CHAPTER 80: REMORSE

The night had quieted, but the echoes of battle still clung to the air.

Ilaria sat at the edge the bench, her sleeve torn back while Harken cleaned the gash on her arm. The cut was not deep, but it burned like fire. She flinched when the alcohol touched her skin, but the sting was nothing compared to the hollow ache sitting heavy in her chest.

Alonzo knelt beside her, holding a roll of clean bandage as he watched the Captain tending to the princess’ arm. His expression was tight, guilt carved deep into it. "I should’ve been faster," he muttered. "If I hadn’t—"

"It wasn’t your fault," she interrupted softly. Her voice was steady, but it sounded like she was forcing calm through a crack that wanted to break. "It caught us all off guard. You got hurt too," she said, motioning to his scraped hand.

Harken’s jaw worked as he took the bandage and carefully tied it around her delicate arm, his hands rough but careful. The princess was so fragile. Although her arm was perfectly in a healthy shape, it felt like it could snap if he put too much pressure on it.

Noticing his distress, Ilaria tried to lighten up his mood as well. "It doesn’t hurt too badly. Really," she said, her tone light and almost playful, though her voice wavered faintly. "I’ve had worse papercuts, you know."

Neither of them smiled.

Alonzo, still crouching beside her looked stricken. His hands were shaking slightly. "You shouldn’t make jokes right now, princess..." he tried to sound neutral, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

She turned her head toward him, lips quirking. "Don’t look so grim, Alonzo. It makes me feel bad."

Alonzo looked away then, the weight of her words thick in the tent. The air felt heavy with unspoken things, of guilt and worry and the quiet shame of survival.

After a while, she added, trying to ease the tension, "At least it didn’t eat me. That would’ve been terribly undignified."

Alonzo nearly choked on his saliva, though the edges of his eyes started to dampen. "Princess, please don’t say things like that..."

Harken finished wrapping the bandage, tugging the end into a neat knot. He stepped back slightly, studying his work in silence before his gaze lifted to the rest of her. The mud staining her skirt, the soot streaking her cheek, the way her once-silken hair was now matted and tangled from wind and rain.

He sighed through his nose. If only he was not do easily bribed by her macarons... He said, "You’ll need to clean up, Your Highness. That cut may be shallow, but infection won’t care much for royal blood. And..." his eyes flicked briefly to the mess of mud and grime on her, "neither will a cold."

Ilaria glanced down at herself and gave a small, sheepish pout. "I look dreadful, don’t I?"

Harken hesitated. "You look like someone who fought for her life," he said simply.

That made her smile falter. For a moment, she just stared at her hands in her lap, fingers curling faintly. The tent fell quiet again, save for the soft crackle of the lantern. She wondered where Levan had gone to. It has been almost half an hour after he was gone.

Sighing, she asked, "Is he still angry?"

Harken looked at her. He was not the sort to gossip, nor to lie, but the way she asked with that small and hesitant demeanour as if she already knew the answer made him hesitated.

"His Highness has gone to ensure the perimeter’s secure," he replied after a beat, tone even. "There may still be stragglers, so it’s best the area is cleared before dawn. His Highness is exceptional in this matter. There’s no one better when it comes to dealing with the beasts."

Alonzo shifted uncomfortably beside her, casting the Captain a wary glance, because they both knew exactly what that meant. When the crown prince went to ’clear the perimeter,’ it did not just mean inspection. It meant carnage.

Harken’s expression did not change, but his eyes cast slightly away, betraying what he would not say aloud, that His Highness was furious. Not just the clipped and cold kind of anger they had all grown used to, but the kind that bled into violence.

And tonight, every beast that still roamed these woods would pay the price for it.

Ilaria’s brows furrowed faintly. "He’s... he’s making sure we’re safe?"

Harken inclined his head, his voice steady but softer this time. "Yes, princess. By morning, the forest will be silent again. He will see to that."

But Alonzo’s eyes did not leave the tent flap. The faint glow of firelight flickering outside, the echo of a distant, dying roar threading through the night. And in that silence, none of them had the heart to say what they all knew: that safety was not what drove Levan into the dark right now.

Harken’s eyes flickered back to her worn and muddy attire. There were no maids here, no attendants, no noblewomen to assist her. Only soldiers. And the thought crossed his mind, fleeting but sharp, that the only one who could help her was the very man who had left the tent in anger.

For a moment, the captain said nothing, his expression unreadable. He had seen princes rage, knights break, and soldiers die, but the way Levan had looked at her before storming off still sat heavy in his chest. The others might not notice, but after being by his side for so long, he could tell that there was fear in it. Not for himself, but for her.

Harken’s gaze softened, just slightly. "Will you be alright, princess?"

Ilaria blinked at him, then followed his glance toward the mud-smeared edges of her gown. For a second, her lips parted as if to say something, then she caught herself and gave a small, tired smile.

"Oh— don’t worry," she said lightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I can take care of myself."

Harken inclined his head slightly, the gesture half a bow, half an acknowledgment. "Then I’ll have a knight posted outside. If you require assistance or anything happens, just call."

"Thank you," she said softly.

The two men lingered only a moment longer before bowing, then stepping out of the tent, the flap falling shut behind them.

Left alone, Ilaria stared at her reflection in the faintly polished edge of a water basin. Dirt and blood streaked across her face, her hair falling uselessly, eyes red-rimmed from more than smoke. She exhaled shakily, brushing a thumb under her eye. If Melyn was here, she will undoubtedly be angry.

"Useless on the field," she whispered, echoing words that still burned fresh. "A liability..."

Her throat tightened. For a heartbeat, she almost let herself crumble. But then she shook her head and muttered under her breath, forcing a small, wobbly smile. "Well... at least I’m a presentable liability."

She reached for the rag beside the basin, fingers trembling as she dipped it into the water. The liquid rippled faintly, a dull shimmer beneath the lantern light. When she wrung the cloth out, her wrist protested with a sharp twinge that made her breath catch. Still, she pressed the rag to her skin.

The first touch was cold enough to sting, the chill biting through the thin layer of grime that clung to her arm. She moved slowly, wiping away the dried blood and dirt. Each motion sent a dull ache through her shoulder down her ribs and across her spine, the reminders of every fall, every blow, and every desperate struggle from earlier.

Her breath came in small, uneven pulls. She tried to lift her arm higher to reach the mud on her collarbone, but her muscles refused. A quiet whimper escaped before she could stop it, swallowed quickly into the still air. She froze, willing herself to stay composed, to not be seen so fragile and foolish and small.

But then, the faint rustle of fabric and boots brushing against the ground broke the silence.

The tent flap stirred.

She turned her head, and got startled when she saw her husband.

Levan stood framed by the faint glow of the ward-flames outside, his coat still darkened from battle, his hair damp, the gold in his eyes burning low like dying embers. His hand lingered on the tent’s edge as if he had not expected to find her awake or in such a state.

He looked calmer now. The raw fury that had once burned through him had cooled into something heavier. But calm did not mean peace. The edges of it still crackled faintly, restrained by will alone.

Blood streaked his sleeves and collar, dried in uneven smears. There was a dark stain across his shoulder that looked almost black in the lantern light.

For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze flicked briefly to her bandaged arm, the rag in her hand, the faint tremor of exhaustion in her movements. Then his eyes moved away again, as if he did not trust himself to look too long.

Her fingers tightened around the cloth, as though she could hide the trembling by sheer will. "You’re back," she said softly, but there was no warmth in it, only careful restraint, the kind born of walking through glass.

"I am," he replied curtly, like every word cost him effort.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. She stared down at the basin, at the faint ripples still spreading from where she had dropped the cloth. She swallowed a lump in her throat. "Are you... still angry with me?"

Levan did not answer her. He only exhaled, a sound that came out more like a rough and weary sigh than anything else. He turned slightly away, his hands working at the clasps of his coat.

The fabric came loose with a dull rustle as he pulled it off, the movement sharp but unhurried. His shirt underneath was rumpled, streaked with dirt and ash. He set the coat aside carefully, though his shoulders were rigid and his expression unreadable.

He did not look at her as he unfastened the remaining buttons, just turned slightly so his back was to her. The faint scar along his spine caught the light, an old mark that was pale against the tense lines of muscle shifting beneath his skin.

The lantern’s glow traced the slope of his shoulders, the breadth of his frame, the quiet strength carved into every motion as he ran a hand through his hair, pushing the damp strands back.

For a moment, Ilaria forgot how to breathe.

It was not vanity that made her notice, it was the sheer realness of him. The way the battle still clung to him in streaks of blood and smoke, the quiet exhaustion in the movement of his arms. The kind of strength that did not belong to the cold, distant prince she thought she knew, but to a man who had fought tooth and nail to survive.

She caught herself staring and quickly looked away, guilt blooming hot across her cheeks. The rag slipped from her hand into the basin with a soft splash. He was calm and more controlled now. But that quiet... Oh, that quiet was so much worse than the shouting.

Levan turned toward her then. The movement was slow, but it made her breath catch all the same. He had shed the rest of his uniform undone until only his trousers remained, skin streaked with faint traces of blood and soot. The lantern light caught on the sharp planes of his chest and arms.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. He simply stood there, watching the fragile curve of her shoulders, the way her hair clung damp to her cheek, and the trembling in her fingers as she tried to gather herself.

His jaw flexed, something unreadable flickering through his eyes.

"You haven’t cleaned up," he said at last, voice quiet but rough at the edges.

She blinked, lowering her gaze. "I-I was just about to."

He did not answer right away. His eyes lingered on her dirty state.

Then, without another word, he crossed the small space between them, his presence filling it like gravity. The air seemed to shift as he reached for the basin, his hand steady even though his jaw was tight.

"Let me," he said quietly. The words were not soft. They carried a clipped edge, the kind that came from someone still fighting himself more than her. But the tension on his face say it all: I’m still angry, but I can’t not do this.

Ilaria froze, her eyes flicking up to his face. There was no warmth there, not yet, only that deep, restrained anger, tempered by exhaustion and something far more dangerous: remorse.