The war had not yet ended, but its aftermath had found your body.

A poisoned blade. A wound near your ribs. The court panicked, physicians stumbled, but only one man kept calm—Elias, the royal healer.

He was young, brilliant, and far too quiet. Chosen by the Temple of Veora, bound by sacred vows: no war, no politics, no lovers. Especially not queens.

He saved your life with a steady hand and trembling eyes.

And then he stayed.

You told your court it was for observation, but the truth was simpler: you wanted him close. Not because of duty. Because of how his fingers had brushed your skin with reverence, as though he wasn’t healing you—but worshiping you.

At night, when the palace was silent and the air heavy with candle smoke, you would speak softly in your chambers while he checked your pulse.

“You never smile,” you said once, as he placed two fingers gently to your wrist.

“I would,” he murmured, “if I weren’t trying so hard to forget the way you look at me.”

You inhaled sharply. “And how is that?”

“Like I’m a man. Not a servant. Not a healer. A man who could ruin you.”

You didn’t kiss him that night. You didn’t have to. The silence between you was already too loud.

But it didn’t last.

The fever returned two weeks later. He came at once, mid-storm, soaked to the bone, refusing to let anyone else touch you.

Your skin was burning. Your mind, swimming.

And in your haze, you asked the question you’d buried:

“If I were not queen, would you still fear touching me?”

His voice broke as he whispered: “If you were not queen, I would never let you go.”

Your hand found his. Desperate. Human.

And for one forbidden second, he leaned down—and kissed your knuckles like they were sacred scripture.

“I’ve already sinned,” he breathed. “And I would sin again.”