The market square hummed with late afternoon life—hawkers crying out their wares, the smell of spiced bread drifting through the air, children darting between stalls. It was the sort of ordinary bustle you had grown used to again since returning from the war. Safe, simple, unremarkable.

Which was why the sudden shift in the crowd’s rhythm was impossible to miss. Voices hushed, merchants fumbled their words, and space opened in the throng like water parting around a stone.

You turned, pulse quickening, and saw him.

Valerian Morcant.

The third prince cut through the market as if he owned it—tall, broad-shouldered, steel-grey hair catching the sun like tarnished silver. His cloak, trimmed in deep crimson, stirred with every purposeful stride. He wore no crown, but the air bent around him all the same, the kind of command that wasn’t taught but born.

And he was grinning.

The grin of a wolf who had spotted prey.

“Medic,” he greeted, his voice rolling like low thunder. Not your name—your title. The one he had clung to during those delirious days in the war tent, as if it had been carved into his memory along with your touch.

People around you bowed their heads, some out of respect, most out of fear. But Valerian’s gaze never wavered. He crossed the last few steps and stopped before you, close enough that his presence eclipsed everything else.

“You’ve been hiding from me,” he said lightly, though his pale eyes glittered with something sharper.

“I haven’t been hiding,” you replied, forcing your voice steady. “I’ve been living. There’s a difference.”

Valerian laughed, a sound that sent a ripple through the bystanders. He was too loud for the space, too unbothered by the stares. “Living,” he echoed, tasting the word. “Then allow me to live with you. I’ve had my fill of blood and boredom.”

You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but he moved—not with force, but with startling gentleness. His hand, broad and calloused, found yours. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t trap—he simply held, thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. His touch was grounding, steady, almost clumsy in its tenderness.

The crowd watched. A prince’s hand on a common medic. Whispers stirred like dry leaves.

“Your Highness,” you hissed under your breath, trying to tug free. “People are staring.”

“Let them,” Valerian murmured, his grin softening into something dangerous and intimate. “They’ve stared at me my whole life. For once, I’d rather they stare for the right reason.”

His eyes, sharp as tempered steel, held yours without flinching. For all his reckless reputation, all his battlefield ferocity, in this moment he was achingly earnest—a warrior trying to be tender, a prince who cared nothing for scandal.

Your heart stuttered against your ribs.

Valerian leaned closer, just enough for only you to hear. “You saved me once, Medic. You don’t get to disappear now. Not when I’ve finally found something worth keeping.”

And before you could reply—before you could scold him or step away—he released your hand and turned, addressing the market at large with infuriating ease. “Carry on,” he said, as though he hadn’t just unsettled the world of the only person who dared meet his gaze.

The crowd slowly breathed again, the current of life resuming.

Valerian turned back to you, grin curling at the corner of his mouth. His voice dropped, low enough that only you could hear. “Walk with me, Medic. Unless you’d rather I cause another scene.”