Recovery came slowly, my body mending while my heart fractured in ways I couldn't yet comprehend. The stone walls of the infirmary had become my prison, each day bringing new hope that Stefan would remember, that his eyes would light with recognition when he saw me.

But hope was a cruel mistress.

"Do you remember the night we met?" I asked him during one of his dutiful visits. He sat stiffly in the wooden chair beside my bed, maintaining the polite distance of a stranger. "You were working late in the library, surviving on vending machine coffee and determination."

Stefan's brow furrowed with what looked like genuine effort. "I'm sorry, but no. Nothing comes to mind."

"I bought you dinner that night. You were so proud, you didn't want to accept it, but you were practically starving." My voice cracked as I reached for his hand. "You said I was your guardian angel."

He pulled away gently but firmly. "Perhaps you're confusing me with someone else. The fever can cause vivid dreams that feel like memories."

The dismissal in his tone cut deeper than any blade. This wasn't confusion—this was polite rejection wrapped in false concern.

Through the narrow window, I watched Stefan cross the courtyard with increasing frequency, always heading toward the commander's quarters. Always toward her.

Rosalia Silva was everything I wasn't in this medieval world—born to privilege, adorned in fine silks while I wore rough-spun wool, commanding respect while I was merely tolerated. Her dark hair cascaded in perfect waves, her skin unmarked by battle scars. She moved through the camp like royalty, which, in essence, she was.

The first time I saw them together, I told myself it was coincidence. Stefan sat beside her on a blanket spread beneath an oak tree, sharing bread and wine while she laughed at something he'd said. The sound carried across the courtyard like silver bells, musical and carefree.

I pressed my face against the cold stone of my window, watching him lean closer to catch her words. His posture was relaxed, engaged—nothing like the stiff formality he showed me.

"They make a handsome pair, don't they?"

I turned to find Marta, one of the camp followers, standing in my doorway with a knowing smirk. Her eyes glittered with malicious pleasure.

"The deputy commander's daughter has quite taken with our mysterious strategist," she continued, settling herself on the edge of my bed uninvited. "Of course, a man of his talents deserves a woman of proper breeding, don't you think?"

My hands clenched the rough blanket. "Stefan and I—"

"Oh yes, your delusions." Marta's voice dripped false sympathy. "Poor dear, the fever has quite addled your mind. Claiming to be his lover when anyone can see he barely tolerates your presence. It's almost embarrassing."

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I forced my voice to remain steady. "I saved his life."

"And he's grateful, certainly. But gratitude isn't love, is it?" She leaned closer, her breath sour with ale. "Lady Rosalia says you tell the most fantastical stories—flying metal birds, buildings that touch the sky. The poor girl thinks you've lost your wits entirely."

After Marta left, I watched through my window as Stefan and Rosalia walked hand in hand along the camp's perimeter. She pointed at something in the distance, and he nodded, his attention completely focused on her words. When she stumbled slightly on the uneven ground, his arm immediately circled her waist to steady her.

The gesture was so natural, so protective—exactly how he used to touch me.

Weeks passed in this torment. I grew stronger physically while dying emotionally. Stefan's visits became shorter, more perfunctory. He'd ask about my healing with the detached concern of a stranger, then make excuses to leave.

Meanwhile, Rosalia made sure I witnessed their growing intimacy. She'd walk past my window at precisely the times when I took my daily exercise, Stefan's arm around her shoulders, her head resting against his chest. She'd organize elaborate picnics in the courtyard where I couldn't help but see them, feeding him grapes while he gazed at her with obvious adoration.

The final blow came on a morning when nausea had been plaguing me for days. I'd dismissed it as lingering effects from my injuries until the pattern became undeniable. The missed cycles, the morning sickness, the exhaustion that went beyond physical recovery.

I was pregnant.

My hands trembled as I pressed them against my still-flat stomach. This child was conceived before Stefan's supposed memory loss, proof of our love that couldn't be denied or forgotten.

When Stefan arrived for his daily visit, I could barely contain my excitement. Surely this would break through whatever barrier had formed in his mind.

"Stefan, I have wonderful news." I reached for his hands, but he stepped back instinctively. "I'm carrying your child."

The color drained from his face. His expression shifted from polite concern to something approaching revulsion.

"That's impossible," he said flatly.

"No, it's true. From before your injury, before you lost your memory. This baby is proof of what we had together."

Stefan's jaw tightened, his eyes growing cold in a way that made my blood freeze. "I would never... with someone like you." The words came out harsh, disgusted. "Whatever delusion you're clinging to, this ends now."

He turned and strode from the room, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of his rejection and the terrible certainty that the man I'd loved was truly gone.

The great hall blazed with torchlight and laughter, the entire camp gathered for the monthly feast. I stood in the shadows near the servants' entrance, my hands still trembling from the bitter herbs Stefan had forced down my throat three days ago. The cramping had finally stopped, along with the life that had been growing inside me.

My body felt hollow, scraped clean of hope.

"Attention, everyone!" Commander Silva's voice boomed across the hall, silencing the revelry. "My daughter has wonderful news to share."

Rosalia rose gracefully from the high table, her silk gown catching the firelight like spun gold. Stefan sat beside her, his hand resting possessively on her lower back. The sight of his touch—so tender, so protective—sent ice through my veins.

"Thank you, Father." Rosalia's voice carried the musical quality that had enchanted Stefan so completely. She placed both hands over her still-flat stomach, a gesture I recognized with sickening clarity. "I am blessed to announce that I carry the child of our brave strategist, Stefan Mitchell."

The hall erupted in cheers and applause. Men raised their tankards in toast while women rushed forward with congratulations. Stefan stood, accepting the backslaps and well-wishes with a smile that reached his eyes—a smile I hadn't seen since before his supposed memory loss.

"When is the blessed event?" called out Captain Morris.

"Late spring," Rosalia replied, her eyes finding mine across the crowded hall. The triumph in her gaze was unmistakable. "We couldn't be happier."

I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, fighting the urge to vomit. The timeline was impossible to ignore—she must have conceived around the same time I did. While Stefan was visiting me with polite concern, claiming confusion about our past, he was bedding the deputy commander's daughter with full knowledge of what he was doing.

Gifts began appearing on the high table: carved wooden toys, soft blankets, precious stones. The camp's blacksmith presented a tiny silver rattle that caught the torchlight. Stefan examined each offering with genuine pleasure, his face glowing with paternal pride.

"A child born of true love," someone shouted, and the crowd cheered again.

True love. The words twisted in my chest like a blade.

Rosalia's eyes met mine again, and this time she smiled—a cold, calculating expression that revealed the truth I'd been too naive to see. This wasn't coincidence or cruel fate. This was orchestrated.

"Eleanor." A rough hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. Commander Silva's aide, Marcus, looked down at me with disgust. "Lady Rosalia requires your service."

I followed him through the celebrating crowd, past the high table where Stefan was now feeding Rosalia delicate morsels from his own plate. She laughed at something he whispered in her ear, then looked directly at me as I passed.

"The mad girl who claims to know my beloved," she said loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. "How tragic that battle-fever can so scramble one's wits."

Stefan glanced at me with what looked like pity, but I caught something else flickering behind his eyes—guilt, perhaps, or annoyance at being reminded of his deception.

Marcus led me to a small chamber off the main hall where buckets of water and cleaning rags waited. "Lady Rosalia's quarters need attention. The celebration has left quite a mess."

I stared at the supplies, understanding washing over me like a tide of humiliation. "You want me to clean her rooms?"

"You'll do as you're told," Marcus snapped. "Your delusions about being anyone of importance are over. Lady Rosalia has been generous enough to offer you employment as her personal servant. Consider yourself fortunate."

The chamber spun around me. From Stefan's lover to Rosalia's servant in the span of weeks—it was a fall so complete, so devastating, that I could barely comprehend it.

"The arrangement is already approved by the commander," Marcus continued. "You'll move your belongings to the servants' quarters tonight. Lady Rosalia expects her chambers spotless before she retires."

Back in the great hall, the celebration continued. Stefan had his arm around Rosalia's shoulders as she accepted more congratulations, her hand never leaving her stomach. The sight of their happiness—built on the ashes of my own—was more than I could bear.

I picked up the cleaning supplies with hands that shook with more than exhaustion. As I walked toward the stairs leading to Rosalia's chambers, I heard Stefan's laughter ring out above the crowd. Rich, genuine, completely unburdened by guilt or memory of what we'd shared.

The man I'd loved, the man I'd nearly died to save, was gone. In his place sat a stranger who'd used my sacrifice as a stepping stone to a better life, leaving me to scrub the floors of his new love's chambers.

I climbed the stone steps, each one taking me further from the woman I'd been and closer to whatever I was becoming.