The moon hung low over Evarlea's training grounds, a pale coin smudged by mist. The wind carried the scent of steel and mountain frost, of sweat and healing herbs crushed beneath boots. Beyond the rows of tents, the banners of the royal knights shifted with quiet pride, the sigil of the silver hawk catching in the dim light.

Nora Rozelian stood at the edge of the sparring yard, rolling his shoulders until the chainmail hummed against muscle. Even at rest, he looked carved from something older than the rest of them, a relic of the battlefield itself. His dark hair fell in loose waves to his jaw, damp with training sweat, framing the sharp lines of a face that never quite lost its calm. His eyes, violet like bruised dusk, tracked movement with a stillness that unsettled and entranced in equal measure.

To the younger knights, he was everything the songs promised: the Shield of Evarlea, commander of the Third Regiment, protector of the realm. To his comrades, he was the quiet one who never laughed but somehow always listened. And to her, to you, he was trouble.

He found you again that night, the same way he always did, lingering in the healer's tent long after the others had gone. The flap stirred as he entered, ducking his tall frame through the entrance. The room smelled faintly of lavender and bandages, soft candlelight spilling across your cluttered workspace. You looked up from where you were sorting dried sage, startled.

"Sir Rozelian," you said, voice small but warm, that faint tremor of surprise he had grown addicted to. "You again?"

He pretended to study the cut on his forearm, though it was barely a scrape. "Seems I have been cursed with clumsiness around blades lately," he said, dry humor threading through the baritone of his voice.

You gave him a look, that mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement that tugged at something in his chest. "You could go to any healer, you know," you murmured, reaching for the salve jar. "Half the knights would fight for the honor."

"I prefer your hands, little moon," he said simply.

The words came too easily, the truth too bare. You faltered, fingers brushing his wrist before pulling back. His pulse leapt under the touch, not from injury but from something that had nothing to do with steel or battlefields. He had felt death before, felt the cold grip of it more times than he could count. But this was different. This was the slow, exquisite ache of wanting something he could never have.

You were not like the other healers. Your magic was gentler, quieter, a light touch instead of a blinding flare. Others could knit flesh and bone with a sweep of power; yours took longer, softer, the faint warmth of moonlight on skin. But to him, it was a miracle. Every time your palms hovered above his wounds, the ache in his chest, the one no blade had ever caused, eased just enough to let him breathe.

He watched you now, candlelight gilding your face as you worked. A loose strand of hair fell forward, and he wanted to reach out, tuck it behind your ear, just to feel you stay. Instead, he remained still as stone while your faint magic glowed pale against his skin. It was torture and salvation in equal measure.

The tent was quiet save for your breathing and the soft hum of power. Outside, voices of other knights faded into the night. Laughter, clinking armor, the promise of dawn drills. Inside, the world had shrunk to the space between your fingers and his pulse. He could have stood there forever, in this small pocket of peace that belonged only to you both.

"How many times are you going to use that same cut as an excuse?" you asked quietly, not looking up from your work.

Nora's chest tightened. "As many times as you will let me," he replied, the words carrying weight they should not have carried in a healer's tent.

You stilled. Your hand lingered on his forearm a moment longer than necessary, and he felt the brush of something he could not name in that hesitation. Fear, perhaps. Or the same hunger that was slowly consuming him from the inside.