His throne,her war

A Blanket of Odd Comforts

Warmth.

Not the type that came from sunlight, but something softer—closer. A comforting weight over my shoulders, woven from fabric and something more subtle. A kindness. I blinked slowly, the remnants of pain still lingering like cobwebs around my mind.

I was alive.

The room smelled of lavender and bread. A tiny hearth crackled in the corner, and the light filtering through the curtains painted everything in gold. I didn’t recognize the place, but I recognized the feeling: safety. For once, I wasn’t in a cell. I wasn’t surrounded by silence, suspicion, or judgment.

I was tucked into a bed. A warm, soft, far-too-comfy bed. The kind of bed that had no right being real.

And I was…in a dress?

A gentle rustle by the doorway alerted me. A girl entered, freckles dancing across her nose like stars, and eyes wide like the summer sky. Emylia, if I remembered correctly. She looked about my age—perhaps eighteen—and despite the faint worry on her brow, she smiled the moment she noticed I was awake.

“You’re up!” she whispered, rushing to my side and carefully placing a tray beside me.

I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. My body disagreed with the concept of movement. She quickly adjusted the pillows behind me with practiced ease.

“Careful. Your injuries are still healing,” she scolded lightly, her tone almost motherly. “Honestly, I turn my back for five minutes and you try to escape the bed like a dramatic knight.”

I blinked at her. Dramatic knight? Where had she—

Oh.

Right.

I must’ve muttered something while unconscious. Or maybe it was my terrible, awful, definitely-should’ve-been-burned cape from before. She laughed gently as I stared in confusion.

“Don’t look so scared,” she said with a grin. “I’m not going to poke you with another needle. Unless you try to walk again.”

My mouth opened slightly, a dry breath escaping. I still couldn’t speak—not properly. My throat protested with every attempt. She noticed and handed me a small glass of water.

As I drank, I watched her fuss over my blankets, muttering something about how I kicked them off in the night. There was something bizarrely surreal about this. She wasn’t scared of me. Not even wary.

But she should’ve been.

The rumors. The trial. The execution.

To the world, I was Kael—the cold, dangerous, possibly-murderous strategist. A man with blood on his hands and no heart in his chest. And yet, here I was…

In a soft cotton nightgown, with my hair brushed and bandages neatly tied.

I must’ve looked like a ghost. A very confused, slightly pink-cheeked ghost.

Emylia hummed to herself, pouring tea into a chipped porcelain cup.

Why? Why wasn’t she afraid?

Why wasn’t she running?

A thousand thoughts swirled behind my eyes. I was Kael. But I wasn’t. I was Yume—reborn into this cursed, beautiful body with a past soaked in suspicion. I never did anything to deserve the hatred Kael had endured. I didn’t know how to handle kindness, especially not when it came in floral teacups and tucked-in blankets.

Emylia turned and caught me staring.

“Do I have something on my face?” she asked playfully.

I quickly looked away.

She giggled. “You’re so shy. It’s kind of cute.”

I nearly choked on my tea.

Me? Cute?

That was it. The fever had clearly returned.

“I mean,” she continued casually, sitting beside the bed, “you just looked so… peaceful when you were sleeping. I thought you were going to be scary when I first found you, but…you’re not.”

Not scary.

What a new thing to be.

I blinked again and pressed a hand to my face, feeling the warmth crawling up my neck. It was an involuntary response. I hadn’t felt this kind of fluster since my past life—back when awkward interactions and introverted panic were part of daily life. High school hallway crushes. Cringe-worthy memories. Saying “you too” to a waiter after they said “enjoy your meal.”

A knock interrupted the spiral.

The door burst open.

“EMMY! Where’s my-"

In stumbled a girl of about eight, her tiny face full of exaggerated terror and mischief. Black pigtails bounced behind her as she marched in wielding a wooden spoon like a weapon, pointing it dramatically at me like she was announcing a duel.

"Halt, suspicious creature! I have you surrounded!" she yelled, looking around as if expecting backup from an army of squirrels.

I blinked.

"Lys," Emylia sighed, rubbing her temples, "please tell me you didn’t raid the kitchen again."

Lys ignored her. "kael..That’s my blanket you’re using, you know. Royal property."

"Royal?" I croaked.

"She means she stole it from the laundry basket where Mum keeps the guest linens," Emylia explained.

Lys puffed her cheeks. "Still counts. . Are you here to kidnap my sister and whisk her away on a dramatic adventure? Because I approve—on one condition."

I stared. Emylia facepalmed.

Lys pulled out a piece of parchment from the oversized pocket of her apron and unfurled it with a flourish. "Sign this treaty. It says that if you become a cool sword-fighting hero again, you must teach me the secret art of pancake flipping."

"Pancake flipping?"

She nodded solemnly. "With flair."

Emylia finally started laughing, covering her mouth in vain. "Lys, this is not how treaties work."

"Says who?"

"Literally everyone."

Lys grinned mischievously, then turned to me. "You don’t talk much, huh? That’s okay. I talk enough for both of us."

I managed a small smile. The little whirlwind of chaos had somehow managed to pull me entirely into her strange little world of wooden spoon diplomacy and pancake law. And oddly, I didn’t mind.

“I…” I attempted to defend myself, but all that came out was a weak wheeze.

Emylia was already trying not to laugh.

“Don’t be rude,” she said, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

“I’m not rude! I’m brave!” Lys stomped closer and peered at me. “Do you bite?”

I shook my head, completely unsure of how to respond.

“Good. Then you can be my minion.”

“…What?”

“You’ll wear this!” Lys declared, tossing a pink ribbon at me.

“Lys,” Emylia choked, “you can’t just—”

“Shh! I like her. She’s weird. Like me.”

I didn’t know whether to be insulted or honored. Possibly both.

Emylia finally gave up trying to wrangle her younger sister and turned back to me with a shrug. “She means well. Most of the time.”

Lys grinned and climbed up beside me, inspecting my bandages.

“You look like a fallen knight. Did you fight a dragon?”

“Something like that,” I rasped.

Emylia froze.

“You talked!”

“I did?” I blinked.

“You did!” she beamed. “You have a pretty voice. I mean—not that I was waiting for you to talk, or anything—just, you know…”

She trailed off, face turning red.

Suddenly, we were all awkward. Even Lys looked up, squinting.

“Are you two in love?”

“NO!” both of us said at once.

The silence that followed was thunderous.

Then Lys cackled.

“Oh my gods, this is better than those storybooks!”

Emylia buried her face in her hands. I stared at the ceiling, hoping for divine intervention.

Outside, birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang. Life carried on. And in this little cottage, nestled between forest and fate, I found myself…smiling.

Even if just a little.

Even if I wasn’t sure I deserved it.

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End of Chapter 8