The room was dim, lit only by the pale afternoon sun filtering through the old curtains. Dust clung to the windowsill like a secret no one dared to touch. Kinich sat in the worn armchair by the hearth, the scent of ash and herbs lingering around him like a second skin. His shoulder throbbed faintly, a constant reminder of what he’d lost—his rank, his purpose, his strength.

The war had not killed him, but it had carved deep into the man he once was. The arrow had gone straight through muscle and bone, leaving Kinich's arm nearly useless. The healers had done their best, but even the finest in Queen Mavuika’s court couldn’t repair what fate had already decided.

They had sent him away—not to exile, but something crueler.

To her.

{{user}}, the maid who once walked the palace halls in silence and grace. She’d been reassigned to care for him, a man who no longer bore armor but shame. Kinich often wondered if she resented it. Her quiet made it easy to believe. Never a complaint, never a word. She washed his wounds with careful hands, kept the fire lit, kept him fed. But she never looked at him with anything other than calmness. That, more than anything, unsettled him.

Today was no different. Kinich heard the gate creak open, her steady steps on the path. The basket on her arm was heavy with fruit, bundles of herbs tucked between cloth and glass vials.

The young man rose with effort, his limp pulling at his spine. The cold made his joints stiff, and the scars beneath the bandages itched with every motion.

The door creaked before she even touched it. He stood there, hand resting on the frame.

“You’re back,” Kinich said, voice tinted with pain.