“She asked him to lose the armor. He didn’t know she meant his heart.”

He followed her.

No words.

No orders.

Just her back, tall and unbending, flames dancing in her wake like the hem of a god’s cloak. She never looked back.

Until she stumbled.

And then collapsed.

Daniel was at her side before her knees hit the ground. Her breathing was sharp, shallow—magic still crackling at her fingertips like it didn’t know how to stop.

“Lysandra,” he whispered, catching her. “You’re burning out.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes fluttered shut.

He swept her into his arms without thinking.

They couldn’t go far. The court would already be in chaos. They needed cover. Somewhere close, quiet.

The stables.

He ducked into the shadows of the lower stalls, kicked a broken lock aside, and laid her gently down in the cleanest hay he could find.

Her body was still warm—too warm. Magic heat. Exhaustion heat.

He hesitated.

Then moved quickly, respectfully.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath.

He untied the back of her scorched gown, keeping his eyes on the ceiling beams above them. His fingers shook. He peeled the silk down slowly, only enough to free her from the worst of it. She wasn’t burned—thank the gods—but the dress was ruined.

He found one of the spare travel tunics in their hidden pack. Something simple. Linen. Soft.

He dressed her carefully, keeping his gaze high, away, focused on anything but the curve of her collarbone or the line of her legs.

“Don’t look,” he muttered to himself. “She’s not yours like that.”

Once she was clothed and safe, he sat back.

Then noticed his own shirt—torn, blackened from flame.

He stripped it off quickly, grabbing a spare and yanking it over his head. His heart still hadn’t calmed. Not from the fire.

From her.

From the sight of her collapsing.

From what she’d done—for herself. For them.

She stirred.

Turned toward him, weak but aware.

And whispered his name.

“Daniel…”

He dropped to his knees beside her.

“I’m here,” he said. Voice quiet. Sure.

“Did we make it?”

“Not all the way,” he murmured. “But far enough to matter.”

And in the quiet of a stable filled with smoke-scented hay, under moonlight and ruin—

They waited for the rest of the world to catch up.

The city was chaos behind them—firelight still licking the sky above Cormera, bells ringing in the distance, guards flooding the main roads like blood searching for a wound.

Lysandra limped fast through the shadows of the market district, her dark cloak trailing behind her, cursing every cobblestone in her path.

Daniel kept pace beside her, breathing steady, jaw tight.

“Golcosia is south,” she snapped, ducking under a broken banner. “We can reach it by foot, take a coastal skiff through Asalcesia, then sea to Stella.”

“We are not stepping foot in Asalcesia,” Daniel shot back. “That’s your father’s empire. You think he doesn’t have your face carved into every watchtower wall?”

“Then what? Diyu? Where Felipe’s bounty hunters own the streets? That’s suicide!”

“So is arguing in public in the middle of a burning kingdom!”

A voice shouted somewhere behind them—too close.

Lysandra twisted toward the alley—and stepped wrong. A sharp cry left her lips as her foot turned beneath her.

Daniel caught her arm just before she collapsed.

They both heard the yell:

“That’s her! I saw her face!”

No time. No breath.

Daniel dragged her through a side market, his eyes scanning left and right before he yanked her behind an abandoned bangle stall with a half-broken cloth awning. It was small. Covered. Hidden—for now.

She stifled a groan as she pressed back against the wooden counter, her ankle throbbing. “I can’t run like this.”

He dropped to his knees in front of her without a word, unlacing her boot gently, brow furrowed in focus. He pulled a small tin from his pack—balm. Minty. Sharp.

“You always carry healing balm?” she asked, breathless.

“I always plan to get hurt when you’re around,” he muttered.

She tried to smile. Couldn’t.

His fingers brushed her skin. Careful. Intent. When he found the sprain, she flinched. He didn’t hesitate—pressed the balm in, massaging the joint with practiced care. Then—

He kissed her knee.

A soft, reverent brush of lips against skin.

Her breath caught.

“Daniel…” Her voice was low. “It’s not the right time for this.”

He didn’t look up.

“You keep saying that. And I keep not caring.”

That broke something in her.

She looked away.

Because every time he did something gentle—without question, without price—it scraped against the guilt blooming in her chest.

She had run to be free.

And he had followed because of her.

She was using him. Not maliciously. Not cruelly. But truthfully?

She didn’t know if she could ever give him what he wanted.

And still, he kneeled there like she was holy and he was built to pray.

It killed her.

He rewrapped her boot, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

“You’re not breathing,” he said.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

He didn’t push.

They waited in silence as the shouting moved further away. When the noise died and footsteps scattered, he helped her to her feet.

They emerged from the stall slowly, cautiously.

And that’s when she saw it.

The potato truck.

Half-covered. Half-loaded. One wheel squeaking.

The back was open.

Two goats stood nearby, bleating like judgmental gremlins.

She turned to him, deadpan. “No.”

He tilted his head. “Yes.”

“No way. Absolutely not.”

“Best disguise we’ll get. No one checks root veg.”

“You have a head injury, don’t you?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He climbed onto the edge of the cart and held out his hand to her, grinning like a fool.

“Come on, Matilda. We’ve run from a palace, survived bounty hunters, and faked a wedding. What’s a few goats and a pile of dirt-smelling roots between fugitives?”

She stared at him, dry-eyed.

“I hate this.”

“You’ll hate the train ride more.”

She took his hand.

Because of course she did.

And the goats screamed in outrage as they climbed in.

The alley spit them out onto a side street—muddy, rutted, quiet. Lysandra’s hood was pulled deDr, her limp hidden as best she could with Daniel’s arm around her for support. Her ankle still ached, but she didn’t complain.

Too many things hurt worse.

Cormera was still burning somewhere behind them. And ahead?

Only road. Only strangers.

At the far end of the street, just before the slope to the railway exchange, they spotted it:

A wide freight hauler, two axles, wood-planked, weather-worn, with sacks of burlap waiting to be loaded. Potatoes. The hauler had oxen at the front and a huffing steam core tucked under the driver's bench—cheap magic. Smoky. Industrial.

Two goats were tethered nearby, chewing on rope like their presence was punishment.

Lysandra stared.

“…That’s not a carriage,” she whispered.

Daniel blinked at her. “No. That’s a hauler.”

She tilted her head. “Where are the velvet cushions?”

His mouth twitched. “Gone with your crown.”