My enemy my lover my king

Chapter four

The midnight raid on the High Pass had been a success, but it had come at a steep price. The Iron-Hold sentries were gone, but the skirmish in the narrow, rock-strewn corridors of the pass had been a chaotic nightmare of close-quarters combat.

Back in the flickering safety of the command tent, the silence was heavy. Magnus sat on a low wooden crate, his breath hitching as he tried to peel away his blood-soaked tunic. A jagged gash ran across his ribs, the work of a Standard mercenary’s short-sword. He hissed through his teeth, his fingers trembling too much to work the laces.

"Sit still, you fool. You’re going to bleed out just to prove a point about your pride."

Seraphina appeared from the shadows of the tent. She had discarded her own ruined cloak, standing only in her dirt-stained chemise. In her hands, she carried a basin of warm water and a roll of clean linen.

"I can do it myself," Magnus grunted, though his face was pale under the layer of soot.

"Like you did everything else today? Recklessly?" Seraphina didn't wait for his permission. She knelt between his knees, her presence forcing him to go still. With a small, sharp dagger, she delicately cut away the remaining fabric of his tunic, exposing the wound.

Magnus stiffened as the cool air hit the raw skin, his muscles rippling under her gaze. For a moment, the air in the tent shifted. The hatred that usually fueled their interactions felt distant, replaced by a strange, jarring intimacy. She was so close he could smell the mountain rain on her skin; he was so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body.

She dipped a cloth into the water and pressed it to the wound. Magnus let out a sharp intake of breath, his hand instinctively flying out to grip her shoulder. His touch was heavy, his fingers digging into her skin, but Seraphina didn't pull away.

"Softly, Queen," he rasped, his eyes fixed on her face. "I’m not a piece of leather for you to tan."

"Then stop fighting like you’re immortal," she whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft. She kept her eyes on her work, cleaning the blood away with meticulous care. "If you die, Magnus, the treaty dies. My people die. I cannot... I cannot hold both kingdoms alone."

Magnus looked down at her. From this angle, he could see the exhaustion etched into the corners of her eyes and the way her lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly. He realized, with a jolt that had nothing to do with his injury, that she wasn't just afraid for her kingdom. She was shaken.

"You wouldn't have to," he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register. "I have no intention of leaving you to rule this mess by yourself."

Seraphina finally looked up, her gaze colliding with his. The candlelight danced in her irises, making the ice in them seem to melt into something warmer, something terrifyingly like concern. Her hand, still holding the damp cloth, lingered on his chest, just above his heart. The steady thump-thump against her palm was the only sound in the tent.

The hatred was still there—a decade of war didn't vanish in a night—but in the quiet, the edges of it were softening. For the first time, she didn't see the monster of the North; she saw a man who had bled to protect her border. And he didn't see a cold, calculating strategist; he saw the woman who had spent the last hour picking splinters of steel out of his side.

"There," she murmured, breaking the spell as she began to wrap the linen around his torso. She had to lean in close to reach around him, her hair brushing against his neck. Magnus closed his eyes, leaning into the sensation for a heartbeat before catching himself.

She pulled the bandage tight, perhaps a little tighter than necessary, and Magnus groaned.

"A reminder," she said, though there was no sting in her voice. "That you are made of flesh and bone, not iron."

She stood up to take the basin away, but Magnus reached out and caught her wrist. He didn't pull her back, but he didn't let go either. His thumb brushed against the gold wedding band on her finger—the ring that had felt like a shackle only hours ago.

"Seraphina," he said quietly.

She paused, her back to him. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

She didn't turn around, but she didn't pull her hand away immediately. "Don't thank me yet. We still have to survive tomorrow."

As she stepped out of the tent to dispose of the water, Magnus watched her go, the fire in his ribs matched by a strange, new burning in his chest. The war was far from over, but the enemy he had feared most was starting to feel like the only person in the world he could trust.