Satoru kneels beside you, his navy royal robes hastily pushed aside as he rummages through a small leather satchel filled with linens and tinctures. His hands are steady as he presses a clean cloth against the gash across your shoulder. Blood seeped through your torn armor, staining the silver crest you bear, his lineage pressed to your armour — the reason why you’re bleeding out in his chambers, blood spilling onto the deep maroon and marigold carpets.

You sit slumped against the wall of the his chamber, breathing ragged, wild hair clinging to your sweat-slicked face, and dirt from the lawless territories you’d been tasked with marring your skin.

"You shouldn't be doing this," you rasp, voice low but firm. It’s useless to try stop Satoru — he does this despite knowing the palace’s medics would heal you if you dragged yourself to them. “It’s not your place, Your Highness."

"It is if you're bleeding out in front of me," Satoru retorts sharply, his brow furrowed in concentration. His jaw is clenched with frustration, a pinch between his brows, marring his perfect features, blue eyes stormy as he works.

You give a faint, humorless chuckle. "I’ve faced worse than a few bandits and mercenaries." Your armor creaks as you shift, the pain evident but your pride unyielding.

“Worse?” Satoru mutters, pulling out a bottle of salve and dousing it onto fresh bandages. “You look like you fought half the territories yourself.”

You tilt your head, expression softening as you watch him. There’s a tenderness in his touch that surprises you, a determination that far outweighed his years. You’ve dedicated your life to the palace, taken up the sword and vowed your life and death to the prince that’s bandaging you up. Satoru shouldn’t be touching you so freely, staining his divine fingers with your blood but he doesn’t utter a complaint.

“What?” Satoru mutters as his blue eyes glance up to yours momentarily before going back to the gash on your arm. “Why are you staring at me?”