Just as Theron's hands reached to tear her clothes, Vionna shoved him back with all her strength and bolted from the tent.

"Viona Vale! What are you doing out here? How's Lord Theron?"

His personal guards stood around the command tent, eyes sharp with concern.

Vionna clutched her torn clothes close. Luckily, the northern winter had her wrapped in thick layers.

"He's not doing well. Regular treatment won't work. Fetch Commander Morwynne—now."

Several soldiers barked back.

"If it's that serious, why'd you leave? Calling someone else now just wastes time."

"If something happens to Lord Theron, can a lowly physician like you take the blame?"

She didn't flinch.

Someone had already gone for Marzella. She arrived moments later, dismounting in one fluid motion, dressed in riding leathers.

She stopped in front of Vionna, eyes narrowed.

"Viona Vale, what game is this? You clawed your way into Theron's tent to marry into power. Now, with the chance in your lap, you call for me instead?"

The wind bit hard. Snow pressed down like that final day.

Vionna could barely breathe.

Fists clenched, she met Marzella's gaze. "If you don't go in now, he won't survive."

A low groan rose from within the tent.

Marzella's expression shifted. With a crack of her whip, she shoved Vionna aside and stormed through the flap.

Moments later, fabric tore.

Then came the sounds—raw, unmistakable.

Even the guards turned red.

A man's low growl. A woman's sharp gasp. Furniture crashing.

And then—pleasure. Loud, unashamed. Each cry landed like shards of ice against Vionna's chest.

"Lord Theron's got stamina, I'll give him that."

"Good thing it was Commander Morwynne. If it'd been Viona, she wouldn't survive the night. Be dead before morning. So much for chasing rank."

The guards' vulgar talk choked the breath from her lungs.

Drained and hollow, Vionna drifted from the tent.

Only once she stepped into the warmth of her own shelter did the tears fall—hot, unstoppable.

First came the quiet sobs. Then the wails—raw, broken, as if she were coughing up two lifetimes of shame.

That night, the lights in Theron's tent never dimmed.

And she never slept.

***

By dawn, Vionna had washed and dressed. She left the physicians' quarters under the guise of gathering herbs and rode straight to the city's largest apothecary.

The moment the shopkeeper saw her, her eyes welled with tears. "Your Highness... what happened to you?"

Vionna didn't need a mirror. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Her clothes, torn by Marzella's whip, had been clumsily stitched back together.

There wasn't a trace of a princess left.

But the woman before her wasn't just any shopkeeper—she was Elsha Grey, the Shadowguard her father had secretly assigned to protect her since childhood.

Elsha had raised her. Of course she saw the wreckage.

But Vionna had no words left to explain.

She collapsed into Elsha's arms, voice barely a whisper.

"Elsha... send word to my father. I want to go home."

"Good, good. You've finally come to your senses."

Elsha's voice trembled as she looked at the girl she'd protected her whole life—now worn thin by grief.

"His Majesty said it from the start—Theron Thornefell was never right for you. If you hadn't clung to that hope, none of this would've happened.

"But thank the stars you saw it in time. Once you're back in Crownspire, His Majesty will choose a proper husband. With him behind you, no one will dare lay a finger on you again."

Tears welled in Vionna's already swollen eyes.

Her father had warned her, long ago.

She hadn't listened. She'd knelt at the palace gates, begging to be sent to Stormrest—only to waste a lifetime.

She died without ever seeing him again.

Vionna clenched her fists and forced a smile. "I was foolish then. I won't let my father worry like that again."

She wouldn't cling to Theron anymore.

She didn't even dare.

***

After leaving the apothecary, Vionna returned to camp by carriage.

Her name was still on the army's rolls. She couldn't just vanish and follow Elsha back to Crownspire. If she meant to leave Stormrest, she had to settle things first—tend the wounded, tie up her duties.

And one border report needed to reach her father.

Elsha was the only one she trusted. So Vionna wrote the letter and placed it in her hands for immediate delivery.

All she had to do now was wait.

Wait for someone who loved her... to bring her home.

The thought alone eased the weight in her chest. For the first time in days, she let herself smile.

But as she lifted the flap of her tent, she walked straight into someone.

Theron.

Clad only in an undershirt, his bare torso showed a fresh wound—and scattered above it, a tangle of marks.

Vionna didn't need to ask what they were.

She'd lived through too many nights with him not to know.

Her smile vanished. She turned away. "Why are you in my tent?"

Theron narrowed his eyes, lingering on the redness around hers before letting out a cold snort.

"You're my physician. I'm injured. Isn't it natural I come for treatment?"

Vionna frowned.

He wasn't wrong—tending his wounds was part of her role.

But before, he'd always summoned her to the command tent.

Theron coming to her? That was rare.

Vionna said nothing. She opened her kit and got to work.

The gash on his side was ugly—deep, jagged, torn wider after last night's exertion. Blood had soaked through the bandages. She peeled them back and found a mess of red and ruin.

Once, a sight like that would've rattled her.

Now, she didn't even blink.

As Vionna scattered healing powder over the wound, Theron broke the silence.

"You've heard, I'm sure. It's done. I'll marry Marzella. Since you're still stationed here, I expect no more foolishness."

She didn't look up. "Understood, Uncle Theron."

He stiffened.

She hadn't called him that in years.

Back in Crownspire, she'd trail after him with wide eyes and that silly, soft voice—'Uncle Theron' this, 'Uncle Theron' that. Later, when her heart turned, she tried every name but that one.

Until now.

Theron frowned, ready to speak—but the tent flap lifted, slicing through the silence.

"Theron, I've already moved my things. Did you tell Miss Vale?"

He snapped out of it, brushing past Vionna as he rose to meet Marzella.

"I told you to rest. Someone else could've done that."

His voice softened—for Marzella.

Then his gaze cut back to Vionna, still on one knee from the shove. The warmth vanished.

"This tent's closest to mine. Marzella will stay here now. Pack your things. You're moving to the physicians' quarters."

Marzella nestled into him, murmuring like they were alone. "Theron, that's a bit much, isn't it? She's been here nearly three years... Maybe I should just stay in my old tent?"

She turned to go, but he looped an arm around her waist.

"You'll be my bride soon. You can stay wherever you please. If we were already wed, I'd move you into my tent itself."

Then he looked at Vionna—stone-cold.

"As for Miss Vale... she'd do well to remember her place."

And that was it.

He hadn't come for treatment. He'd come to remind her—she no longer had a place here.

He wanted her gone. He wanted Marzella close.

Vionna swallowed the bitter taste rising in her throat. Brushed off her robes. Rose.

"I'll pack now."

She'd leave this tent. Leave Stormrest.

And soon—she'd return to Crownspire—to her father.

She wouldn't come back.

Vionna returned to the tent she'd first been given when she arrived.

A single cot, the sharp stench of herbs, and bloodied bandages heaped in the corners.

She remembered how she'd loathed it once—how she'd begged Theron for days before he let her move closer to him.

Now, standing in it again, her feelings had changed.

It was still small. Still miserable.

But better than the place she died last time.

At least here, she wouldn't freeze alone in the snow.

***

In the days that followed, Vionna began handing off her patients. Each morning, she left with the herb cart. Each night, she returned late.

Waiting. Just waiting for Elsha to come and take her home.

The camp buzzed with joy.

Everywhere she turned, someone was praising Theron's devotion. How he'd chosen the nearest auspicious date—just a month away—to marry Marzella.

Still, the wedding would be grand.

Whispers spread fast: House Morwynne's dowry was lacking, so Theron had opened his vault. Sent 108 treasure chests to her family, they said. Added a bride token himself, sealing a match fit for legend.

Vionna listened.

She smiled when others smiled. Gave blessings like everyone else. Wished them love that would last a lifetime.

***

That morning, as always, Vionna followed the herb cart out of camp.

She stepped onto the stool—then pain flared through her wrist.

Theron's hand clamped around her arm, yanking her back. "You've been avoiding me, haven't you?"

"I haven't." Her head shook before she could think.

His eyes darkened. He stepped closer.

She kept retreating until there was nowhere left to go.

"You expect me to believe that? You're my physician, yet you vanish every day with the herb cart. You barely look at me. If that's not avoidance, what is? Because I'm marrying Marzella?"

"No," she said quickly. "You've found your match. I'm happy for you. I wish you both a long, joyful life. When you return to Crownspire with her, I'll have a gift prepared."

She steadied her voice. "Uncle Theron, there's no need to worry. I know my place. I understand now—you'll never love me. I've let you go. I won't be a burden."

The words were calm. Measured. True.

But Theron's expression only darkened.

Let him go?

That was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

"Vionna, I'm not falling for some cheap game of push and pull."

"I'm not—"

"Aren't you?" he snapped, yanking her into the tent and shoving her toward the table.

A wooden box sat there.

Vionna froze.

"You say you've let go," Theron said, voice cold, "yet you leave this in Marzella's tent to provoke her? Letters. Sketches. You've chased me from Crownspire to Stormrest for years—and now I'm meant to believe you've suddenly moved on?"

Her gaze locked on the box, eyes burning.

Inside were the letters she'd written him in secret. Sketches drawn in quiet, stolen moments.

She'd forgotten them after she came back to life.

And now he'd flung them at her feet.

She knew how it looked. Knew how hollow her words must have sounded. In her first life, she had schemed—just to stay close.

And Theron, who didn't know she had already died once, could only see another ploy.

But this time... she truly didn't dare love him.

"I did love you. For a long time. But you're betrothed now. And I may be a princess, but I'm not shameless enough to ruin someone's wedding."

Her eyes reddened. She met his gaze one last time.

Then she reached into the box.

One by one, she pulled out the letters. The sketches.

And fed them to the brazier.

"Vionna!"

His voice cracked the air, furious.

The fire caught fast. Flames rising.