Page 151 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

Her heart gave a traitorous squeeze at the thought. Some reckless, starving part of her wanted to round the corner and find him there—leaning against a doorframe, sleeves rolled, exhaustion carved beneath those dark eyes. Just to see him. Just to know he was alright. She wouldn’t even ask to speak to him. One glimpse would be enough.

She nearly laughed. No, it wouldn’t. That was the problem. One glimpse had never been enough with him.

She straightened her grip on her basket and kept walking. She came for Kassenor; that was the task. Deliver the broth, make sure he drank, leave. She repeated it like a recipe—step by step, ingredient by ingredient—because recipes she could follow. Recipes didn’t make her pulse stutter or force her to remember someone else’s warmth.

Clean and quick. She could manage that.

Probably.

She found the right room easily. His name was on the door, elegantly etched onto a silver plate: ‘Lord Varil Kassenor.’

The door was slightly ajar, though the room was silent. She raised a hand to knock, but just as her knuckles hovered, a voice behind her halted her motion.

“Excuse me, miss.”

An elf nurse in a pale-blue uniform stood behind her. Her tone was polite, but firm. “I’m sorry, the Daemar is not receiving visitors outside the family.”

Cassia blinked, momentarily thrown. “Oh. I see. I’m sorry. I’m⁠—”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She wasn’t family. Not really. Not in any way that mattered to a hospital’s policy, especially now that their fake engagement was no more.

The nurse’s face was gentle but unyielding. “If you’d like me to deliver what you’ve brought⁠—”

“She’s my daughter-in-law,” came a voice from inside the room. Rough, weakened, but the command in it was unmistakable. “Let her in.”

The nurse blinked, surprised. So was Cassia. The nurse cleared her throat softly and stepped aside.

“Go on in, miss.”

Cassia hesitated in the doorway, her heart a frantic bird against her ribs. The words—daughter-in-law—echoed like a eulogy for a future she’d dreamt of. What a strange thing to mourn, when it had never truthfully been hers.

Quietly, she stepped inside. The room was nothing like the sterile wards below. Soft-toned fabrics and heavy velvet curtains filtered the sun into warm amber. A polished sideboard held a crystal decanter and several glass vials of potion, each labelled in an elegant hand. A large vase overflowing with snowy white orchids rested beside them, still fresh.

Ark’s father reclined on the bed, his back propped against a stack of richly embroidered pillows. He looked paler than she remembered. The surgery must’ve exhausted him. Yet, his eyes still held power. A tenacious sort of force.

Cassia had seen that kind of stubbornness before—had watched it cling to wheezing breaths in the brittle hours before dawn. Her father. Her mother. People who had no right to keep living and yet did, if only to prove fate wrong one more time.

She wouldn’t underestimate it now.

Slowly, she approached the bed and sank into the armchair beside it. “You’re alone,” she observed softly.

He shifted against the pillows. “Delphyne is attending a council meeting. She still has to maintain the illusion that I’m in full health. My sons”—he arched a brow—“I dismissed. They have their own matters to attend to. I’m no longer on death’s door. It seems only right they return to their lives.”

“I’m sure they want to keep you company. To spend time with you, now that they still can.”

He scoffed. “I’ve no desire to be coddled or hovered over like a dying dog. Concern is a precious thing. I’d rather not dilute it with pity.”

His golden gaze shifted to her then. “And you? Why are you here?”

Cassia hesitated, then reached into her basket and withdrew the silver thermos. “I wanted to see how you were doing,” she said. “And to bring you this.”

He stared at the container as if it were an explosive device.

“It’s restorative bone broth,” she clarified. “Made with chive blossom, astral roots, and a handful of very stubborn herbs.”

His expression didn’t change, but his silence stretched long enough to make her consider retracting the offer. Still, she opened the lid and poured a steaming cup, setting it gently within reach. To her surprise, he took it, lifted it to his lips and drank.

The change was minute, but she saw the faint widening of his eyes, the subtle lift of his posture as the warmth coursed through him.