A deafening clap of thunder shattered the silence. In the darkness, Eleanor jolted awake, her ears straining against the cacophony of the storm—and the ragged, labored breathing nearby. Fumbling for flint and tinder, she lit the bedside candle. The flickering light revealed Cyrus slumped against the wall, his ashen face contorted in agony. Veins throbbed at his temples; his hands, clenched into bloodless fists, trembled against the bedsheets.

  "Don’t—" he snarled as she reached toward him, the warning more feral than human. Another thunderbolt shook the chamber. Eleanor stumbled backward, catching herself against the cold stone floor. Cyrus staggered upright, his mangled leg buckling beneath him. The bandages—once white—now bloomed rust-colored where dried blood fused linen to flesh.

  "Stop!" Eleanor lunged to brace him as he collapsed. "Your wounds—" Her words died as lightning illuminated the room. Cyrus shuddered violently, his forehead pressed against her collarbone. Surprise froze her for a heartbeat—until understanding dawned.

  The storm. He was terrified of the storm.

  Her arms hesitantly encircled his shoulders. "Shhh," she murmured, the childhood lullaby slipping out unbidden—"Beneath the silver willow’s sigh, the nightingale shall guard your sleep..." His breath hitched, hot against her neck. For three verses, they remained thus: a knight broken by pain, a woman humming nonsense rhymes to drown the thunder.

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  When the tempest retreated, Cyrus recoiled as if burned. "Enough coddling," he rasped, though his grip on the bedpost betrayed weakness. "Fetch the bandages."

  Eleanor bit back a retort. The man bled defiance as freely as he bled ichor. Working in silence, she peeled away the ruined cloth. Ribbons of muscle glistened beneath torn flesh. Each dab of the cloth drew a hiss through his teeth, yet he refused vocal complaint. Only when her fingers grazed his collarbone did he speak: "Your bedside manner lacks refinement."

  "Complaints may be lodged with the abbess," she shot back, winding fresh linen across his ribs. "Assuming we survive to see dawn."

  Dawn brought brittle sunlight and a corpse-quiet stronghold. Eleanor scavenged the scorched kitchens in vain before spying wild apples glowing like rubies on the hillside. She returned with her skirts pillaged into a makeshift satchel, only to find Cyrus poised like a viper in the shadows.

  "Three hours," he accused, eyes narrowing.

  "Three apples." She tossed him one, its skin gleaming with dew. "Poisoned, naturally. A slow death via horticulture."

  A flicker of amusement ghosted across his face—there and gone. He bit into the fruit, juice staining his cracked lips. "Adequate."

  Nightfall reignited their uneasy truce. Cyrus watched her through slitted eyes as she rebuilt the fire. "Why?" The question hung between them, sharp as a dagger.

  "Why what?"

  "Why risk your neck for a stranger?"

  Eleanor prodded the embers. "You’d prefer I left you to bleed out?"

  "Most would."

  "Then most are fools." She met his gaze unflinching. "A man who fears thunderstorms needs looking after."

  For once, Cyrus had no retort. The fire crackled. Somewhere beyond the ruins, an owl called to the rising moon.