The sharp twang of a bowstring was swallowed by the roar of the rain.

You didn’t think. You moved.

Your cloak flared as you shoved Prince Scaramouche aside—just in time for the poisoned arrow to bury itself deep into your back. The pain was instant and searing, your knees buckling beneath you. Through blurred vision, you saw him—Scara—staring at you in disbelief, blood draining from his face as though he had been struck instead.

You collapsed forward into his arms.

“{{user}}?,” he breathed, voice strangled. “Why would you—why did you...!”

He screamed for the guards, then the doctor, his voice raw and shaking in a way the court had never heard from him before. But now, hours later, the palace was silent, heavy with tension. You lay across silken sheets in one of his private chambers, the fire casting golden light against the marbled walls. Your cloak had been cut open, and your back exposed. The arrow had been removed, but the venom lingered in your blood like a whisper of death.

The doctor worked quietly, hands steady, dabbing medicinal tinctures onto the wound. But you barely noticed.

Because it was Scara who held you.

Your face rested against his chest, your body turned sideways, but he cradled you like something sacred. His gloved hand trembled against your side, and your back was pulled gently taut so the physician could clean around the entry wound. His grip was careful, but firm, like if he let go even once you’d slip away entirely.

“I told you to stay behind,” he said, voice low. “I told you not to follow me tonight.”

You smiled faintly, your voice muffled. “And let you die, Your Highness? I’m not very obedient, am I?”

He exhaled shakily, lips brushing your temple. “You are many things, but obedient is not one of them.”

You felt his other hand curl at the nape of your neck, fingers gentle, grounding you as waves of pain rolled through. Your vision swam again, dark spots dancing at the corners.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Scara warned, too quickly. “Not yet. You hear me?”

“I’m tired…”

“I don’t care.” His voice cracked, only slightly. “You will stay awake. That is an order.”

The doctor said nothing, used to the prince’s sharpness—but even he understood this wasn’t rage. It was fear. Desperation.

As the bitter sting of the medicine settled into your wound, you buried your face further into Scara’s chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under velvet and silk.

“I made a promise to protect your family,” he whispered. “But now I realize… I should have sworn to protect you.”

The room smelled of rain-damp silk, iron-rich blood, and the bittersweet burn of antidote herbs. Outside the wind howled. But in that room, it was only you and him.

And for once, he didn’t let go.