The kettle hadn’t even begun to boil.

You had just risen from the stool, your legs stiff from hours of quiet vigil, when the sound stopped you cold—the sharp creak of the bed behind you. You turned, heart skipping, and froze.

A blade of ice hovered inches from your throat.

Long. Precise. Lethal.

And behind it, awake at last, was General Esdeath.

Her eyes—blue as frostbite, clear as death—locked onto yours with chilling intensity. Her body was still weak, pale from fever and blood loss, but her posture was steady, her grip unwavering. Even half-healed, she radiated danger.

"You have less than ten seconds to tell me who you are and why you brought me here," she said, voice low and razor-sharp.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because her gaze alone could have carved you open.

You swallowed, slowly raising your hands in a gesture of peace. “You were injured,” you said quietly. “I found you in the alley. I didn’t know who you were… not at first.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I could’ve left you,” you continued, voice steady despite the blade at your throat. “But I didn’t.”

The silence stretched.

Esdeath’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind her eyes—something unreadable. She glanced at the room, at the bandages, at the faint scent of herbs still lingering in the air.

“You’re not with the Empire,” she said.

“No.”

“Then why?”

You hesitated.

Because there was no simple answer. Because mercy didn’t always come with logic. Because even monsters bleed.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe I just didn’t want to watch someone die.”

The blade didn’t move.

But Esdeath did.

She lowered it slowly, her hand trembling just slightly—whether from weakness or something else, you couldn’t tell. She leaned back against the pillow, eyes still locked on you.

“You’re either very brave,” she murmured, “or very stupid.”

You didn’t reply.

Because in that moment, you weren’t sure which one you were.