than a servant in the eyes of most here, and that only because of my last name. Please—just call me Adelaide, Your Grace.”

Steve tried to hide his amusement. “Very well, Adelaide. Thank you for the tea. Though I believe I’m supposed to be serving you, as part of your reward.”

She actually snorted. “You’re stiff. Do they train that into you?”

“…Mostly.”

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, bracelets jangling. “You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m not here for the crown. Someone had to come to represent us, so I did. I like the trials. And puzzles. And now Grace.”

That caught him off guard. He nearly choked on his tea. “Lady Grace?”

“Oh yeah,” she said cheerfully, dunking a biscuit into her tea and letting the crumbs float. “She’s fascinating. You can tell she wasn’t trained for the court—she was raised for something older. Something deeper. I like her. She’d be good for the kingdom.”

Her voice softened as she swirled her cup.

“Did you see how she moved during the altar trial?” she asked, reverent now. “I didn’t see the whole thing—just the final setting—but that wasn’t performance. That was memory. Like her body already knew the shape of the rite.”

“Then Lady Zemo started running her mouth.” Adelaide paused as she sipped her tea. “I’ve started a list of all the idiots who are assholes to Grace, you know for when she becomes your queen.”

“My queen?”

“You get moon eyes every time she enters the room, your magnificent majesty.”

“Is that another one of the nicknames, I’ve been given?”

Steve studied the woman across from him as she shrugged in response. She was one of the older members of the Chosen, 32 if he remembered correctly. The same age as him and Bucky. But there was something about her that made her feel younger. Maybe her enthusiasm. Maybe it’s was the dimples in her cheeks. Her braid was half undone. But her eyes were clear—piercing, observant. The kind of woman who listened first and judged later. She kind of reminded him a bit of Bucky and a bit of Grace.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I saw Lady Zemo’s temper tantrum.”

“I think she scares them,” Adelaide said, casually popping the soggy biscuit into her mouth. “Not because she’s untrained. Because she’s real. That’s harder to deal with than bloodlines or titles. You can’t polish truth. You just have to deal with it.”

Steve found himself smiling before he realized it. “You’re not what I expected.”

She beamed. “Good. I’d hate to be predictable. That would be dull.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. The soft clink of teacups. A faint breeze through the garden lattice. Then Steve set his cup down more deliberately.

“What do your people need, Adelaide?”

She blinked—just once—but her whole posture shifted. No more tree-frog lounging. She straightened slightly. Thought about it.

“No one’s asked me that yet,” she said finally. “Not even the priestess at the offering table.”

“Well, I’m asking.”

Her expression sobered—not with fear, but with weight.

“We need better irrigation,” she said. “The lakes rise and fall in odd patterns now, and the old channels don’t hold. The fish are thinner. The otters are rarer to spot. Crops dry too fast. We can adapt—but not without help.”

Steve nodded. “That’s doable.”

Adelaide didn’t smile. “Don’t promise it because I said something clever over tea. Promise it because someone finally listened.”

“I am listening,” he said quietly. “My father ignored too much for too long. It may take time, but I do want to make things better. For everyone.”

A long pause.

Then—just like that—her grin returned like sun after cloud.

“Well, good,” she said brightly, reaching for the last biscuit. “Because if you don’t follow through, Lady Grace is going to roast you alive with her brain. Once you make her your queen, of course.”

Steve coughed a laugh. “That’s… fair.”

“Oh, I like her so much,” Adelaide sighed, leaning back on her palms. “She’s going to blow this whole place wide open.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Adelaide raised her teacup like a toast. “Then hold the door open for her, Your Majesty. Or get out of her way. You’ll survive better that way.”

Then she tilted her head, studying him again.

“You know you’re in love with her, right?”

Steve froze.

The question wasn’t sharp or smug—just honest. Like observing the weather. Or the way Grace hummed when she worked.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “That’s not… this isn’t about—”

“Oh, I’m not judging,” she said, setting her cup down. “I just figured someone should say it out loud. Doesn’t have to be me. But here we are. Don’t worry—not everyone’s noticed yet.”

He rubbed a thumb along the edge of his saucer. “Do you know how she feels?”

Adelaide’s smile dimmed—quieter now, thoughtful. “I think she feels it more than she knows how to name it. That’s always the dangerous kind.”

Steve looked up, eyes sharpening. “Dangerous for who?”

She shrugged. “Depends on whether you catch her before she lets herself burn.”

Then she stood—barefoot and breezy—her braid unraveling like a banner of mischief and truth.

“Thanks for the tea, Your Majesty. Tell your guards I stole a napkin. It had adorable otters on it. I like it and it will be my prize for the trial.”

Steve laughed out loud. “Then here, take them. I’ll have the rest of the set sent to your rooms.”

She grinned and wandered off, humming, hands in her pockets.

And Steve sat alone in the dainty silence, the sugar swans half-melted in their bowl, and his heart suddenly far too loud in his chest.

Which only made lunch harder.
———-

The dining room was quiet. Elegant. Cold.

Like someone had taken a painting of a feast and drained all the warmth from it. The table was set for two, but it felt like the walls were listening. Steve could smell polished wood, rosewater, and something faintly metallic—like cold ambition wrapped in silk.

Then he realized it wasn’t the room.
It was her.

Lady Helena Thorne was already seated when he arrived, back straight, hands folded, the softest smirk playing on her painted lips like a well-rehearsed aria.

“Thank you for this opportunity,” she said, unfolding her napkin with surgical precision. She didn’t rise to curtsy—just gave him a nod, like she was already his equal. “It’s rare we get time with you alone.”

Steve took his seat with practiced ease. “It’s important I know the finalists beyond the trials.”

Helena smiled—tight, polite, flawless. “Of course. Though I imagine some of us are easier to understand than others.”

The implication lingered like perfume gone sour.

Steve didn’t bite. “Everyone brings something different to the table. The different perspectives are refreshing.”

“Indeed.” She picked delicately at a slice of poached pear. “Grace, for example, brings… unpredictability.”

His fork hesitated mid-air.

“She’s compelling,” Helena continued, as if remarking on weather patterns. “But one wonders—if unpredictability becomes precedent, what does that mean for future consorts? For the integrity of the court? For tradition?”

As she spoke, she reached lightly across the table, placing two fingers on the edge of his wrist.

Steve pulled his hand back. Subtle. Unmistakable.

He set his fork down deliberately. “If the court’s traditions can’t stand up to sincerity, maybe it’s time to change them.”

Helena didn’t flinch. But her fingers curled slightly around her water glass.

A pause.

She smoothed her napkin across her lap. “You were raised among legacy and order, Your Majesty. You understand the importance of structure. Of lineage. It must be… difficult, navigating sentiment in such a formal process. Especially now, when everything rests on your shoulders alone.”

He gave her a look. Not sharp. Just flat. “No more difficult than navigating vanity disguised as principle.”

She blinked once—then smiled. “Touché.”

Their entrees arrived: roast pheasant, buttered roots, a sauce he couldn’t pronounce. Helena barely touched hers.

She leaned forward, her voice low and velvety. “Would you be willing to allow the consort’s lineage into future diplomatic roles?”

Steve leaned back, brow raised. “What does lineage have to do with someone’s ability to do their job?”

Helena tilted her head. “Then how do you plan to preserve noble bloodlines while allowing for… regional variation?”

“Since when do you care about regional variation, Helena? We’ve grown up together since we were both teenage pups. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“Was there any truth to the rumors that Grace’s background has been… edited?”

He met her eyes. “You know I’ve never had time for those games. And what would she even have to hide? Or maybe the better question is—what is it you fear?”

“I just don’t want you to be swayed by a pretty new bauble,” she said, tone gliding into softness, “when your destiny has always lain elsewhere.”

And then—just as he reached for his wine glass—he felt her hand.

Not on his arm.
Not on his wrist.
But resting—briefly—on his thigh beneath the tablecloth.

Not seductive. Not even flirtatious.

Just entitled.

Steve moved his chair back an inch. Just enough.

Then looked her in the eye. “What do your people need, Lady Helena?”

She froze for the briefest moment. Then recovered.

“They need stability,” she said smoothly. “Polish. Nobility. A queen they can believe in.”

Steve raised a brow. “So… you.”

She didn’t blink. “Someone with discipline. With heritage. With the will to uphold the realm’s expectations. Not someone with calloused hands and sacred songs on her tongue.”

Not Grace.

She didn’t have to say it. It was carved into every syllable.

Steve gave a single nod. Slow. Unreadable. “Good to know.”

She took it as agreement.

He took it as confirmation.

The rest of the lunch passed in clipped civility. Helena never asked about him—only about power, precedent, and process.

She never said Grace’s name again.

And she didn’t touch him again, either.
_____

The council chamber was already half full when Steve arrived, shoulders tight, jaw set.

He was still thinking about Helena’s hand on his thigh.

Still thinking about the way she’d spoken about Grace—like she was a disruption. A flaw in the pattern. Something to be polished out.

He hated that kind of thinking. Hated that it echoed through half the court like gospel.

“Majesty,” Nat greeted, boots propped up on the stone edge of the table, posture relaxed but eyes razor sharp. “You look like someone just ate powdered chalk and smiled through it.”

“Might’ve been more pleasant,” he muttered, sinking into his chair.

Bucky raised a brow. “Lunch with Lady Ice Veins go that well?”

“Thrilling.”

Across the table, Stark was already mid-spiel—something about supply routes and material shortages. Steve tried to focus. He did.

But—

Grace, singing softly through crushed thyme.
The altar glowing like it remembered her.
The way her breath caught when she turned from the crowd, eyes too tired to hide it.
The bruises still visible on her arms. The one just above her collarbone, barely hidden by the high neckline of her dress.

And her voice, quiet and sure: “Better than she is.”

His chest ached.

He blinked—and realized someone was watching him.

Sam.

“…Steve,” Sam said slowly, suspicion blooming into amusement. “You’re smiling.”

Steve straightened. “Sorry. Just… thinking.”

“About border security?” Stark asked, bone dry.

“About Grace,” Natasha corrected, already smug.

Bucky snorted into his coffee. “Gods help us. He’s picturing… dessert.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Sam said flatly.

Steve closed his eyes, sighing. “Are we done? You all know what I would do. I trust you to do it. Can we just pretend I was useful today and move on?”

“Well aware,” Stark said, flipping a page of notes. “But tormenting you is more fun.”

“We could circle back to East Gate integrity,” Nat offered innocently. “Or better—your dinner date.”

He groaned.

But the smile crept back anyway.

Because she’d won yesterday.

And not even the powdered chalk of court politics could scrub that away.

⸻

Steve left the meeting fast.

Not so fast it raised eyebrows—but fast enough that Bucky called after him with a knowing grin, and Natasha made a bet with Sam he could hear from halfway down the corridor.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t head to his chambers. Or the council archive. Or the war room.

He went to the solar.

The one he’d asked to be cleared for the evening.

The one he’d planned himself, quietly, without ceremony.

A single steward stood just outside the arched doorway—Jarvis, one of Coulson’s most trusted. Tony had once described him as “an embroidered conscience in human form,” which Steve still wasn’t sure was a compliment.

“Majesty,” Jarvis greeted with a slight bow. “The room is as you requested. Dinner will be served precisely at 7:15, warm and staggered as specified.”

Steve gave a tight nod.

“And Lady Grace sent word, as promised. She’ll arrive at exactly seven. Not early. Not late.”

Steve paused.

“She said that?”

Jarvis’s mouth twitched, just barely. “She said, and I quote, ‘Tell him I’ll be there. On time. No matter how many people try to stop me.’”

Steve let out a quiet breath. Almost a laugh. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

“One more thing, Your Majesty?” Jarvis asked, tilting his head as Steve started to turn.

Steve hesitated. Then nodded once. “Can you have a white rose brought in before she arrives?”

“A white rose,” Jarvis repeated. “From the royal greenhouse?”

Steve shook his head. “No. From the gardens. The old bushes.”

Jarvis studied him for a beat—then nodded. “I’ll see to it personally.”

Inside, the room was exactly what he’d imagined.

No throne. No titles. No table too wide to touch hands across.

Just soft floor cushions. A low table. Linen napkins folded plainly—not sculpted into peacocks or swans. The windows were cracked just enough to let the warm evening air drift in, carrying the scent of sweet herbs and the faint trace of spring.

At the center of the table sat a small vase of wildflowers.

Not arranged by palace staff. Not chosen for pageantry.

Chosen by him.

He’d picked them at first light, pacing the gardens alone while the rest of the palace slept.

There were moon irises—soft purple and slow to bloom—those were the only thing he had purchased in the arrangement.
A few sprigs of wild sage, for healing.
Golden alyssum, tiny but persistent—protection, calm, resilience.
And a single stem of blue flax, delicate and strong—the will to survive and endure.

It wasn’t a bouquet for show.

It was a message.

I see you. I remember. You are not alone.

And soon—placed gently at her setting, not arranged, not adorned—there would be a single white rose.

Not for beauty. Not for drama.

But because it meant:
Truth. New beginnings. Honor.
And maybe—if she let herself believe it—love.

Steve adjusted the candles. Moved the water pitcher an inch. Then back. Then again.

It wasn’t about perfection. He reminded himself.

It was about offering peace.

After a day of eyes watching her, whispers clinging to her like smoke—he wanted to give her one hour where no one asked anything of her. Where she could breathe.

He caught his reflection in the glass.

Tired eyes. Wrinkled collar. Lips pressed a little too tight.

He exhaled. Smoothed his shirt. Ran his fingers through his hair.

Then checked the time again.

She’d be here soon.

And he—finally—was ready.

…Maybe.
_____

The sun had long since dipped behind the hills when Grace finally stepped into the private solar.
The scent of warm bread and beeswax candles greeted her—soft, golden, still.

Dinner waited. So did he.

And she had not come in her robe.

She wore one of the gowns he’d had commissioned months ago, without knowing why or for whom—soft, silvery green silk that caught the candlelight with every breath. It draped off her shoulders in loose, ethereal folds, the sleeves floating as she moved, the bodice gathered gently at her waist before falling into a pool of quiet grace.

She looked like a secret someone had whispered into the dusk.

Her hair was braided back from her face but left loose down her back, soft curls trailing over bare shoulders. And though her expression was calm, there was intention in it.

She had dressed for him.

In his hand, held gently like a promise, was a single white rose.

He stepped forward before he could second-guess himself. “This is for you,” he said quietly. “I asked for it specially.”

Grace blinked, surprised. Then her lips curved. “A white rose.”

“I thought… it suited you.”

She accepted it without hesitation, her fingers brushing his as she took the stem. “They mean a lot of things, you know,” she said, glancing down. “In some places, they’re used for mourning.”

“I know.” He paused. “But also for truth. And beginnings.”

Her gaze lifted to his. “I like your version better.”

She tucked the stem carefully through one of the soft drapes at her sleeve, letting the bloom rest lightly at her wrist.

And then she smiled.

“Hi,” she said simply, as if she hadn’t just shattered him. “I hope I’m not late, there had been a debate with Yelena and Natasha about how to wear my hair. I thought about just doing it myself .”

He blinked once. “You’re beautiful either way.”

“Don’t deflect,” she said lightly, padding toward the low cushions. “I made you wait. So I apologize, My lord.”

He caught his breath and smiled. “What did I tell you about that, when we are alone, just Steve.”

She smiled up at him knowing full well she had done it on purpose.

They sat side by side, legs brushing occasionally under the table, their plates full but their attention mostly on each other.

He couldn’t stop looking at her. But because it was of the gowns he’d commissioned on a whim. For a ghost. For a possibility.

And now—here she was. Wearing it like a promise,

She wasn’t just beautiful—though she was—but because she looked present. The quiet tension of earlier had melted from her shoulders. The bruises were still there, but they no longer defined her.

He blinked. “You look—”

“If you say tired, I’m throwing this fig at you.”

His mouth quirked. “I was going to say exquisite.”

Grace snorted and handed him a warm slice of bread. “Don’t make it weird.”

He sat. “I’m not , it’s the truth.”

“If you say so” She poured him wine. “It will be nice to eat with someone who doesn’t care how I hold my fork.”

He took the cup, fingers brushing hers. “Helena is… something. She was in fine form at my lunch with her today.”

“Please, Tell me you flipped the table.” She touched the white rose where it rested at her wrist, fingers absently stroking a petal as she listened to him talk about the other woman, disdain lacing his voice.

“I thought about it. Does that count?”

She grinned—and when she smiled like that, it undid something in his chest.

They ate in easy silence for a while. Warm lentils, roasted vegetable, a lamb roast, soft bread torn between them. At one point, she reached across to steal a potato off his plate, and he caught her wrist, gentle but firm.

“Bold move.”

“I’m in a sexy dress and I’ve had a glass of wine” she said airily. “I’m allowed to commit petty crimes.”

He didn’t let go of her wrist right away. Just traced his thumb over the inside of it, slow and instinctive.

She didn’t flinch.

Neither did he.

They ate slowly. Talked around politics. Teased each other about their terrible posture. She fed him a roasted carrot with her fingers and raised her eyebrows when he licked the sweetness from his lips with a tiny, involuntary hum.

“That good?” she asked, amused.

He nodded. “Best thing I’ve tasted all week.”

She blushed. Then leaned a little closer. “Good company always makes good food taste better.”

“It does indeed, Little moon.”

They both laughed.

He reached for the wine, but she took the bottle from his hand and poured it herself. Their fingers brushed. He didn’t flinch.

“I heard what happened today,” he said eventually.

Her posture didn’t change. “Which part?”

“Zemo.”

A pause. “She’s not the first person to call me a witch, and I Guarantee she won’t be the last either.”

“No. But she’s the first to do it here. With power behind it.”

Grace set down her fork. “I’m not ashamed of what I am, Steve. What I know. What I’ve lived. That’s what they hate.”

“I know.” He met her eyes. “But I hate that you had to stand there alone.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “I didn’t.”

He swallowed. “You don’t have to win this alone.”

“I’m not trying to win. I can’t afford to think like that.” she said softly. “I’m trying to endure it without forgetting who I am, before my Inevitable trip back home.”

He reached out and tucked one of the loose wisps of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered—just long enough.

“Why do you think it’s inevitable? “

She turned into the touch slightly, then reached for his hand, warm and sure, not answering his question.

“Tell me something real,” she said. “Something not about trials or politics.”

“Like what?”

“Like what scares you.”

He glanced up. “That’s a sharp left turn.”

“No politics. No trials. Something real.”

He considered, then answered honestly: “Losing you to all this.”

Her face softened. “Then don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

She touched his hand—then his wrist. Rested her palm lightly against his chest, just above his heart, like she was testing its rhythm. He let her. He didn’t move.

“Your turn,” she said.

“What do your people need?” he asked.

Her smile faded, but not entirely. “The people? Or the Hollow?”

“Both.”

Grace exhaled, then looked down at the candle between them. “They need rest, peace. And medicine. Food. And a future that doesn’t feel like a knife edge. But so does everyone else. You know what I’ve noticed when I would travel to heal? The farmers near the river don’t have access to flood relief. The midwives in the west don’t have the proper tools. Half the eastern quarter still need military support, and half the time the runners don’t make it in time.”

“You remember all that?”

“I remember everything,” she said quietly. “It’s part of the job.”

He looked at her like she’d cracked something in him open. “You’re already doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like a queen.”

She blinked, then offered him a crooked smile. “Not sure the court would agree.”

“I don’t care what they agree to.”

Dessert arrived—a decant chocolate tart with a tart raspberry sauce. Grace dipped one into the sauce, then offered it toward him without speaking. He leaned in, took the bite straight from her fork, then licked the syrup that ran down her thumb.

Her breath hitched.

Later, they lounged on the floor cushions, the remains of dessert between them. Her legs stretched toward him, her feet just brushing his thigh.

“Careful,” he murmured. “That’s a dangerous game.”

“Is it?” she asked, eyes closed, head tipped back against the wall. “You haven’t moved.”

He hadn’t. And he didn’t want to.

Grace peeked one eye open. “You’re staring.”

“You wore that dress on purpose.”

“I did.” She yawned. “Don’t make it mean more than it does. I thought It was pretty, and probably the only time in my life I’ll get to wear something like it.”

He smiled—slow and real. “Too late.”

She kicked him lightly with her heel. “Have more wine and behave.”

He caught her foot instead. Held it gently, tracing his thumb across the arch, just once.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

“And you’re barefoot.”

“I hate these shoes. I miss my leather boots.”

They stayed like that—tangled and quiet.

Eventually, he shifted closer and, without hesitation, pressed a kiss to her cheek.

Not rushed.

Not uncertain.

Just there.

She didn’t move.

But she did breathe.

When she turned to him, their faces close, she touched his jaw with two fingers.

“I wish…” she said softly afraid to finish the sentence. We didn’t have to do this. That I was different.. That I was more. That I was already his.

He nodded like he had known what she was thinking. “You are.”

Steve shifted to lean against the wall beside her, one knee bent, arm brushing hers.

“Alright,” Grace said, picking a grape off the platter. “Your turn.”

“For what?”

“To ask something real. I started the game.”

He thought for a second. “What’s your favorite sound?”

She blinked, surprised. Then smiled. “A baby’s first cry. Right after birth. That split second between fear and joy.”

He swallowed. “That’s… a hell of a start.”

“Your turn.”

He glanced down. “The sound my shield makes when it catches wind. Not the clang—before that. When it’s cutting through air, clean.”

She nodded like she understood exactly.

Grace leaned sideways, bumping his shoulder. “Tell me something dumb. Like your favorite food.”

“Roasted root pie. With thick crust. Burned on the edges.”

She laughed. “You’re such a country boy.”

“Says the barefoot witch queen.”

“I’m not a queen.”

“Not yet.”

She narrowed her eyes at him—but she was smiling. “Alright. Last one.”

Steve looked at her. “What’s the one thing you want, but haven’t said out loud?”

Grace was quiet for a beat. Then:

“I want a home that doesn’t disappear when the seasons change.”

He didn’t speak. Just tightened his grip around her fingers, like anchoring them both.

He smirked. “Is that a real concern?”

“You’re a king. You’ve had stable wall around you your entire life, those of us near the boarders are not so lucky.”

“I’m sorry,” he said honestly, watching her teeth sink into a piece of fruit from the a plate of small sweet bits that were delivery after dessert. “If I have my way, I’m hoping you decide it worth it to stay here.”

She glanced sideways. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“I am flirting.”

She laughed—quiet and warm. “That’s truly tragic flirtation, yet for some reason I expected worse.”

He reached across the tray and selected something at random—an apricot glazed with lavender sugar. “Wow so little faith.”

“I assumed all your seduction tactics were… solemn.”

“Only when necessary,” he said, biting into the apricot.

She licked a bit of honey from her thumb. “You really had this dessert brought up just for me?”

“I had this entire dinner set exactly how I wanted it. For us.”

Her gaze caught on his. That stillness came again—rich, slow, buzzing just beneath her skin.

“I almost wore something else,” she said, tugging gently on the hem of her gown. “Something safe.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

“Are you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Or are you trying not to look directly at my neckline?”

He gave a slow smile. “Grace.”

“Yes?”

“If I look too long, I’m going to forget I’m trying to be respectful.”

She grinned. “Then maybe I should start talking about root vegetables again.”

“Please don’t.”

“Carrots. Parsnips. Tubers of moral integrity.”

“Gods,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

She bumped his knee with hers. “You started it.”

They laughed again—soft, shared. And then it slowed.

Grace leaned a little closer. Her bare shoulder brushed his. “You’ve kissed my hair, my cheek. Touched my back. Held my hand. Bathed me.”

He looked at her.

She tilted her face toward him, just slightly. “Are you waiting for permission to kiss my mouth?”

He hesitated. “I’m waiting for you to want that.”

Her smile didn’t fade. But she didn’t lean further.

“Not tonight,” she said quietly. “But soon.”

He nodded.

And reached up, this time, to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.

“I’ll wait.”

She didn’t pull away when he tucked her hair behind her ear. If anything, she leaned into his hand just slightly—warm, steady, present.

Then his eyes flicked to the window.

An idea sparked.

“Do you trust me?” he asked suddenly, voice low.

Grace blinked, surprised. “Usually that question comes before someone does something dangerous.”

He stood and held out a hand. “Do you?”

She studied him for a beat… then placed her fingers in his. “Yes.”

They didn’t take the stairs. Not all the way. There was a side passage he knew—one he used when he needed air or escape or sky. He led her through it silently, his grip firm but never pulling. She followed without question, the skirt of her gown catching faint moonlight like spilled water.

The door at the top groaned slightly as he pushed it open.

And then they were outside.

Above.

The capital spread below them in soft ribbons of candlelight and stone, distant bells tolling the late hour. The sky overhead was cloudless, scattered with stars so bright they looked near enough to pluck.

Grace froze.

She didn’t let go of his hand.

“I’ve never…” she whispered. “I’ve never been this high up before.”

“I used to come here when I couldn’t sleep.”

“Did it help?”

“Sometimes.” He turned toward her, voice gentler. “You’re safe with me.”

She exhaled and stepped closer, just enough that their shoulders brushed. “I know.”

He guided her toward the parapet wall and helped her sit. Her fingers were still tight around his wrist, her eyes wide as they swept the sky.

“I always thought the stars were for nobles,” she said softly. “They don’t reach the Hollow like this.”

“They’re yours too.”

She looked at him. Wind caught the edge of her sleeve—and the rose nestled there. Steve reached out instinctively, steadying it before it could fall.

He pointed upward after handing it back to her. “See that one? The brightest in the northeast corner?”

She nodded.

He pointed upward, guiding her gaze across constellations.

“They say the Alpha was the first to rise. The one the wolves followed. The Omega, the lover, came later—always chasing, always circling.”

“They say the two stars are soul-bound,” Steve murmured beside her, his arms wrapped firmly around her waist now. “Always just out of reach. But when they do align, the world shifts.”

Grace tilted her head against him. “Sounds lonely.”

“It’s not,” he said. “Not if they’re still looking.”

“Do they ever catch up?”

“No,” he said. “But they never stop reaching.”

Her voice was a whisper. “That’s awful.”

“No,” Steve said. “That’s love. Even across distance. Even when everything’s against them—they keep trying.”

She didn’t say anything more, just turned the stem slowly between her fingers as he spoke of stars and soul-bound wolves.

Then she leaned against him—fully now, her head resting against his shoulder. “Tell me another.”

He smiled into her hair and began again, his voice low and sure, naming constellations and myths passed down from gods and soldiers and sailors.

And under the stars—high above the weight of duty and rumor and fear—they just were.

Together.

They stayed like that for a long time. Grace curled against him, her legs tucked beneath her, her head tucked under his chin. She was warm at first—still flushed from dinner and laughter—but as the air shifted, she began to shiver.

Steve didn’t say anything. He just adjusted, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her closer. One broad hand rubbed slow circles against her back. When she murmured something drowsy and half-lost in his shirt, he smiled.

“You cold?” he asked.

“A little,” she admitted, voice muffled.

He wrapped his other arm around her too, shielding her from the breeze. “You should’ve said something.”

“I was enjoying myself,” she said, breath warm against his collar. “Didn’t want to break it.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

Another long pause. Her breathing slowed. His chin dipped into her hair. The stars wheeled overhead.

He could’ve stayed like that all night.

The wind picked up, cool against her skin. She tucked in closer. He held her tighter.

“I could fall asleep like this,” she murmured.

“You shouldn’t,” came Natasha’s dry voice from the rooftop door.

Grace groaned without moving. “She’s literally the worst.”

“I’m the one keeping your ribs from bruising worse than they already are,” Nat countered. “You’ve got another trial tomorrow. You need your salve. And sleep.”

Steve didn’t move right away. Neither did Grace.

But eventually, he helped her down, one arm always steady around her back.

And even as they left the rooftop behind, the stars still spun above them—bright and ancient and watching.

Like they already knew.

They didn’t rush.

Steve kept one hand braced at Grace’s back the entire walk down from the roof. She leaned into him a little more than usual—not dramatically, but enough that he felt it. Trusted it.

When they reached the hall leading to her room, Natasha was waiting with a jar of salve in one hand and a disapproving frown in the other.

“You were out too long,” she said, already moving to unlock the door. “You’ll stiffen by morning.”

“I can help,” Steve said quietly, already moving to follow.

Natasha turned, one brow lifting in sharp protest. “She needs rest. Not distractions.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You’ve left me alone with him five times already.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

Nat opened her mouth, then shut it.

Grace stepped past her and into the room, pausing at the threshold just long enough to glance back. “I promise to keep my hands to myself,” she said. A sly pause. “For now.”

Steve looked like he was trying not to smile.

Natasha muttered something in Russian and tossed him the jar. “Fine. But if she ends up with bruises you caused—”

“I’ll take full responsibility,” he said solemnly, following Grace inside.

She was already settling onto the edge of the bed, peeling off her outer layer to reveal soft linen underneath. Her bare shoulders caught the candlelight again. She looked up at him, expression unreadable—but open.

“I meant it, you know,” she said softly, shifting to let him kneel beside her. “I wanted tonight with you.”

“I know,” he said, warming a bit of the salve between his hands. “Me too.”

As he touched her back—gentle, steady—she exhaled.

Not in pain.

In relief.

And for a long, quiet moment, there was nothing between them but breath, warmth, and something neither of them dared name. Yet.

They didn’t talk about the trial. Or the stars. Or the way her body still bore the bruises of both.

Instead, as Steve worked the salve gently into her back, they talked about nonsense.

“Apparently,” Grace murmured, her cheek pressed to the cool pillow, “Melissa’s village mayor once married a goose.”

Steve blinked. “A literal goose?”

“She says it was a dignified goose.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“Neither did the goose, I imagine.”

He smiled, fingers moving carefully over her spine. The swelling was down, the skin less angry now. He could feel the difference—not just see it. And he knew she felt it too by the way her shoulders finally started to loosen.

She was quiet a moment. Then: “You’re good at this.”

“Decent aim,” he said lightly. “Gentle hands.”

“You forgot ‘humble.’”

“I assumed that was implied.”

She hummed. “You ever think about doing something else? Besides ruling a kingdom and intimidating visiting nobles?”

He paused. “Sometimes.”

“Like what?”

“Teaching,” he said slowly. “Building. Maybe even raising goats somewhere no one can find me.”

Grace made a soft sound. “I could see that.”

“I’ll save you a spot,” he said, smoothing one last line of ointment over her shoulder blade.

Then, almost without thinking, his gaze drifted toward the faint bruise just beneath her collarbone—the one that appeared over night and one he had definitely noticed.

It was still there. Proud. Bright.

He hesitated. Then, very gently, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to it.

A soft breath escaped her lips.

“You’re not subtle,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

He pulled the blanket up over her shoulder, tucking it just so. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m really not.”

When he started to move away, her fingers caught his wrist.

“Stay?” she asked, barely audible.

He didn’t answer aloud. Just circled to the other side, stretched out beside her atop the covers, and let her curl closer until her head found the center of his chest.

She was asleep within minutes.

He didn’t follow—not right away.

He stayed awake a while longer, watching the last flicker of candlelight dance along the walls, listening to the slow rhythm of her breath.

He stayed awake a while longer, watching the last flicker of candlelight dance along the walls, listening to the slow rhythm of her breath. The rose was crushed slightly between them, its scent warm and faint. He didn’t mind.

And when he finally closed his eyes, it wasn’t to the sound of politics or fear.
Just nonsense.

Chapter Text

The Hollow was quiet.
The kind of quiet that never settled over the Hollow.

Not the peace of late spring evenings. Not the hush before a storm.
This was the kind of silence that hummed beneath the skin—
like the moment before a scream.
Like breath held too long.

Grace didn’t notice it at first.

She was focused on her patient—some unnamed figure she couldn’t quite remember bringing in. Their features shifted each time she looked directly. But their fever was real. The bandages needed changing. She moved by instinct and repetition, grounding herself in the motions of care.

The herbs in her satchel were ones she hadn’t carried in years. Beginner herbs. The kind that couldn’t kill someone if you gave the wrong amount.

Her hands moved automatically, crushing lavender root and frostspine moss—but when she opened the bandage, it was already clean. Already healed.

Grace frowned.

And then she heard it.

She paused.
Head lifting.
Hands still.

“Grace.”

A voice. Not loud. Not near.
But his.

She straightened slowly, eyes narrowing toward the edge of the grove.

“Who’s there?”

No answer. Just rustling.

Except the trees weren’t moving.

Faint—like wind curling through trees that weren’t there. She turned toward the window. But no breeze stirred. No leaves shifted. Just silence.

She moved slowly, fingers brushing the old wooden frame. The world outside shimmered like it was underwater. A path stretched from the hut into the woods—one she didn’t remember. But it was lit with fireflies, beckoning her forward.

“Grace.”

Clearer this time. A voice carved into her bones long before she ever heard it.

Steve?

She stepped through the door.
Her feet were bare, but the ground was soft—not cold. Not quite real.

The sky above was the wrong color—more indigo than black. And the stars were wrong too. Strange constellations hung overhead: the Alpha and the Omega, glowing bright.

Ones that could not be seen from the Hollow.

Her breath caught.

Was she dreaming?

No.

She was somewhere else entirely.

The forest didn’t feel dangerous.
But it felt old.
Watching.
Like it had something to say—if she only knew how to listen.

She followed the sound.

The path twisted. Thickened. Shifted.

Moss gave way to stone. Pools shimmered beneath her feet but never wet her ankles. Everything changed and nothing did.

“Grace, where are you, little moon—”

Her chest clenched.

That was definitely Steve.

But how could he—

A flicker in the distance. Gold and blue. A figure at the edge of a clearing, half in shadow, half in starlight.

Grace broke into a run.

——-

Steve was back on the battlefield.

Mud clung to his boots. Ash burned in his throat. Smoke coiled in from the edges of a world that should’ve burned long ago.

He stood alone amid the wreckage.

Shields cracked. Banners torn.
No bodies.

Just hollow armor. Bloodless weapons.
As if the war had vanished mid-blow and left only the memory behind.

His heart was pounding.
He didn’t know why.

Didn’t know where he was. Or who he was supposed to be here.

He bent to pick up a broken blade—
It turned to dust in his hands.

And then—

“Steve.”

He froze.

Not a shout. A whisper.
Threaded through the smoke like it knew how to find him.

He turned.

Nothing but fog and the shattered curve of battlements.

Still, he took a step forward.

The ground shifted. Stone. Then damp earth. Then grass.
Half-familiar. Half-impossible.

Another step.

“Steve—where are you—”

That voice.

He knew it better than his own.

He hadn’t heard her say his name like that in—

Where is she?

His pulse surged. He broke into a run, crashing through the smoke, ignoring the ache in his legs that shouldn’t have been there.

None of this was real.
None of it.
None of it.

He burst from the fog.

And found himself at the edge of a forest.
Too green. Too quiet.
Lit by stars that didn’t belong to this sky.

And in the distance—a figure moving fast.

Dark curls. Pale dress.

Her.

Grace.

He opened his mouth to call her name—
_____

As suddenly as Grace had broken into a run, the light around her shifted.
Shadows lengthened—though the moon hadn’t moved.

She slowed.
Set down her satchel.
Took one step forward.

And the forest pulled back like a curtain.

A new path unfolded. One she didn’t recognize.
Lined with bloodroot and boneset—
Herbs she hadn’t planted.
Blooming in unnatural clusters.

She hesitated.

Then stepped into it anyway.

—

Steve heard his name in the wind.

Not a warning. Not a welcome.

A call.

The battlefield was gone now.
Or maybe it had never really been there.

Now he walked a narrow pass.
Rock beneath his boots. Snow in the air.
But he wasn’t cold.
Just wary.

Like the cliffs themselves were watching.

A wolf howled in the distance.
Then another.
Then—nothing.

Silence returned, sharp and waiting.

And then—
Footsteps behind him.
Soft.

He turned.

No one.

But when he looked ahead again—
The path had changed.

The stars were wrong.
The moon was veiled.

And something was watching him from the crags above.

—

Unseen by either of them, two shadows moved—
silent, deliberate, always just beyond notice.

One slipped between trees Grace didn’t recognize.
The other stalked the cliffs above Steve, its steps echoing too softly to be caught.
But the land felt it.
The path shifted slightly behind her.
The ice cracked once beneath him.

Not enough to stop them.

Just enough to let the watchers know:
Not yet.
But soon.

They weren’t hunting prey.
Not yet.

They were studying.
Watching potential.
Watching for weakness.
Waiting for the right moment to strike.

The path twisted.

Twice, Grace thought she saw someone behind her.
But when she turned—only trees.
Too close together.
Too tall.
Too new.
Trees that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Then—

A flicker of gold and blue.
Lights twisting together.

Not bright. Just… alive.

She followed.

The deeper she went, the quieter everything became—
until even her footsteps made no sound.

And then, without warning—
the forest opened.

A clearing.

Not large. Not showy.

Just a soft bowl of grass and moonlight, ringed in fireflies and tall white irises blooming silver-blue under the stars.
No wind. No shadows.
Just stillness. And light.

Grace stepped into it—

—and every hair on her body settled.

Like something had been chasing her without her knowing.
And whatever this place was, it had shut the door behind her.

She didn’t know how she knew.

She just did.

And here—
She could breathe.

—

The cliffs fell away beneath Steve’s feet.
No fall. No stumble.
Just—

Here.

It was warm.

Not hot.
Just… right.

The scent of wildflowers brushed past him like a memory.

He turned, slowly.

And saw her.

Grace’s breath caught.

He looked—

Softer, somehow. But heavier too.
Like this version of him carried memory in his shoulders.
His dream-form wasn’t quite right. But her chest still ached at the sight of him.

Steve took one slow step forward.

“Little moon,” he said, wonder threading through every syllable.

She blinked. “Your Majesty?”

“I’ve been trying to follow you for miles.” A pause. “I thought this was just in my head.”

“Me too.”

A heartbeat passed.

Then they both stepped forward.

Her hand found his.
His thumb brushed over her knuckles.

The dream didn’t dissolve.
The light didn’t fade.

And far behind them, the shadow turned her head with a scowl she didn’t understand.
And the wolf felt his reach shrink—not blocked, but denied.

Her hand was still in his.

And then it wasn’t—
Because she was stepping closer.
Pressing her palm to his chest,
Staring up at him like she saw stars inside him.

“Hello, my king,” she whispered, breathless.

He nodded, but didn’t move away. “Gracie.”

She didn’t think. Didn’t plan.
She just kissed him.

Quick. Sure. Like something she’d been holding in too long.

Steve made a sound in his throat—half surprise, half something deeper—and pulled her back in before she could slip away.

His hands cupped her face, slid into her hair, tugging gently until her head tilted just enough.
The kiss deepened.

She gasped into his mouth.
He swallowed it whole.

It was clumsy and perfect.
Hot and wild.
A little uncoordinated—the way real desire always was.

They didn’t slow down.

Her fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic, dragging him closer until they stumbled together toward the center of the clearing.

Toward the lone tree.

They half-laughed against each other’s mouths.
He caught her around the waist, turned them, braced her against the trunk.

“You taste like—” he started.

“Right now, I don’t care,” she cut in, tugging him down again.

His mouth traced the corner of hers, then lower.
Her head tipped back against the bark.
His teeth grazed her throat.

She arched.
He groaned.

Too much and not enough.
His hands spread wide over her hips like he was trying to memorize the shape of her.
Her legs tangled with his.
Her mouth dragged back to his like a prayer half-forgotten—then found again.

And still—

The forest didn’t shift.
The light didn’t break.

This wasn’t a dream that faded with desire.

This was a dream that deepened the more they gave in.

Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt.
Warm skin. Scars. Muscle.

He hissed through his teeth, head dropping to her shoulder as her hands moved up his back.
“Grace—”

“Shhh,” she breathed, tugging his shirt higher. “It’s just a dream.”

He kissed her like he believed it.

And she kissed him like she’d been waiting for this since the moment he walked into the ballroom—drenched in stately authority and everything she hadn’t been ready to want.

They were on the moss now.
Half-tangled.
Limbs and heat and breathless laughter.

Her dress rumpled beneath his knees.
His shirt shoved high.
Her legs wrapped around his waist.

He kissed her like he meant it. Like he always had.

She arched beneath him, pulling him closer, and for a heartbeat—

The world held its breath.

His forehead dropped to hers.

“You’re mine,” he whispered.

She didn’t flinch. But her voice was soft.
“That’s just… it’s a dream.”

He shook his head, breath ragged. “Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Her smile was crooked. Dizzy.
Real.

“But it doesn’t matter here.”

He didn’t stop.

They were tumbling.
Skin to skin.
Hearts drumming.
The forest holding its breath with them.

Her hand slid to his belt—
He caught it there, fingers tight over hers, breathing hard.

“Grace—”

“I know,” she whispered. “I know.”

Their lips met again.
Slower this time.
Deeper.
Reverent.

His hand cupped her cheek.
Her thigh tightened around his hips.

And then—

The forest flickered.

Just for a second.

The fireflies vanished.

The clearing dimmed.

The dream shivered.

And both of them—

Gasped.

—

They woke gasping.

Same breath.
Same jolt.
Same bed.

Grace lurched upright, her hand flying to her chest. Her eyes searched the dim room like the clearing might still be hiding there, like the fireflies might still return.

Steve was already sitting beside her, breathing hard, sweat beading along his brow despite the cool air. He turned sharply when she moved.

“…Shit,” he muttered.

Grace whipped toward him. “Did you—?”

He nodded once, slowly. “The clearing. The fireflies. You—”

“It was just a dream.” Her voice was hoarse. “I thought it was just a dream. I didn’t think it was—”

“It wasn’t,” Steve said, too quickly. “Not like that. It was a dream. Just… not only yours.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Are you saying we shared it?”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face, like trying to drag himself fully into the waking world. “Yeah.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. His legs swung over the side of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed.

“You’re okay though?” he asked, still not looking at her. “You didn’t… feel anything weird?”

“We kissed,” she said sharply. “We almost—I almost—”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between them like thread pulled too tight.

“Steve,” she said at last.

He looked up. His eyes were still stormy. “You don’t feel it yet, do you.”

“Feel what?”

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Nothing. It’s nothing. It’s—”

“Steve.”

He stood abruptly, taking a step toward the door. “You should rest. I’ll give you space.”

“Please don’t do that,” she said, quieter now. “Don’t run. Just tell me what’s happening.”

He paused at the threshold, shoulders rigid. “I’m not running. You need to trust me, little moon. I just… I can’t explain it. Not yet. You’re not ready. Please don’t push me on this.”

That stopped her cold. “Not ready?”

His hand rose to the doorframe. He pressed his palms into his eyes. “Grace… you felt that. I know you did. But until certain parts of you wake up—really wake up—it won’t make sense.”

She blinked. “Parts of me?”

He nodded, almost reluctantly. “You’ll know when it happens. I promise. Just a little longer.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving Grace alone in the bed where she’d dreamed of kissing him like she meant it—
Only to wake up wondering if maybe, just maybe, he’d meant it even more.

Steve walked fast.

Not quite running. But close enough that the guards he passed pressed themselves to the walls and didn’t dare speak.

He didn’t know where he was going.

Only that he had to move.

Because if he stood still—he’d feel it again.

The heat of her skin.
The press of her mouth.
The way her breath had caught against his cheek like she knew, even if she didn’t know why.

Gods.

She didn’t know.

She couldn’t.
Not yet.

And he couldn’t tell her.
Not until the parts of her that were still asleep—her wolf, her instincts, her bond—started to wake up.

But if they were sharing dreams, then she had a wolf. That much was certain.

And it had started.

He clenched his fists as he rounded the eastern corridor, boots echoing too loud on cold stone. His heart was still racing. Still beating like it had in the clearing—wild and reckless. His wolf was howling just beneath the surface.

Because he’d found her.
Truly found her.

And now he had to act like he hadn’t.
Had to pretend nothing had changed.

Not until she knew it too.

He ducked into a side chamber, bracing both arms on the edge of a long, empty table. Let his head fall forward. His breath came sharp. Shaky. His muscles trembled from the effort it took not to turn around.

Not to go back to her room.
Not to finish what had started—wolf or not, dream or not.

But he couldn’t.

Not yet.

Not until she knew what she was.

“Fuck,” he muttered, slamming one palm flat against the table.

The wood groaned but didn’t break.

He dropped into a chair, dragging both hands down his face.

He’d been trying to wait. Trying to give her time. To let her choose this on her own.

But the dream had changed something.

The bond had shifted. Tightened.

He wasn’t imagining it.

And she wasn’t imagining him.

The mating pull had begun.

And now they were on a path neither of them could walk away from.

Even if she didn’t know she was already walking it.
———
Grace stayed sitting long after he was gone.

The sheets still smelled like fireflies and moss. Her hand hovered over the imprint he’d left behind, like touching it might make the memory vanish—or come rushing back too fast.

Her lips still tingled.

Her pulse hadn’t slowed.

Eventually, she lay down again, turning toward the cold half of the bed, curling around nothing.

And tried not to wonder what it would’ve felt like—
if he’d stayed.

A single tear slipped free. She wiped it away without thinking.

But when she opened her hand—
her fingers were glowing.

Faint. Barely more than a shimmer.
But warm. Alive.

She stared at them in the dark.

And didn’t quite know what to feel.

—

Far across the castle, Helena sat bolt upright in bed.

Eyes wide. Breath held.

One hand pressed to her chest, over the place where old magic still whispered.

Something had changed.

And it had already begun.

Chapter Text

The sun hadn’t fully risen when Bucky and Sam found him.

He was still in yesterday’s clothes, seated stiffly at the war table. The dark fabric clung to him in places, rumpled and heavy with sleep he hadn’t gotten. His hands were folded so tightly the knuckles had gone white.

His eyes were bloodshot.

Not from crying.
Not exactly.
But it looked like he had been.

The hearth was cold. The fire had burned out hours ago, leaving behind nothing but brittle embers and a faint, smoky aftertaste in the air. The tea tray on the sideboard was untouched. A single cup sat cooling beside a teapot that had long since lost its steam.

When they entered, Steve didn’t look up.

He just sat there—spine rigid, shoulders coiled tight—like a man carved from restraint.

Bucky slowed as he approached. “You’re early.”

Steve didn’t move.

Sam’s eyes tracked the cold teacup, then the tension in Steve’s jaw. “Have you been here all night?”

A pause.

Then: “Most of it.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “You wanna talk about it? Or are we pretending this is about gate security?”

Steve’s voice was low. Rough, like it had been dragged across stone.
“There was a dream.”

“Oh,” Sam said gently. He crossed the room, pulled out a chair. Sat—not next to the king, but beside his friend.

Steve finally looked up.

And his eyes were full of war.

“It wasn’t just a dream. I was right. Her wolf is still asleep.”

Bucky didn’t react at first. He just studied him, slow and steady. “She doesn’t know?”

Steve shook his head. “No. And I can’t tell her. Not yet.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was thick. Settled low in the room, like the dust on the table no one had touched.

Then Sam rubbed the back of his neck. “So what do we do?”

“We, no.” Steve’s voice was sharp—but tired. A blade dulled by use. “I wait. I let her come to it. She deserves that.”

Bucky didn’t argue.

But he dropped into the seat beside him and said, “Then we wait together.”

⸻

The morning light filtered through the high lattice windows, golden and gentle.

Grace didn’t notice.

She was sunk deep into the bath, arms folded over the rim, hair twisted up. The rose from the night before still sat on the stone ledge beside her. Her skin was flushed from the heat, but her eyes were… far.

Lost.

She hadn’t spoken since she’d woken up.

Not that she’d slept much after Steve left.

None of it made sense—the dream, his reaction. Her mind was reeling, but her body hadn’t caught up. She couldn’t process anything around her. Not the rising sun. Not the water slowly cooling. Not the prickling of her skin, or the ache in her jaw from grinding her teeth.

Not the ghost of a heartbeat still caught in her throat.

She didn’t hear Natasha enter.

Not at first.

The assassin moved with practiced quiet—no boots, no sound—until she was crouched beside the bath, expression unreadable.

“You gonna drown yourself,” she asked mildly, “or just pickle a while?”

Grace blinked, startled. Her eyes were red. Then she sank a little lower into the water.

Nat didn’t smile. But her tone softened. “It was that bad? It didn’t look that bad last night.”

Grace hesitated.

Then whispered, “We shared a dream.”

Nat’s head tilted, fractionally.

Grace’s voice cracked. “We were there, Nat. Together. I could feel him. I could smell the pine in his hair. I could taste the kiss. It wasn’t just me—he felt real.”

She looked up, eyes wide, desperate. “But that’s not possible. Right?”

Nat didn’t answer.

She sat on the edge of the tub instead and reached for the rose, turning it once between her fingers.

“…How do you know,” Grace asked softly, “if something is real?”

Natasha looked at her for a long moment. Then set the rose back down.

“You don’t,” she said. “Not until it follows you into the morning.”

“I’m losing my mind.”

The words came cracked and shaking. Grace wrapped her arms over her chest, water lapping as she leaned forward. “It was too real, Nat. I can still feel his heartbeat. I knew where to find him—like my bones knew. That’s not just a dream.”

Nat didn’t speak.

Grace pressed on, voice unraveling. “And it’s not the first time. There’s this pull. I’ll be in a room, and I know the second he walks in. Even if I’m not facing him. Even if I’m asleep. And when I’m near him I feel like I can breathe, but also like I might combust, and that’s not normal, is it?”

She laughed, once—high and brittle. “Maybe it’s a mating thing. Maybe I hit my head. Maybe I’ve completely lost it and should be locked in the tower with the old poets and the alchemists who argue with the moon.”

She looked at Natasha again. Eyes pleading.

“Tell me I’m not broken.”

Nat’s expression didn’t shift.

But something behind her eyes did. Not judgment. Recognition.

“Oh gods,” Grace whispered, the realization catching like a splinter. “There is something wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Natasha said finally. Carefully.

Grace gripped the edge of the tub. “Then what is happening?”

A beat passed. Natasha opened her mouth—then closed it again.

Not yet.
Not like this.

“You wouldn’t believe me,” she said instead.

“Try me.”

Nat shook her head slowly. “There’s being an omega,” she said quietly, “and then there’s being… something more.”

“Something more?” Grace repeated, her heart pounding.

But Natasha didn’t answer.

She crouched again beside the tub. Calm. Listening. Watching.

Grace didn’t stop.

“Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am a witch. Maybe I’m cursed. Something more, you say? More like I’m losing my mind.”

She laughed again. All nerves. All breath.

“You think I hit my head? Is that what this is? Or did I inherit some ancient Hollow madness no one warned me about?”

Still no answer.

Because Natasha wasn’t listening to her panic.

She was watching the way her breath caught. The subtle shift in her scent. The bloom of heat at her throat. The unspoken need to be near. Her body was betraying the truth already—despite the suppressants.

Nat had smelled it before.

Not often.
Only twice in her life.

But enough to know.

Not just omega.
Not just bonded.

Shifter.

Grace kept talking, her voice spiraling. “I don’t think I’m imagining it. But if I’m not, then what am I imagining? What if this is the start of something—something I can’t stop?”

Nat opened her mouth.

Shut it again.

She could say it. Speak the word. Let it land like a stone and watch the ripples roll across the surface.

But Grace wasn’t ready.

Instead, she reached for a towel and held it out.

“Dreams during the Choosing aren’t uncommon,” she said evenly. “Your body’s in flux. Your mind’s under pressure. People have hallucinated worse under less stress.”

Grace blinked. “So… stress.”

Nat gave a faint smile. “What else?”

And Grace, already exhausted, let herself believe it.

But Natasha didn’t.

Because now she knew for sure.

And it changed everything.

Grace let her head drop against the porcelain edge of the tub, eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m not crazy, right?”

“You’re not crazy,” Natasha said, rising to her feet.

Grace didn’t move. Just mumbled, “Even if I was, you’d say that.”

Nat didn’t argue.

———

“…So if they want a resupply by the solstice, they’ll need to reroute through—Steve?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the haze, but Steve didn’t look up.

Something was wrong.

Not in the room. Not on the map. Not with the reports. It was something else entirely—raw and twisting just beneath his ribs.

Panic. But not his.

Hers.

He could feel it—not in words or thoughts, but like a bell struck deep in his spine. Like an echo of breath caught in a throat that wasn’t his. Like the tether between them had gone taut and trembling.

Sam leaned forward, his tone shifting. “You okay?”

Steve stood abruptly. The chair scraped hard against the stone floor. “I need a minute.”

“Steve—”

“I said I need a minute.”

He was already moving—too fast to be polite, not fast enough to outrun the storm rising behind his sternum. His hands clenched into fists. His breath was coming too fast. He paced the corridor like a wolf who’d scented blood, tension coiled in every line of his body.

His alpha was pacing too—just beneath the surface.
Snarling. Straining.
Demanding he go to her.
Demanding he fix it.

She was afraid.

Not crying. Not screaming.

Just… shaken. Unsteady. And it was all his fault.

He didn’t know where he was going—only that every part of him was howling to find her. To see her. To touch her. To fix whatever had cracked inside her.

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

“Steve.”

Bucky’s voice came steady from behind him. “You need to stop.”

“I can’t,” Steve rasped. “She’s not okay. I felt it.”

Sam crossed his arms and leaned back against the opposite wall. “Yeah. We figured. You flinched like someone shoved hot iron down your spine.”

Steve raked a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “She’s panicking. I don’t know why—I just… I need to—”

“No,” Bucky said firmly, stepping directly into his path. “You don’t. Because going to her right now? That’s not about her. That’s about you.”

That stopped him. Almost.

Sam gave a slow nod. “We’ve been where you are, man. That first time the bond surges like that—it wrecks you. Makes you think you’re the only one who can help.”

“But you’re not,” Bucky said quietly. “You’d just overwhelm her. She’s confused enough already.”

Steve turned and braced both hands against the stone wall, his head bowed. His whole body was taut, barely holding. His alpha was still pushing. Still clawing to get out.

“She doesn’t even know what she is.”

“Exactly,” Bucky said. “And if you show up right now, she’s going to see a man she trusted suddenly looking at her like a mate instead of a person.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Steve’s voice broke. “I just wanted to give her peace. One night of peace.”

“Then let her have it,” Sam said. “Let Natasha be the one to ground her this morning. Let Grace stay Grace for a little longer.”

Silence settled over them like dust.

Then Steve nodded once, sharp and uneven, and leaned his forehead against the wall like it was the only thing holding him up.

Bucky placed a hand on his shoulder. Steady. Solid.

“We’ve got you.”
____

Natasha crossed to the wardrobe and pulled something from a lower shelf—soft leathers worn with age, and a deep green tunic threaded with bronze stitching.

Simpler than the court dresses Grace had been living in.
But infinitely more practical.

She held them up with one brow raised. “You’ll want to dry off. Today’s trial isn’t in the Hall.”

Grace looked up, blinking water from her lashes. “It’s not?”

“Nope.” Nat tossed the tunic onto a chair. It landed with a soft thwap. “You’re going out. Into the city—community work. You’ll be visiting the orphanage. I believe they’re expecting you to play with children and kiss babies.”

Grace huffed, incredulous. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Natasha’s voice gentled. “They also have a ward of sick children who could use a healer. Your services might be of use.”

She paused. “Oh—and Maela gave Sienna the go-ahead to leave bed. She wants to come with you. Even if we all question whether this is the right time for her first trip out.”

That got Grace moving.

Not all at once. Not with grace. But her posture shifted—straighter, steadier. Her hand reached for the towel. The color that returned to her cheeks wasn’t from heat or panic, but purpose.

“She’s really up to it?”

“She is.” Nat’s expression flickered with something fond. “Up enough to roll her eyes and ask for clothes.”

A small, wet laugh broke from Grace. Then a breath. Then another.

Nat didn’t push. Just waited as Grace wrapped the towel around herself, standing in a small cloud of steam like a woman reassembling her limbs one piece at a time.

By the time she reached for the tunic, she looked more like herself again.

Not whole.
Not unshaken.

But pointed in the right direction.

And for now, Natasha would take that.
_____

Steve stood just inside the archway of the upper corridor, half-shadowed by stone and sunlight. He hadn’t moved from his post since the others had left him.
Hadn’t trusted himself to.

But now…

Now he could feel her.

Not the frantic edge from earlier.
Not the silent scream of someone barely holding it together.

This was quieter.
Not calm—not yet.
But steadier. Like a heartbeat finding rhythm again.

She was still hurting. Still confused.
But breathing.

Steve exhaled for what felt like the first time in an hour.

Below, the courtyard gates clanked open.

He stepped forward instinctively, just enough to see, as the chosen women began to file toward the carriages. All silks and jewels and painted poise. Like a parade of birds with something to prove.

And then—

She emerged.

Leathers. Tunic.
Medical satchel slung across her chest like she was heading to a field tent instead of a trial.

Her hair was still damp at the ends.
Her cheeks flushed.
But she walked with purpose.

And gods help him—
It broke something in his chest.

Sienna followed just behind her, smiling softly. Pale, still shaking, but upright and walking. Natasha flanked the other side like a silent general.

Grace said something that made them both laugh.

And Steve felt the sound like sunlight through the bond.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t see him.

But that was okay.

Because she was moving forward.

And he could breathe again.

Chapter Text

The carriage rattled to a stop outside the old stone gates.

Moss clung to the edges of the courtyard walls. Ivy curled around the shuttered windows like it had grown there for decades. The building had once been a country estate.

Now it bore the weight of a dozen harsh winters—and twice as many mouths to feed.

Most of the chosen shifted uneasily as the wheels stilled. Lady Elise Zemo was already muttering about the mud. Her mother pressed a scented handkerchief to her nose.

Grace didn’t wait.

She was off the step before the footman could unfold the stairs, her boots hitting the worn stones with purpose. A plain shawl was wrapped around her shoulders, her green tunic visible beneath. Her braid was pinned low, her old healer’s satchel bouncing softly at her hip with each stride.

She didn’t look back.

The other women stared.

Lady Helena blinked—caught somewhere between confusion, irritation, and a flicker of something else. Something almost like curiosity. Her maid sent her a baffled look as Grace crossed the courtyard alone.

Near the entrance, a lean, sharp-eyed woman looked up from a ledger. Her posture was straight, her hair pulled back, and deep lines etched into her weathered face. But her eyes were clear. Sharp.

“Headmistress Audra?” Grace asked, voice steady. “I’m Grace. I’m a healer. Where are your sick?”

The woman didn’t hesitate. “East wing. Upstairs. We’ve isolated the worst of them, but it’s spreading.”

“I’ll need clean water. A table. And anyone willing to help.”

Audra nodded once and turned.

Grace followed.

Behind her, the silence cracked in fits and murmurs.

“She didn’t even wait for an escort,” Lady Elise scoffed.

“She didn’t wait at all,” Lady Helena muttered.

—

From a rooftop across the street, Steve exhaled slowly, arms crossed.

Sam stood at his shoulder.

“She didn’t wait for the guards either,” Steve said, almost to himself.

Sam smirked. “Reckless.”

“She’s dressed practically,” Steve replied, eyes following her form across the courtyard. “Which is more than I can say for the rest of them.”

He paused, then glanced toward the final carriage arriving—Grace’s group.

He smiled slightly when he saw them: more appropriately dressed, less showy, still standing out.

“Well. Maybe they’re not all a lost cause.”

He didn’t say it, but Sam heard the next part in the quiet between breaths:

She’ll need a hand.

But then—

Steve inhaled.

And his breath caught.

Her scent had shifted.

Still warm. Still salt and summer and green things. But something new had bloomed beneath it.

Not heat.

Not yet.

But it was awakening.

And his wolf noticed first.

Mine. Now. Wake her. Claim her.

Steve’s jaw tightened. His hands flexed against the railing.

He didn’t move.

⸻

The air was thick with the sharp tang of fever and herbs long since burned dry. Beneath it, the sour-sweet bite of sickness clung to the linens, to the floors, to the children’s skin.

Grace moved through it like she belonged.

She rolled her sleeves—linen scraping against flushed arms—and tied her apron snug at her waist. The fabric was already wrinkled, stained from years of use. She knelt beside the first child without flinching, knees pressing into the cold stone floor.

A boy—no older than seven—trembled in his cot. Sweat slicked his curls to his forehead, his breaths coming in shallow gasps that rasped the back of his throat.

Grace pressed the back of her hand gently to his cheek.

Too hot. Skin tight with fever. The telltale start of a red, splotchy rash along his jaw.

She opened her satchel, the worn leather creaking softly. Her fingers moved by memory.

Powdered mossroot—earthy, bitter. Crushed lemon bark—sharp and clean. A calming tea blend with fennel and golden poppy, its sweetness rising faintly in the air.

She stirred quickly, the spoon clinking softly against the glass vial, humming something low under her breath—a Hollow cradle song, almost forgotten.

Headmistress Audra stood nearby, arms crossed, her expression grim.

“They’ve been like this three days,” she said. “We lost one yesterday.”

Grace didn’t look up. “You won’t lose another.”

She turned back to the boy, kneeling lower so they were eye to eye.

“Hello, sweet pup,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “What’s your name?”

“Mylo,” he croaked, lips cracked, eyes glassy with heat.

“Mylo.” She smiled softly. “I need you to drink this. Slowly. I know it smells terrible—but you’ll sleep better after. I promise.”

He whimpered, coughed, but took the cup. His fingers were hot and shaking against hers.

And in the next cot, a girl blinked up at Grace—barely conscious, her breaths coming in uneven hitches.

Grace reached out instinctively, brushing her damp brow. Her skin was hotter than Mylo’s. Her lips pale. Her tiny hand gripped the edge of her blanket like an anchor.

Grace leaned closer, whispering something in the old language, her breath warm against the child’s ear.

She looked up at the noodle-crusted sign above the bed and smiled faintly.

“Linnette,” she murmured. “My peanut. We’ll get you fixed up too.”

As she pressed her hand to the child’s chest, a flicker of warmth moved down her arm—golden and soft, like sunlight sinking into water.

No one else saw.

But Grace felt it.

The girl’s fever dipped, not sharply—but slowly. Tangibly. As if the illness were uncoiling itself from her ribs. As if the thread binding her pain had been gently loosened.

And Linnette, still half-asleep, sighed.

______

And in that moment—

—Steve’s wolf howled.

Not aloud. Not in sound.

But through every muscle, every instinct, every locked-tight nerve. A feral, wordless ache that ricocheted through his chest.

Up on the rooftop, he jerked upright. His breath caught.

“Steve?” Sam’s voice sharpened. “What is it?”

But Steve couldn’t answer.

His hands were shaking.

Her scent—subtle, complex—had changed again. Deepened. A note beneath the salt and sun, like ripe fruit just starting to split.

She was waking.

Not just her mind.

Her body. Her bond. Her wolf.

And gods help him, if he closed his eyes—just briefly—he could feel it. That golden hum threading through the bond, warm and electric, like sunlight breaking over frostbitten skin.

It took every ounce of control not to move. Not to leap from the roof and go to her.

To answer the pull.

To claim what was his.

_____

Thee sickroom that once held only fevered silence now pulsed with soft rhythm.

Grace moved with purpose—washing, mixing, directing—and without realizing it, others began to move around her. Not most of the noble daughters swaddled in silk and hesitation, but the ones who’d stood with her the day before.

Adelaide and Lila were the first to appear in the doorway. Adelaide’s lips pressed together and skirts hitched out of the muck.

“Need some hands?”

Grace didn’t look up from the poultice she was applying to a girl’s chest. “Wash basin’s clean. There’s more outside. Boil two more, add rosemary and salt if they have it.”

“Lila, I’m going to need more herbs. Take stock for me with what they have on hand. I’ll let you know what we will need from there.”

Lila turned on her heel, braid bouncing, already shouting orders at someone down the hall.

Morgan arrived next, carrying folded linens in both arms and muttering about how no one else around here seems to know what fresh sheets look like. MJ trailed behind, holding spare blankets in the crook of her elbow like a shield.

And then came one of the country girls—Vanessa—with her sleeves already rolled and a determined glint in her eyes.

“I know how to take a fever reading the old way,” she said.

Grace handed her a scrap of linen. “You’re on the end row. If they start seizing, call for me or Adelaide.”

Ladies Alira and Melissa read to those who waited for Grace to get to them.

Grace kept one eye on Lady Sienna as she made her way to the infirmary. Grace had tried to convince her that coming on this trial maybe wasn’t in her best interest, given the week she’d just endured. But Sienna was adamant. She caught Grace’s gaze as she passed, just pausing to squeeze her shoulder and whisper, “I am all right.”

Then she walked past, right to the tiniest one in the infirmary—not more than a month old. She picked up the young pup and looked up at Grace for guidance.

“See if you can get her to eat. I’m sure the headmistress has some goat milk for the little one. Dehydration is my first concern.”

Sienna nodded and took the child with her.

⸻

Grace found her a little while later, tucked into the sun-warmed alcove off the main hall. Sienna was seated on a narrow bench, her back straight, the infant swaddled in one arm. The bottle in her hand was nearly empty. The baby’s mouth worked softly around it, lashes fluttering against Sienna’s wrist.

The light through the high window haloed them both.

Sienna didn’t look up. Didn’t say anything.

Grace paused in the doorway. Watched as Sienna stroked the infant’s hair—slow and rhythmic, like muscle memory. Something ancient. Something tender.

She didn’t speak either.

Just nodded once.

And then she turned and walked away.

⸻

By the time an hour passed, nine of them moved as one. Not flawless. Not professional. But willing. Steady. Fiercely obedient in the way that trust is.

They followed Grace.

She didn’t issue orders like a commander. She moved, and they watched, and they followed. When they floundered she would guide with a soft hand and gentle words.

And the scent of her—anchored, sure, gently glowing—wrapped around them like balm. Calming. Calibrating.

Meanwhile, down the west corridor, the others bumbled through the visit like tourists in the wilderness.

One noblewoman gagged at the smell of salves and promptly fainted into her companion’s arms. Another refused to enter the rooms at all, demanding to speak to the headmistress about the lack of suitable reception.

Lady Helena, despite her earlier poise, stood stiffly at the door, arms crossed, her gaze flicking uneasily to the sickbeds. Her training didn’t extend to healing. And certainly not to filth.

No one assigned tasks. No one directed flow.

No one led.

Not like Grace.

⸻

From the balcony window, Steve watched through the smudged panes of glass now.

“Damn,” Sam muttered, low and impressed.

Bucky, perched on the frame with arms crossed, whistled under his breath. “She’s running the floor like a general.”

Steve nodded once, eyes locked on the quiet hum of motion around her.

“She’s not even thinking about it,” he murmured.

“Nope,” Sam said. “Which makes it all the more dangerous—for certain others not in the room.”

“Like Thorne or Zemo?” Bucky asked, tone dry as dust.

“Like all of them,” Sam replied. “The ones who think power is posture.”

Steve didn’t answer.

He was too busy watching the way Grace leaned close to a fevered boy, wiping his brow with one hand and adjusting his blankets with the other. She was too far to hear.

But he could feel her.

The quiet pull of her heartbeat through the bond. The golden thread of her wolf—still fragile, still uncertain—but stirring now. Lifting her head.

She’d been buried under grief. Muffled by caution. Bound by duty and doubt.

But she was rising now.

And the court would never be the same.

____

The judges arrived mid-afternoon, draped in deep velvets and heavy gold chains, flanked by high-born attendants bearing scrolls and quills. Their boots barely touched the scuffed floors as they swept into the orphanage like royalty slumming it, noses already wrinkled.

The scent of boiled herbs and sweat met them first—real, human scent. The smell of healing. Of work.

And in the middle of it all, Grace.

Her back was to them, kneeling beside a child with a wheezing cough, fingers pressed to the girl’s ribs as she spoke in low, calming tones. Her braid was falling loose. Her shawl was long gone—abandoned hours ago in favor of movement. Her sleeves were damp, rolled to the elbows. Bruises still mottled beneath her collar.

At her sides moved the girls—Lila, Morgan, MJ, Adelaide, Sienna, and the rest. Coordinated. Focused. Not one faltered.

“Is that… the healer’s daughter?” one judge asked, lips thin.

“She’s supposed to be a consort,” another muttered, clearly scandalized.

“She is a consort,” came a quiet reply from one of the attendants, scribbling as they observed. “And that’s six patients stabilized. No fatalities. No fainting.”

“Unlike—” one judge glanced toward the corridor.

Down the hall, Lady Thorne stood at a safe distance, flanked by two of her attendants. She hadn’t touched a single child. Instead, she’d tossed a handful of silver coins onto the matron’s desk with a flick of her wrist and a martyred sigh.

“Please ensure they get bread,” she’d said flatly, already turning toward the exit.

Lady Elise was fussing at a broken nail. One of the Chosen had vomited in the stairwell. The rest hovered aimlessly, too dainty or too proud to risk sweat on their sleeves.

The contrast was humiliating.

One of the younger judges—more observant than most—stepped deeper into the sickroom, boots sticking slightly on the floor.

“She’s triaging,” he murmured. “And those girls are following her lead.”

“No pageantry,” an older judge added. “No declarations. Just results.”

From behind a curtain, Grace emerged with a basin and a fresh compress. She didn’t flinch at the sight of the officials. She simply dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and pressed it to the next child’s forehead.

Finally, someone addressed her.

“Chosen Grace.”

She glanced up, chin lifting slightly. “Your honors.”

“Do you know the intent of today’s visit?”

“To see how we handle the trials of compassion,” she replied, wiping her hands dry. “Not perform them.”

There was no arrogance in her tone. Just quiet certainty.

Behind her, one of the orphans clung sleepily to MJ’s arm. Lila poured fresh water into a chipped mug. Morgan brushed knots from a fevered girl’s hair.

The judges said nothing for a long moment.

Then, one slowly made a mark on their scroll. Another hummed. A third muttered something about revising expectations.

And all the while, Grace kept working.

One of the older judges stepped forward, clearly bristling at the informality.

“Chosen Grace,” he said, voice cold. “Do you understand what today’s trial was meant to evaluate?”

Grace looked up from the child’s bedside, wiping her hands on a cloth already stained with tincture and sweat.

“I do,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Compassion. Service. Capability under pressure.”

She stood, eyes level with his now, her voice steady.

“But frankly, I don’t give a shit.”

A hush fell over the room. Somewhere, a noble girl gasped.

“These children are sick. I can help. So I did.” She turned back toward the cot. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

The judges didn’t know whether to reprimand her or write it down as doctrine.

And as she knelt beside the next child—checking their pulse with a steady hand, her scent still warm with determination—there was no denying the truth of it:

She wasn’t there to perform.

She was there to serve.

And the others were only just realizing the difference.

_____

From the far side of the ward, Steve leaned in the open doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

He was supposed to be impartial. Observing. Measuring. Recording which women had stepped up and which had fallen short. But as Grace straightened from the bedside—hands ink-stained, eyes blazing—he had to press his lips together to keep from grinning.

She’d told off the judges with the same calm conviction she’d once used to scold him for hovering too close to an open flame.

And she’d been right both times.

One by one, the others began to file out. Some too proud. Some too bored. Some just relieved the trial was over.

But Grace’s group remained.

Sienna’s braid bobbed as she moved through the room, sleeves rolled and cheeks pink. The two country girls stacked clean linens on the corner table. Even Morgan and Lila had traded their usual mischief for quiet voices, reading aloud to a cluster of sleepy-eyed children curled in borrowed blankets.

And then—unexpectedly—two more of the women joined in. One noble, one from a lesser house. Quiet at first. Gathering laundry. Straightening trays. One offered to help boil more water. Another sat beside a girl and gently began brushing her hair.

Steve watched it all unfold with a quiet sense of awe.

Grace hadn’t won them with speeches. She hadn’t tried to charm or impress.

She led—by instinct, by purpose, by heart.

And they followed.

He took one last look, eyes lingering on the curve of her spine as she bent to soothe a child’s fevered brow.

Then he turned and slipped silently into the corridor.

The trial might be over.

But something much bigger had just begun.

Chapter Text

By the time they returned to the palace, the halls had gone quiet.

Dinner was long over. Most of the court had vanished into salons or shut their doors for the night.

Grace's group lingered near the foot of the grand staircase—still flushed from shared work, flushed with something softer too. A quiet kind of victory.

"I doubt the kitchens will still be open," Melissa murmured, casting a glance down the shadowed corridor.

"They'll have bread and broth at least," Grace said, calm and certain. "And if we smile just right, someone might even warm it for us."

A ripple of laughter stirred among them—low and breathless, the kind that felt earned.

"We can eat in my room," she added, before she could talk herself out of it. "If you're not too tired. I'd rather not end the day alone."

That sealed it.

They followed her—soft-footed, whispering—like trailing smoke. Still dressed in borrowed aprons and healing salts, moving through the darkened halls with the hush of girls who had only just realized they might be friends after all.
————

Upstairs, in a narrow study tucked behind the library, Steve paused mid-conversation.

Nick was still talking—something about guards, or schedules—but Steve didn't hear the rest. He'd caught it:

"We can eat in my room."

He knew that voice.

Knew the way it softened when she was trying to sound casual. Knew the way she masked vulnerability with generosity.

He stood without thinking. "Excuse me a moment."
_____

They turned down a hall none of them recognized—quieter, broader, with sconces that burned a little steadier. The hush of the palace felt different on this side. Older. More deliberate.

Lila glanced around, brow furrowing. "You're in the east wing?"

Morgan answered before Grace could. "Did you know, we're in the royal quarters?"

A beat of silence followed.

Grace slowed. "What?"

Morgan nodded toward the polished inlay along the baseboards—gold leaf catching in the torchlight. "Lila and I have rooms here because our parents are part of the King's inner circle. MJ stays with us. But only royals and senior council members stay in this wing."

"I didn't—" Grace stopped walking. Her heart gave a faint, uneven thud. "I didn't realize."

The girls clustered around her, suddenly quieter. Adelaide tilted her head. "You didn't choose this room?"

"No. I was just shown to it." Grace's fingers twitched against the fabric of her tunic. "It was the only key I was given. The only option I was given."

"We were all given a choice of rooms in the West Wing. The guest wing," Adelaide added, glancing slowly down the hallway.

No one said anything—but the silence wasn't cold.

Just... different now. Thoughtful.

She turned again. The door to her rooms was ahead—carved mahogany, inlaid with soft silver vinework. She pushed it open.

And the girls stepped inside.

—

They had all been given rooms, of course. Lavish enough by any standard. A dressing chest. A few gowns. Gold combs and scented soaps.

But this was different.

Grace's rooms felt less like a guest suite and more like a crowned woman's domain. The ceilings vaulted higher. The bed was carved from dark ashwood, its canopy stitched in pale moss green. Heavy drapes lined the windows. A fireplace stood at one end, still glowing faintly with banked coals.

No one spoke at first.

Then Vanessa gave a low whistle. "Well. Shit."

Morgan plopped onto a divan and sank almost out of sight. "What happens when you actually marry the King."

Grace flushed. "I'm not marrying—"

"We know," Lila said gently. "It's just... a lot, even by Stark standards."

Adelaide crossed to the balcony, drawing back one curtain. "You can see the north gardens from here."

Grace didn't answer. Her fingers trailed over the table's polished edge, past the fruit she hadn't requested. She looked down at her tunic—smeared with tincture, one sleeve still damp—and suddenly felt like a trespasser in her own space.

It hadn't felt like hers before.

And now... maybe even less so.

But then one of the girls lit the candles with a snap of flint. Sienna—quiet, still flushed from the day—sat cross-legged on the floor, a baby blanket folded neatly in her lap.

"Now," Morgan declared, hands on her hips. "What are we going to do about dinner? I'm starving."

And just like that, the air in the room shifted—less royal, more real.

Not a courtly chamber.

A gathering place.

Home, if only temporary.

—

The knock came less than five minutes later.

Grace, halfway through lighting the remaining candles, looked up as the door creaked open.

A footman stepped in. Then another. Then a third—each bearing a silver tray piled high with roast meats glazed in wine, golden bread still warm to the touch, bowls of thick stew, clusters of honeyed fruit, and a berry tart so fresh it steamed in the cool air.

Everyone in the room froze.

Except Grace.

She just exhaled. Of course.

Steve stepped in last, boots silent against the rug, eyes sweeping over the crowd of flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

"I heard someone was hungry."

Grace blinked. "You overheard one thing and arranged a feast?"

He arched a brow. "They would've done it for you anyway. I just gave them a nudge."

Behind him, the footmen began setting trays on low tables and cushioned benches, unfolding soft cloths and uncorking bottles like it was a palace banquet instead of a girl's chamber. The smell alone—spice and sweetness and roasted comfort—made someone audibly sigh.

"You didn't have to," she said softly, watching the girls' delight bloom like dawn around the room.

"I know," he said, just as soft. "But I wanted to."

The food disappeared with astonishing speed.

At first, the girls tried to be polite—sitting straight, murmuring thanks, nibbling with careful bites. But hunger and shared exhaustion tore through formality like paper. Soon, they were barefoot on pillows, passing plates across laps and trading bites like siblings.

Grace curled on the bench, legs tucked beneath her, a bowl of stew in her lap and bread balanced on her knee. The firelight kissed her cheekbones, and her hair—still damp in places—curled soft around her jaw.

She let her gaze drift slowly around the room.

And only then did she realize—

Most of them were still girls.

Not in the condescending way the court might say it, but truly, chronologically—many of them were no older than nineteen or twenty. She was twenty-eight. Nearly an old maid by capital standards. And yet, somehow... this worked.

Only Adelaide, and Lady Alira were close to her in age, and Alira was still younger by a few years. And when she thought about it only Helena and Adelaide where they only  members of then Choosing older than her.

Yet in her little group they all were gathered like this felt natural. Like it had always been waiting to happen.

Someone had dispatched a few lady's maids at some point—she hadn't even noticed—and now the girls were piling fresh dresses and soft robes on the edge of the divan. Adelaide was already braiding her damp hair back. MJ announced, loudly and without shame, that she was absolutely taking advantage of Grace's private bathing room and wasn't sorry about it.

"There are three of us in a room the size of this fireplace," Morgan added, draping a new shift over the dressing screen. "You have hot water and marble floors. We're invading."

Grace laughed. "Fine. But you're washing your own towels."

"Fair," MJ called through the door.

Lila was recounting a child's question from the orphanage—something about whether all nobles wore perfume or if that was just a rumor—and by the time Morgan chimed in with a simpering impression of one of the courtiers, even the shyest of the country girls was laughing so hard she had to bury her face in a cushion.

Grace let her head rest against the wall behind her, a slow, genuine smile tugging at her mouth. Her body still ached, bruises tugged beneath the soft folds of her tunic, but the weight felt lighter now. Shared. Not hers alone.

She hadn't expected this.

Not so soon.

And certainly not with women who, days ago, had eyed her with suspicion and veiled contempt.

But here they were.

Eating, laughing, passing looks across flickering candlelight like old friends. She caught Vanessa—refilling a cup for one of the highborn girls, who murmured thanks without hesitation.

Something was shifting.

Not just within her.

Around her.
_____

A bit later Graves joined then with the food, but she was still so lost in her own head that when she reached for another piece of Grace reached for another piece of fruit—and nearly gasped.

A new plate had appeared beside her hand: glazed walnuts and thin slices of pear.

Steve.

She hadn't even noticed him still there.

He knelt beside her for just a moment, setting the dish down gently. Then he leaned in—close enough that she felt the soft brush of his breath against her ear.

"I'll leave you to it," he murmured.

Her fingers paused mid-reach.

"You don't have to," she said, just as softly.

"I know," he replied. "But this—" his gaze swept the room, over the women curled into cushions, laughing through mouthfuls of honeyed bread and half-dressed as they made themselves comfortable— "this is yours."

Her throat tightened.

He reached up without thinking, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingertips grazing the soft shell of it. For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

"I'll see you in the morning?"

She managed a nod.

And then he was rising—quiet, certain—and walking toward the door.

He paused at the threshold. Looked back. Not with longing or regret. Just... wonder.

Then he slipped into the hall.

The door clicked shut.

And the room exploded.

Squeals. Laughter. A pillow thrown and missed entirely. One of the girls actually kicked her legs in the air.

"Oh my gods," Lila gasped, already halfway sliding off the divan. "You were whispering!"

"Did he touch your hair?" Vanessa demanded, scandalized and delighted.

Sienna laughed into her hands, cheeks pink. "That was not a consort visit. That was practically a claiming ritual."

Grace buried her face in her hands. "Please stop."

"Not a chance," Morgan grinned. "We're living for this now. Tell us everything."

"You didn't even look startled," MJ gasped. "Where else has he touched you?"

"He brought you walnuts," Morgan sing-songed. "I've never had a man bring me nuts."

"There is no meaning in giving someone a plate of candied walnuts," Grace groaned into her hands.

Lila grinned. "And pears. Peeled. Arranged. Presented. Honestly, what kind of royal foreplay is that?"

"Probably the good kind," Vanessa muttered. "The kind with muscles. The Goddess knows he has to have muscles under those just-slightly-too-tight tunics."

"I will toss someone off this balcony," Grace said, not lifting her head. "Try me."

That only made the laughter louder. Even Sienna—quiet in her corner—was grinning now.

Adelaide tilted her head. "You're blushing. Do you know what his muscles feel like? I bet you do."

"I don't." Grace dropped her hands, sighing dramatically. "And you all smell like boiled herbs and stress."

That earned a chorus of mock outrage.

"I'm just saying," she continued, voice calm but eyes sparkling now, "if you think you're staying the night in here, we're rotating through the bath. Starting now."

It almost worked.

Morgan blinked. "Did she just mom-voice us?"

"She did," Lila confirmed. "Textbook deflection."

"Yep," said Vanessa, already rising. "Which means we're absolutely staying."

Grace rolled her eyes. "Fine. But seriously—use the soap. And don't flood the floor."

They filed into the adjoining washroom, each taking their turn, laughing and trading clean shifts. Every so often, a shriek rang out—someone finding a too-hot towel or elbowing for the best sponge.

And when they all returned, fresh-faced and flushed from the warmth, they curled onto the cushions again like they'd been doing it for years.

Grace watched them as she poured water into a clean pitcher. Most of them were so young. Younger than her by years, some by nearly a decade. She was twenty-eight—a healer, a widow, an omega who hadn't fully shifted. By court standards, an old maid.

Only Sienna and Lady Alira were close in age, and even they were twenty-five.

And yet somehow... this worked. They followed her. Laughed with her. Stayed.

Adelaide passed behind her, brushing a hand lightly along Grace's shoulder. "You don't have to carry it all, you know," she said quietly. "You're allowed to just be here with us."

Grace didn't answer right away.

But she looked down at the warm towel in her hands.

And let herself believe it might be true.

By the time Grace returned from her own bath—hair damp, skin pink from scrubbing off a full day's work—the room had transformed again.

The food trays had been pushed to one side. The girls had scattered, half-limp with exhaustion, still glowing faintly from warmth and laughter. Three of them were already curled into her bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. One had claimed the chaise lounge and was snoring softly, arm draped dramatically over her eyes.

In the corner, the trouble trio—Lila, Morgan, and MJ—had stolen every cushion not nailed down and built an impressive nest near the hearth, blankets layered in a mess of limbs and whispered giggles. A few girls had even lined up blankets on the floor, heads tucked into spare pillows or bundled cloaks.

Grace paused at the threshold and just... looked. Her own room. Full of sleeping, breathing chaos.

She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

Then the door creaked.

Natasha stepped inside without knocking, took one glance around, and let out a faint snort. "I see your diplomatic strategy is as unconventional as the rest of you."

Grace raised a brow. "Should I have turned them away? Believe it or not, this is fairly common after your first day as a healer."

Nat gave a noncommittal shrug. "In that case, let them cling for the night."

She disappeared into the hallway and returned a few minutes later with a basket of folded blankets—plain but clean—and dropped them just inside the door.

"No one's sleeping cold on my watch," she said simply. Then she was gone again.

Grace moved through the room quietly, draping extra warmth over bare legs and tucking a blanket around the girl curled at the foot of the bed. She dimmed the lamps one by one, then slipped under the covers herself, finding the last bit of space left between two snoring girls.

Adelaide, on the bed next to Grace's spot, opened one eye as she settled in.

"Good job, High Healer," she murmured. "They didn't end the day alone."

Grace didn't answer at first. Her eyes wandered across the flickering shadows, to the soft shapes of the girls stretched out all across her space. She exhaled slowly, the warmth of the room seeping into her bones.

Adelaide's words echoed back to her.

They didn't end the day alone.

Grace reached for the blanket, curled one arm beneath her head—

And let the darkness take her.

______

The corridor was empty.

The fire sconces burned low, their flames flickering softly along the carved stone. The kind of silence that came only after a long day—after too many decisions, too many moments that hadn't been his to savor.

He walked slowly, letting the cool floor steady him.

He returned to his quarters.

The moon had risen low tonight, painting the courtyard in silver. The stone gleamed like bone beneath it. Ivy leaves rustled in the breeze.

And from below his feet—faint, muffled through old beams and woven carpets—came the sound of laughter.

Not court laughter. Not rehearsed giggles or polished charm.

Real laughter.

Grace's. And the others', directly beneath him.

High and warm and unguarded. The kind of sound that curled deep in the chest and made something in him ache.

He leaned into the window, one hand braced on the cool frame, eyes closing.

He could almost picture it—her curled up barefoot with the other girls, eating late, head thrown back in amusement at something absurd. Her strength bare and bright. Her scent tangled in memory, thick in the fibers of his control.

She didn't know.

What she'd done to him.

What she was still doing.

Not just because of the bond, though that thread was there—unmistakable, taut. But because it was her. The way she never bowed quite right. The way her hands knew exactly what to do in crisis but fumbled in court. The way her bruises hadn't stopped her. The way she still looked at him like she might walk away.

He could still feel her—warm and steady from where he'd brushed her hair behind her ear.

And gods help him, he hadn't even kissed her.

Not really.

Not yet.

Only in that goddess-damned dream.

Steve exhaled, long and low.

From the window ledge, the sound of giggles picked up again—one of the younger girls shrieking in mock offense, the others howling after her—and Grace's voice followed a moment later, gently chiding.

A king should've returned to his bed by now. Should've rested. Planned for tomorrow.

But Steve stayed at the window a while longer, the moonlight at his back, and let himself listen—clear and open—to the sound of her joy drifting up with the spring breeze, until the room below exhaled for the night.

"Good night, little moon," he whispered at last.

And turned toward his own bed.

Chapter Text

The room had fallen to the hush of sleep.

Not silence—never that—but the warm, layered quiet of shared exhaustion. The sounds that filled the space were soft and human: the rustle of limbs beneath blankets, a faint sigh curling from the lounge, the occasional huff of a muffled snore. The kind of sleep that only came after too much laughing, too much aching, and just enough warmth.

Trays sat empty now. The last sliver of tart wilted on its plate, forgotten. A silver cup had tipped near the foot of the chaise, its water seeping into the corner of a woven rug, darkening the threads. One of the girls had drooled onto her pillow. Another was halfway out of her shift, one leg kicked free of her blanket. None of them stirred.

Grace lay still at the center of it all, cocooned in the softness of too many borrowed bodies and too little space. Her shift had slipped from one shoulder, fabric bunched against her ribs. She was too warm to fix it. Too tired to care.

The trouble trio—MJ, Morgan, and Lila—were a collapsed tangle on the floor near the hearth, limbs thrown over cushions like they'd gone to battle and lost. A pale green robe had been flung over someone's face. From somewhere deep in the pile came a dreamy giggle, followed by a hiccuping snore.

The fire had burned low. Only the embers remained, pulsing faintly in the grate.

And still, the window remained half-open.

Spring air breathed into the room—cool and crisp and laced with the faintest trace of blooming lilac. A shaft of moonlight fell clean across the floor, cutting silver over ankles and tangled braids, over Grace's hip and the curve of her wrist where it curled beneath her cheek.

Outside, the gardens slept.

Inside, the world held its breath.

And Grace dreamed.
——

The forest floor was soft beneath her feet—cool moss, crushed petals, and loam so dark it shimmered blue in the moonlight. Her soles made no sound as they moved, but the trees knew. They leaned in as she passed.

The air was thick, velvet-rich with scent.

Wet leaves. Split bark. Violet and ash. And beneath it all—musk and heat and something wild she couldn't name.

She was barefoot. She didn't remember removing her shoes.

Her hair streamed behind her like a banner of dark silk, catching on branches she hadn't seen. Her nightdress fluttered uselessly, already half-forgotten, threads unraveling like mist. She couldn't say where she was going. Only that something called to her. Urged her forward.

She was chasing something.

Or being chased.

Or perhaps—both.

Her pulse thundered like a drumbeat. Her breath came in shallow bursts, but she wasn't winded. Not exactly.

She was—

Becoming.

The trees shifted. The sky thinned.

And then she stumbled.

Her hand caught the edge of a tree trunk—wide as a carriage, silvered with lichen—and she froze.

There, just beyond the clearing.

In a pool of light so bright it glowed like water.

A wolf.

The creature lay still, but ears high, nose lifted like she'd been waiting. She was white.

Not pale brown. Not ash-gold. White as starlight. White as frost beneath moonlight.

Not pure. Not untouched.

Marked.

One paw curled slightly, favoring a weakness. Her flanks were lean. Too lean.

She was hungry. Not just for food.

For space.

For air.

For the right to exist.

Her eyes were the same stormlit gray as Grace's as their gaze connected.

And they were watching her.

Not wild.

Not angry.

Just waiting.

As if she'd known Grace was coming.

Grace's feet rooted to the earth. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

Then—between one breath and the next—a second shape materialized just beyond the clearing.

Massive. Pale. Silent.

Another wolf.

Blonde fur. Broader across the shoulders. Legs planted like a soldier. His eyes glinted gold beneath the canopy, locked not on Grace—but on her wolf.

Guarding.

Not as a threat.

As a sentinel.

Grace's breath caught.

The blonde wolf didn't move. He didn't need to.

He was holding the line.

As if the weakened wolf had called something older, deeper, into being—and it had answered.

The golden wolf—the one that was hers—took a step forward.

Then another.

Not stalking.

Approaching.

Claiming.

Until the moonlight cut a clean line between them.

And Grace's knees buckled.

Her bones twisted. Her skin sparked and pulled. Her spine arched—not in pain, but pressure, deep and ancient, like the moment before lightning strikes.

She opened her mouth to cry out—

And heard a growl echo from her own throat.

Then the wolf stepped forward, just as Grace collapsed. Their bodies blurred—

And Grace didn't cry out.

She howled.

A sound full of ache and thunder and too many forgotten nights.

The forest echoed her back.

And when she opened her eyes again, she was still there—

But she was the wolf now.

She could feel the cold under her paws. Could smell the night—smoke, pine sap, the iron tang of blood too far away to be danger.

Her limbs felt wrong. Not broken—but weak. Weaker than they should have been.

She padded forward—limping, slightly—and realized her body wasn't whole yet. Her ribs showed faintly. Her coat was knotted. Her claws still new.

But she was here.

Finally.

And something else was there too.

A sound, almost imperceptible. The lightest snap of twig. A shimmer of movement in the trees.

She turned her head—hackles raising instinctively—and saw him.

The other wolf.

Bigger than her. Golden, with fur like morning wheat and eyes like winter sun. Quiet. Watchful. Not threatening. Standing just behind her. Keeping guard.

Though she didn't know his name in this form, her bones remembered. Her blood remembered.

He didn't approach.

He didn't leave.

She was safe with him.

And beyond him—further still in the dark—another wolf watched from shadow. Larger still. Dark-coated. War-worn.

A sentinel.

A brother.

Grace's white wolf raised her head again and took one step forward. Then another.

Each step easier. Each breath fuller. The forest no longer a blur of scent and instinct. The world no longer distant.

She was in it.

Of it.

And she would not run anymore.

And still the golden wolf stayed beside her. Silent. Certain.

Whatever else the night held—she was not alone.

She reached a patch of moonlight—full and silver and humming with old power—and stood tall in it.

Not a girl.

Not just an omega.

Not only a healer.

A white wolf of the moonlit line.

And the forest bent to her howling.

⸻

She gasped awake.

Fingers curled into the fine linen sheets. Chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow pulls.

Sweat dampened her skin. The neckline of her shift clung to her chest. Her hair stuck to her temples, her throat. She blinked against the dark.

The room was exactly as they'd left it.

Girls sleeping like fawns in the grass.

A blanket half-kicked to the floor. Someone muttering in her dreams.

Grace sat up slowly, dragging in a breath that didn't quite settle.

She wasn't afraid.

Not exactly.

But her body didn't feel like her own. Not entirely. Not yet.

Her gaze drifted over the sleeping bodies—soft, familiar shapes wrapped in sleep and warmth and girlhood.

And for the first time... she felt it.

Not just older.

Other.

The shift had begun—inside her skin, beneath her ribcage, behind her eyes.

She was not what they were. Not anymore.

Maybe not ever.

A whisper of movement. A creak of the bedframe.

Adelaide rolled toward her, half-waking. One eye blinked open. Her voice came soft and grainy.

"Nightmare?"

Grace's lips parted.

But she didn't lie.

"No," she said, her voice quieter than breath. "Not a nightmare. Just... true."

Adelaide nodded—like that made perfect sense—and drifted back under.

Grace lay back slowly, staring up at the carved beams overhead. Her pulse still beat heavy in her throat.

The dream clung to her skin like fog.

⸻

But Grace was not asleep.

She had been—deeply, fully—but now her skin thrummed with heat and ache, and her breath caught sharp in her chest.

The dream had been so real.

Running. Barefoot through pine and shadow, breathless, wild. The scent of earth and salt and something older than names. Her heartbeat had echoed in her ears like drums. Like war. Like worship.

And then—moonlight.

She'd stumbled into it, gasping. And there it was: her wolf. Not snarling. Not hiding.

Waiting.

Her reflection in its gray eyes.

Not violent.

But claiming.

Ancient.

Feminine.

Inevitable.

She had felt herself rise into it—or it rise into her—and then she was back. Tangled in blankets, chest heaving, eyes wide.

She pushed them back and rose on shaking legs.

Every girl in the room remained asleep. Only Adelaide stirred again, blinking once from the edge of the bed.

"I just need some air. Go back to sleep," Grace whispered, voice still hoarse with sleep and dream.

Adelaide didn't answer. Just watched her with a soft furrow in her brow as Grace reached for the window, her fingers fumbling with the old iron latch before cracking it open just enough to let the cold spring air in.

She stood there. Barefoot in the silence.

Looking out.

The gardens stretched wide beneath her, awash in moonlight.

"No," she said finally. Her voice was low. Steady. Changed.

"Not a nightmare."

Adelaide didn't speak again.

She didn't need to.

Grace's fingers tightened on the stone sill.

And in the quiet below—

—-

Steve woke with a jolt.

His body snapped upright before his mind caught up—heart pounding, skin slick with heat, the bond burning under his ribs like a flare.

Not pain.

Not danger.

Something else.

Something older.

He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to steady himself.

She was awake.

No—not just conscious. Awake.

He could feel it. The shift. Subtle but sure. Like a tide pulling in. Like breath returning to a lung that had forgotten how to draw it.

His omega was stirring.

Her wolf—long buried, long quiet—was rising.

Steve leaned back against the headboard, the sheet pooling around his waist. The room was quiet. The coals in the hearth had burned down to ash. But everything inside him hummed.

She was confused. He could feel it—her uncertainty like a ripple across the thread between them.

But beneath it...

Completion.

Soft. Fragile. Unformed.

But there.

He closed his eyes, pressing a palm over his chest, over the bond that hadn't stopped pulling since the moment she arrived.

Since before.

Gods, he wanted to run. Down the stairs, through the hall, to her chamber door—pound on it, drag her into his arms, tell her everything.

That she wasn't alone.

That he'd been waiting.

That he'd never stopped.

But he couldn't.

Not yet.

Not when she was surrounded by the girls who'd claimed her as theirs. Not when the world still expected them to be strangers.

His jaw clenched. He turned toward the window, rising slowly.

The garden stretched wide beneath him, silver with moonlight. And there—directly below—

Movement.

The faintest creak of iron hinges. The shift of a shadow in the window.

Her.

She lifted her head.

And he looked down.

They didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Only stood there—mirror images in the hush of moonlight, the air between them heavy with the weight of everything that had just shifted.
———
Grace's heart pounded.

She was no longer just a healer. No longer only a widow, or a court pawn, or even a contender in the Choosing.

She was awake.

Her wolf—her omega—was no longer quiet.

And nothing would be the same.

Steve tipped his head slightly. Just enough to show he saw her.

That he knew.

And that he wasn't going anywhere.

Grace exhaled.

The wind lifted the curtain slightly.

She didn't smile.

But her fingers loosened on the stone.

And slowly—quiet as breath—she let the window close.

Chapter Text

Steve raised his hand to knock—

—but the moment his knuckles brushed wood, a crash sounded from inside.

"Don't come in!" Grace shouted. The words came too loud, too fast. Like she'd been holding her breath and didn't realize it.

He froze. Hand still raised. Brow lifting.

There was a shuffle of limbs, followed by a muffled ow, a curse that definitely belonged to Lila, and what sounded like someone knocking over a tray of teacups.

"Everything alright in there?" Steve asked, trying very hard not to laugh.

"No," Grace called back. "Yes. Just—give me a minute!"

He lowered his hand slowly and leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "Should I be worried?"

Another thud. A squeak. MJ's unmistakable voice followed: "Grace, he knows that we're all in here."

Somewhere amidst the thuds and complaints, Grace pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.

Her heart was still beating too fast.

It hadn't stopped all night—not really. Not since she'd woken with the weight of another body, another self, still pressed to her skin. Her wolf had retreated to wherever she'd come from, but Grace could still feel her. A presence under her ribs. A second breath.

"Okay," she muttered, mostly to herself. "Okay."

Then, louder, to the room: "Shoes. Shifts. Out."

"Get dressed," Grace hissed. "All of you. And out, or I swear to the goddesses I will personally assign you to latrine duty for a week."

"You're not queen yet," Morgan replied sweetly.

"But she will be," added the healer girl from the day before—Adelaide, Steve remembered. "And I for one would rather not test her temper again. She nearly flayed a man with words and saved an entire orphanage. It was amazing. Now everyone out."

More rustling. More complaints. A pillow hit the door just before it opened a crack.

Grace peeked through. Her curls were wild. There was a pillow crease on her cheek, and her eyes—though warm—looked a little dazed. Her cheeks flushed. "Sorry," she muttered, voice still sleep-rough and too soft for his peace of mind. "They stayed the night. Our late dinner turned into... everything else."

"I heard," Steve said mildly. "You had a small army down here."

"Sorry if we were too loud. I didn't plan it."

"I didn't say I minded."

Their eyes held for a long beat.

Behind her, the room was a mess of blankets, empty plates, a stack of dog-eared books, and at least one person's foot still poking out from the settee cushions. Other girls ran around the room getting redressed, helping each other with laces.

Steve cleared his throat. "I just came to check on you. See how you're feeling. You seemed... upset last night."

"I'm... not upset. I just... I don't know," she said, softer now. "You can come back in a little while. I need to get everyone out, and then we can chat. I promise."

She rubbed the back of her neck, then winced.

Sore. Like she'd run a marathon in her sleep.

"Alright." He glanced over her shoulder once more. "Tell Lila she owes me two tea trays."

Grace's lips twitched. "She'll deny everything."

"I expect nothing less."

He gave her a nod, then turned back toward the corridor. As the door clicked softly shut behind him, he swore he heard someone whisper, "You could've let him in. Bet he'd have blushed."

And from Grace—dry, fond, and slightly exasperated:

"Out."
——

The door had barely clicked shut before it creaked back open.

This time, it wasn't Grace.

It was Lila.

She darted into the hallway, cheeks flushed, hair in a half-undone braid, and nearly ran straight into Steve's chest.

"Oh!" she squeaked. "Uncle Steve... I mean Your Majesty."

"Lila." He gave her a dry look.

Behind her, a slow parade of chaos emerged: MJ next, then Morgan, then Sienna with a tray tucked under one arm and someone's slipper in hand. Vanessa trailed behind, holding her boots like they might explode. One by one, the girls filtered past him, trying very hard not to meet his eyes.

He arched a brow. "Quiet night, huh?"

Melissa cleared her throat. "Peaceful as a graveyard."

"Mm."

"We were... studying," MJ added, trying for solemn and failing spectacularly.

"In the dark?"

"It was... atmospheric."

Steve bit the inside of his cheek. "Of course."

The last one out—Adelaide—paused just long enough to murmur, "Your Majesty... she had a nightmare last night. She seems okay... but a little off this morning. We tried not to ask. Maybe she'll tell you."

Then she gave an awkward curtsy and trotted after the others, slipper and tray in hand.

Steve watched them disappear around the corner before turning back to the half-open door.

He didn't knock this time.

He just stepped inside.

The room was quieter now, warm with lingering sleep and leftover laughter. The hearth crackled low. A book had fallen spine-up from the arm of the chair. The window was still cracked, letting in a breath of cool morning air.

And in the center of it all—Grace.

Still in nothing but a rumpled shift, bare feet curled beneath her as she tried—and failed—to braid her hair. Her fingers faltered halfway through the twist.

She looked up as he entered. Froze.

Her lips parted. "I didn't say—"

"You didn't lock the door."

Her mouth snapped shut.

"I figured I'd save you the trouble of calling me back," he added, voice mild.

Grace huffed a breath and tugged the braid too tight. "You didn't have to barge in."

"You let the girls in, but not me?"

"That's different."

"Is it?"

He stopped just in front of her, arms crossed, gaze steady.

"You know it is," she said, eyes dropping away.

The braid slipped. Fell in a messy curl over her shoulder.

He reached out, gently catching the strand. Twirled it slowly around his finger, his knuckles brushing just above the curve of her breast.

Then he stepped closer—close enough to pull her against him, though the contact was careful, reverent. She didn't step back. She only tried again to twist the braid, slower now. Steadier.

"I had another dream last night," she murmured.

"I know," he said quietly. "You shared it again."

"It wasn't just a dream, was it, Steve?"

"No. And you don't believe it was either, do you?"

She shook her head just slightly, then looked down to where he still played with her hair.

"There were... others," she added, even softer now. "But they weren't clear. I couldn't see their faces. Just shadows. Shapes. I think they were watching me."

She hesitated. "Does that sound crazy?"

"No," he said gently, even though the breath had caught in his chest. "It doesn't sound crazy at all."

He didn't tell her that he'd been there too.

That the golden wolf had stood beside her—was him.

That the dark one had lingered in deeper shadow—Bucky.

Her sentinel in silence.

Together, they had formed a guard around her.

And she hadn't even known.

She looked up again. Met his eyes. Hers were clearer now—but still shadowed. Like the confusion lingered, but she had decided to accept the truth.

"I felt her. I was her. But even now, I feel like I'm wearing skin that doesn't quite belong to me."

"You're not."

"I know." Her voice trembled just slightly. "But it's still new."

Steve nodded once. "So start small."

A pause.

Then, quieter: "You opened the window."

She blinked.

"Last night. You were standing right below mine. I saw you."

Her cheeks flushed again, but she didn't look away this time.

"Right." She glanced toward the window. "I needed some air. I'm sorry if I woke you."

"I was awake. Couldn't sleep," he lied, not telling her he'd been as torn apart by her dream as she was.

Grace's fingers toyed with the hem of her shift. "You knew, didn't you? That this would happen. That I'd wake."

He didn't answer right away. There were a thousand truths on the tip of his tongue—
But each one was too much. Too soon.
And she wasn't ready.
Not yet.

Instead, he cupped her cheek, gently making her look back up at him.

Then, simply: "I hoped."

"Is this one of the things you wanted to tell me?"

"Yes."

"But there's more, isn't there?"

"Indeed. But you are so close, Little Moon. Not much longer now. I promise."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. She leaned into the touch, not knowing why his presence calmed her so much—but knowing she didn't want to pull away.

"Will you be alright today?"

She squared her shoulders before taking a step back. "Of course. I always am. I never had a choice not to be."

"Grace," he whispered, wishing he could lift that weight from her shoulders.

"I'm fine," she repeated. Then, a little more gently: "Just... tired. And need to think."

"I can wait," he said, voice low. "As long as it takes."

She smiled, faint and wry. "Now before you get caught in here, you need to leave so I can get ready for the day. And clean up this mess."

He gave her one more lingering glance, then bent to press a softer kiss to her hair—

And took his leave.

But the bond didn't fade.
If anything—it burned brighter.

——-

Then he spoke.

"Before we begin—" his voice rang clear and confident across the great hall "—those who remained at the orphanage yesterday demonstrated not just strength, but compassion. Leadership without cruelty. The ability to prioritize the wellbeing of others. Traits this court would do well to remember."

A ripple moved through the room. Tension prickled like static.

Thorne, seated a few places down, looked as though she'd bitten something rotten.

"To honor that," he continued, nodding toward an approaching attendant with a polished silver tray, "you will each receive a royal coin purse for the market. Today, you're granted a private, escorted shopping trip to the capital vendors. No trials. No politics. No expectations. Just something good."

Lila let out a breathless whoop before slapping both hands over her mouth.

Grace turned toward him, startled. "Your Majesty—"

"Ah," Steve cut in smoothly, his eyes glinting with warmth and something sharper beneath, "one condition. No one leaves castle grounds without guarded escorts. And none of you are to carry anything heavy. Not even your own bags. Those are my terms."

Laughter stirred at the table, soft and bubbling.

Alira offered a graceful bow of her head. "We accept, Your Majesty."

Then Steve turned his gaze to the other side of the hall—where the rest of the contenders sat in stiffer silence.

"As for the remainder of our guests," he said, not unkindly, but with no room for argument, "today will also be a respite. You are not required to train or compete. However, you are to remain within the castle proper. The gardens are available to you. Please use this time for reflection."

A subtle message. No punishment. But no reward either.

Not yet.

Morgan leaned close, voice low and gleeful. "This is going to kill Thorne."

Grace allowed herself a smile.

Not wide.

Not reckless.

But real.

And as the servants brought out food and the hall began to settle back into its rhythm, Grace could feel it—beneath the chatter, the silver, the silk—

The shift.

Not in rank.

But in loyalty.

In strength.

In the quiet, unshakable truth that Grace was no longer alone.
——-

The great hall had barely emptied when the low hiss of voices rose behind closed doors.

"The King is compromising the process," spat Lady Elise Zeno, her jeweled sleeve flicking like a whip as she paced. "This is not a charity pageant—it is the Choosing. A sacred tradition."

"She was rewarded for disobedience," added the elder Lady Thorne, fingers clenched around the pommel of her cane. "She abandoned the format. Dismissed the judges. And now she sits just below the high seat while girls of noble blood are left at the bottom of the table?"

"She healed orphans," muttered someone dryly.

Several heads turned—because the voice had come from the wall.

Nick Fury stepped out of the shadowed alcove like he'd always been there.

Which he probably had.

"Apologies," he said with a shrug, casual as a blade drawn slow. "I do enjoy a good tantrum in the morning."

"You have no place in this room," Helena snapped.

"I have a place wherever the King asks me to be." He lifted an eyebrow. "And he asked."

"Lord Fury," the elder Lady Zeno said slowly, trying for calm, "you advised his father. Surely even you see the danger in abandoning the structure of the trials."

"Oh, I see it," Fury said, his voice dropping to something cooler. "What I also see is a pack of so-called nobles who just got outmaneuvered by a half-healed girl from the Hollow with no jewels, no title, and no patience for your games."

The words hit like stone dropped in still water.

He let the silence stretch, just long enough for discomfort to bloom.

Then, quieter: "And she still managed to command loyalty. Real loyalty. You've all spent so long clawing your way to the top, you forgot how people follow."

A sharp inhale. Lady Morwin's eyes narrowed. "This is dangerous."

"So is tampering with the trial order," Fury said, gaze slicing clean. "Which, as I understand, the King will be addressing shortly. With names."

The room stilled.

A single beat passed.

Then Fury gave them a slow, sharp-edged smile.

"I suggest," he said, already turning toward the door, "you all think very carefully before pushing him again."

He paused.

"He's his father's son."

A breath.

"But he's his mother's temper."

And then he was gone.
———

Steve didn't look up when Fury entered. He was still braced over the war table, fists pressed to either side of a map of the capital district, jaw clenched tight.

"So," Fury said casually, stepping into the room, "I made some friends this morning."

Steve's voice was flat. "Me too. How bad?"

"Depends who you ask. Lady Zemo looked ready to combust. Old Lady Thorne demanded a vote of oversight. Someone else called Grace a wild animal—"

Steve's head snapped up, eyes burning. "They said what?"

Fury held up a hand, calm as ever. "Relax. I handled it."

"How?" Steve's voice cut sharp and low.

Fury's gaze flicked toward him. "The same way I always do. Quietly. Thoroughly. Nothing happens here I don't see, Son. That's why you asked me to stay."

Steve exhaled, slow and controlled. "I didn't reward them to provoke anyone."

"I know," Fury said, stepping closer. "You did it because they earned it. Because you're trying to build something that doesn't rot from the top down."

Steve's fingers relaxed on the map edge. His jaw was still tight, but the lines of his shoulders had shifted—less tension, more resolve.

"They're going to push harder now," he said. "Try to isolate her. Divide the girls. Maybe even force the council's hand."

Fury shrugged. "Let them try. They're playing politics. She's waking the old magic."

Steve's head turned at that. "How do you know about that?"

Fury didn't blink. "I saw her walk in here from the Hollow wearing nothing but linen and a spine of steel. And then I watched a half-dead court realign itself around her without her lifting a blade. You tell me what that sounds like."

A beat of silence passed.

Then, quieter: "You think they're rattled now?" Fury added, lips quirking into a sharp smile. "Wait until word spreads the Hollow's wolf walks again. They'll be pissing themselves by the new moon."

Steve's throat worked around something unspoken. He looked back at the map—but his hand moved now, tracing a path with his fingers. Not toward a threat. But toward a memory. Toward home.

"I need to be ready," he said.

"You already are," Fury replied. "You're your father's legacy. But your mother's fire."

A quiet beat.

Steve looked up. "Thank you, Nick."

Fury turned toward the door. "Don't thank me yet. This is only the beginning."

And with that, he was gone.

Steve stood alone, the map before him.

His fingers hovered over the Hollow.

And then moved—to the seat beside his own at the high table.

A new name would go there soon.

And the court would burn before he let them tear her down

⸻

The courtyard was alive with noise and color.

Chaos—soft and joyful—rippled through the morning air as girls gathered in loose clusters, the last of their royal escorts delayed by some scheduling misfire or minor scandal up at the front gates.

Shoes were being swapped. Bracelets borrowed. Vanessa had learned to braid a crown the previous night and was now attempting to replicate it on Morgan's head with more enthusiasm than accuracy, resulting in more giggling than progress.

A young page sprinted past with an armful of cloaks, nearly tripping over a hound curled under the shade of a potted olive tree. Lila darted after him, claiming two with a victorious grin. MJ spun in place to test the swish of her hem. Adelaide tried—and failed—not to laugh as Sienna argued gently with a guard about the best pastry stalls inside the palace gates.

And at the edge of it all—Grace.

She sat on a low stone bench beneath the twisted branches of a lemon tree, just beside the open archway that led back into the castle. Her dress was simple, but not plain: a soft, pale blue overlaid with a sheer overskirt that caught the light with every breeze. A wide linen sash wrapped at her waist, and faint silver embroidery traced the collar of her blouse in looping lines that felt, somehow, old. Regal, even.

Her jitters were hidden, but not forgotten. Her hair—still damp from the morning wash—had been half-twisted and pinned back, curling loosely over her shoulders. The silver cuff on her wrist glinted in the sun. It was the only piece of jewelry she'd chosen herself.

Maela had made sure she ate.

Natasha had made sure she didn't overdo it.

But it was Natasha now who stood just behind her, quiet and still—not watching the courtyard, but watching Grace.

Not the girl in the dress.

But the wolf beneath her skin.

The way she held her spine just a little straighter today.

The faint hum in the air around her.

The way birds kept landing nearby, even with all the noise.

The wolf is rising, Natasha thought. Not fully. Not yet. But enough.

She didn't say anything.

Just reached forward and gently adjusted the drape of Grace's sash—then fastened something at the edge. A small silver pin. Grace hadn't seen it before.

She glanced down.

It was shaped like a wolf, sleek and curled protectively around a deep blue enamel crest.

A royal symbol.

Steve's.

It had last belonged to his mother.

Grace touched it with careful fingers. "It's beautiful, but I can't wear this."

"You can," Natasha said evenly, smoothing the fabric. "You know it belongs there now."

Grace looked up at her—but whatever she might have said was lost as MJ's voice cut across the courtyard.

"We look like a gang," MJ declared proudly, giving her cloak a dramatic whirl. "A beautiful, coordinated, slightly terrifying gang."

"Speak for yourself," Lila called. "We're also armed with coin purses from a king. I don't think the court vendors are ready."

More laughter. More chatter. Someone shrieked as a chicken escaped from a cart on the far side of the courtyard. Vanessa bolted after it, tripping over the hem of her borrowed cloak.

And Grace?

She just watched it all with a hand curled in her lap and sunlight warming her skin.

For once, she didn't feel like a pawn.

Or a patient.

Or one of the Chosen.

She just felt like a woman.

And she was surrounded by people who saw her that way, too.

——-

Steve stood just outside the doors of the great hall, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his belt, the other clenched at his side. From his vantage point, he could see the courtyard below—alive with color and motion, a swarm of young women chattering, laughing, bright as spring blossoms in their new cloaks and coin purses.

Bucky leaned against a nearby column, boots crossed at the ankle. Sam stood beside him, arms folded, watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement.

"You gonna mope the whole time?" Bucky asked.

"I'm not moping."

"You're moping. That's full sulk posture, man."

Sam raised a brow. "He's got the brooding jaw thing going too. That's level two."

Steve didn't respond. Down in the courtyard, Grace adjusted the strap on her satchel—not the polished leather pouch the others carried, but her worn healer's bag from the Hollow. Her hair was loosely pinned, curls already slipping free despite her best efforts, and even in the soft, queenly dress Nat had helped her into, she looked more like someone heading to a triage tent than a royal market.

"She's not going to spend that coin," Steve muttered.

Bucky followed his line of sight. "Because you know her."

"She should at least enjoy it."

Sam leaned a little closer. "She's not going for the vendors, man. She's going for the girls. That's the gift."

Steve didn't answer. Across the yard, Natasha finished giving last-minute instructions to the group—Morgan already pointing excitedly toward the jewelers' row—and stepped in close to Grace, adjusting the pin at her waist.

Then Grace turned.

Her eyes found Steve instantly.

He didn't wave. Didn't smile.

Just dipped his chin once—in that quiet way he did when he was trying not to reach for her.

She held his gaze a beat longer, then let the corner of her mouth curve. Not quite a smile. But almost.

When she turned again, Bucky was already stepping forward, offering his arm without a word.

Steve's voice stopped him.

"Bucky."

The other man glanced back, brows raised.

Steve's jaw flexed. "Protect her. With your life."