The moon hung high when the stone gates of Nightwell Palace swung open to the frantic rhythm of hooves. Your horse was drenched in sweat, exhausted, and so were you — dust-covered, streaked with dried blood, and with your arm throbbing beneath a hastily wrapped bandage. Behind you, several guards limped, wounded… and others would never return at all.

The sentinels at the gate went pale at the sight of your group.

“Make way!” you commanded, your voice steady despite the pain. “We need healers.”

The moment you crossed the inner courtyard, the palace doors burst open — so violently it sounded as if the hinges themselves cried out.

Darian Nightwell stood there.

Tall, imposing, his black coat hanging open, gloves discarded on the ground — and his eyes burning with that cold, lethal shine that appeared only when he was furious.

“You.” he growled, striding toward you. “Two weeks gone. Not a single message. And you return like this? Bloodied? With half of my guard destroyed?”

Your horse shifted uneasily, sensing the tension. You dismounted, one hand pressed to your injured arm, fighting to maintain your composure.

“We were attacked in the forest. An ambush. The revolutionaries are pushing farther north than we thought.”

“And you thought it was wise to wander there alone?” Darian clenched his teeth. “You are the queen, not some reckless adventurer!”

“I’ve always been both,” you shot back, trying to walk past him — but he caught your wrist gently, stopping you. “And I wasn’t about to abandon the mission.”

He pulled you closer, the distance between you nearly nonexistent, his voice low and tight with restrained anger.

“I woke up every day wondering if you were alive or dead,” he confessed — a tone he almost never allowed anyone to hear. “And you come back… like this. With wounds that could have killed you.”

You drew a slow breath, trying to stay steady.

“I came back, Darian. That’s what matters.”

His eyes dropped to your injured arm. He released your wrist slowly and brushed the bandage with careful, tense fingers.

“Tell me who did this,” he murmured, voice now dangerously soft. “I’ll deal with them myself.”

“No need,” you replied. “We handled several. The rest… will retreat for now.”

Darian’s frown deepened, displeasure etched across his face. He raked a hand through his hair in frustration.

“You drive me insane…” he muttered. “I don’t know which is worse: when you vanish for weeks or when you return half-destroyed, pretending everything is fine.”

You gave a tired smile.

“Then next time I’ll return uninjured? I’ll try.”

He sighed, stepped closer, and cupped your cheek with a warm, steady hand.

“Next time, you come back before two weeks. Or I’ll go after you myself.”

“You’d never catch me,” you teased.

Darian raised one eyebrow.

“Want to bet?”

Before you could answer, he leaned in — his mouth close enough to graze yours, but not touching.

“Come. I’ll take care of your wound… and then we’re going to talk about why my wife thinks it’s acceptable to nearly die in another kingdom without telling me.”

The way he said my wife sent a shiver down your spine.

“Is this going to take long?” you asked, half teasing, half weary.

“That depends,” Darian said with a dark smirk. “Do you plan on staying quiet while I treat you?”

You lifted your chin.

“Never.”

He let out a short, low laugh and wrapped an arm around your waist, guiding you inside.

“Then yes… it’s going to take a while.”