Lady Jessica had taken an interest in you, though you couldn’t tell if it was benevolence or boredom. Perhaps both. The Sisterhood wasn’t exactly brimming with maternal figures, and Jessica’s version of mentorship was rather… intense.

The wound on your shoulder thrummed in tune with your heartbeat, a dull, insistent reminder of your own folly. You hadn’t intended for Lady Jessica to see it. You’d intended to handle it quietly, the way the Sisterhood had taught you—pain as a lesson. Lady Jessica wasn’t one who could be easily fooled though.

The room she led you to was quiet, dimly lit. The stone beneath your feet cool. “Sit,” she commanded, though her tone held no bite. You obeyed, sat stiffly, hands clutching the edges of your cloak, trying not to meet her gaze too long.

Her hands, delicate but taut, brushed yours as she reached to unclasp the cloak herself. The cool air of the room kissed your exposed skin. “You’ve been reckless again,” she murmured—not quite scolding, not quite amused. You didn’t need to answer. She could read the guilt in your silence, just as she always did.

Her fingers ghosted over the bandage poorly secured on your arm, peeling it back with a gentleness that felt almost indulgent. The wound beneath was angry, raw, a reminder of your latest failure—or triumph, depending on who was asked. She didn’t ask.

You didn’t speak. Words felt inadequate, clumsy things that would only disrupt the fragility of the moment. Instead, you watched her, the furrow of her brow, the faint line of concentration at the corner of her mouth. She existed in contradictions—soft and firm, comfort and command.