Dinner in the southern castle was a more intimate affair than Sarisa expected. After the high drama of the day—her speech, the pirate attack, the impromptu soulmate bracelets—she'd almost looked forward to quiet.
Instead, it was just her and the southern princess at the table, the queen pleading exhaustion, the king tending to wounded guards.
The great hall, with its long tables and fluttering banners, felt cavernous and strangely silent, every word threatening to echo.
The princess was beautiful, no question—golden-skinned, a little younger than Sarisa, with keen green eyes and the kind of smile that probably made half the island swoon.
But tonight, she seemed both restless and shy, poking at her grilled fish and rice with the air of someone turning over a difficult thought.
Sarisa waited, giving her space, eating slowly and thinking of Aliyah—hoping she was behaving herself, hoping Malvoria wasn't letting her sneak too many cakes.
She tried not to worry about Lara out in the wilds. Tried, and failed.
Halfway through the meal, the princess finally broke the silence.
"You're not what I expected, Princess Sarisa," she said, voice soft but direct. "Most visiting royals act like they own the place. You actually helped with the speech, and didn't complain once about the food."
Sarisa managed a wry smile. "I was raised by a queen who hated whining. And I learned very early to never insult island food. One misstep and someone's grandmother will duel you with a ladle."
That won a snort of laughter. The princess studied her, head tilted. "Your general—Lara—she's famous here, you know. The stories go around. The demon woman who fought in the north. The one who beat the rogue dragon."
Sarisa's heart skipped a beat. She tried to keep her expression neutral. "Lara doesn't like stories about herself."
"She doesn't have a choice." The princess grinned, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"There's a wager among my guards—half of them swear she's really a monster, the other half think it's just a story. But everyone agrees she's the most beautiful, dangerous woman we've ever seen."
Sarisa stilled, heat prickling beneath her skin. "I'm sure Lara would prefer to be called dangerous over beautiful."
"If I were her, I'd want both." The princess's gaze grew shrewd, thoughtful. "But what I really wanted to ask is… why aren't you and Lara married? I mean, you have a child together. Most people—most nobles, at least—would have made that official years ago."
The question landed with the gentle force of a hammer. Sarisa hesitated, fork poised above her plate.
She'd answered variations of this before—at court, among friends, even to herself. But never like this, not to a near-stranger who looked at her with open curiosity and none of the usual judgment.
She set her fork down, composing her thoughts.
"Lara and I… it's complicated. We were never meant to be a couple, not officially. Things just happened. Aliyah was a miracle, not a plan. And after—well, there was always too much chaos, too much politics. Sometimes I think we were both afraid of what marriage might mean."
The princess nodded, considering this. "Is it fear of losing her, or of finding out you actually want her?"
That was almost too close. Sarisa gave a small, rueful smile. "Maybe both."
The princess leaned forward, elbows on the table, no longer shy. "You know, if it were me, I wouldn't have hesitated. Lara is… impossible to ignore. She's like a storm. And storms are beautiful, if you let yourself feel them instead of running for cover."
Sarisa was quiet, not sure what to say. She wondered how many people in the world could be so direct, so unafraid of naming desire.
The princess's tone softened, almost conspiratorial.
"I'm not saying you should do anything reckless. But I think it's a waste, all these beautiful people tiptoeing around each other just because the world is complicated. If Lara were mine, I'd—"
"Trust me," Sarisa interrupted, managing a thin laugh, "there's no owning Lara. She's her own force."
The princess smiled, eyes dancing. "All the better. But you know, sometimes it's nice to belong, too. Even for storms."
The conversation drifted after that—talk of pirate troubles, of local politics, of favorite foods and festival customs.
But the question lingered, trailing Sarisa through dessert and into the long hallway back to her rooms.
She undressed in silence, sliding out of her formal clothes and into a loose nightgown, her mind looping the princess's words. If it were me, I wouldn't have hesitated. Storms are beautiful.
The bracelet Lara had made for her was still on her wrist. Sarisa ran her thumb over the rough shells, the bright beads. It was hideous, and perfect. A promise not spoken aloud, but binding just the same.
She stepped into the shower, letting the warm water sluice away the salt and tension of the day.
The steam rose in fragrant clouds—citrus oil, a southern luxury. For a long while, she stood with her forehead pressed against the tiled wall, eyes closed, letting the water run until her skin tingled.
She got out, dried off, braided her hair with shaking hands. Her reflection in the mirror looked tired, eyes too bright.
Her body was marked with the faintest bruises from their playful brawl earlier, but she didn't mind. She liked the evidence of Lara's hands on her, the memory stitched into skin.
She climbed into bed, trying not to think about the cold side, the emptiness without Lara's warmth.
Sleep wouldn't come. She tossed and turned, the sheets a tangle. She imagined Lara in the dark, sword in hand, flame at her fingertips, tracking the worst of the world through the swamps.
She imagined what it would be like to wake and find her already there, to belong so completely she never had to wonder.
A dozen times she almost got up, almost went to the window to scan the shadows for any sign of her. But pride kept her in place. That and the knowledge that if anything happened, she'd hear it first.
Time crept by—ten, then eleven. The castle fell silent, the wind rattling faintly at the glass.
Sarisa stared up at the ceiling, running her fingers along the bracelet. At midnight, just as she was drifting into restless half-sleep, the window slid open with a faint, unmistakable creak.
Sarisa shot upright, reaching for the knife she kept beneath her pillow.
A figure slipped in, wreathed in moonlight—tall, broad-shouldered, wild hair and that impossible, irrepressible grin.
Lara.
She looked tired, dirty, her clothes flecked with mud, her shirt torn at the sleeve, but her eyes were bright with victory.
"Mission finished," Lara whispered, voice hoarse but triumphant.
Sarisa didn't hesitate. She was out of bed in two strides, bracelet jangling, and she flung her arms around Lara, heedless of the sweat and grime. Lara's laugh was muffled in her hair, and she hugged Sarisa back, strong and warm and safe.
For a long time, neither of them said anything. The world outside went on—wind, sea, the endless hum of night—but in that moment, in the quiet warmth of Sarisa's room, it felt like nothing could touch them.
Sarisa leaned back just enough to look Lara in the eye. "Welcome back."
Lara's grin softened. "Told you I'd be back before dawn."
Sarisa kissed her—gentle, grateful, the kind of kiss that tasted like home. "Don't ever leave me out of the fight again."
Lara touched her cheek, thumb brushing her jaw. "Never. Next time, you can be the one getting muddy."
They both laughed—tired, relieved, happy.
Sarisa pulled Lara toward the bed, not caring about the mud or the hour. "Come on, warrior. Tell me everything."