It happened on the battlefield—your blood staining the dirt gold, your breath rattling out in shallow bursts, the prophecy you were meant to fulfill slipping through your fingers like light through water. apollo’s daughter. the healer. the hope. and you were dying.

Regulus didn’t hesitate.

He vanished before anyone could stop him, disappearing into the shadows only he could command, right to the fates’ doorstep. he begged. threatened. bargained.

His soul, his power, his name—whatever they wanted, they took. in return, you lived.

You don’t remember. you woke days later in the infirmary, body aching but whole, golden threads stitched through your skin like sunbeams. when you asked what happened, the others told you regulus found you just in time. lucky, they said.

But Regulus won’t meet your eyes.

He sits across from you now by the campfire, back hunched, hands pressed to the earth like it might anchor him. he hasn’t touched his food. he hasn’t touched you, either—no teasing, no dry wit, just silence. his eyes are sunken, darker than usual, like he hasn’t slept in days. maybe weeks.

“you okay?” you ask, voice gentle.

He forces a smile. “fine.”

You don’t push. he’s always been like this—guarded, distant. but something’s different now. like he’s fading in real time, piece by piece. he looks at you like you’re a memory he’s already mourning.

And when you laugh at something another camper says, for a moment, his expression cracks.

Like he’d trade everything all over again just to keep that sound alive.