Chapter Ninety-Eight – Through the Fog
Warmth clung to her skin like a heavy blanket, but it wasn't comforting—it was suffocating.
Giselle blinked slowly, eyes struggling to adjust to the muted golden glow of the room. Shadows danced across the ceiling, flickering in time with the scent of burning herbs and clove-heavy incense that thickened the air around her. Everything was hazy, the world suspended in a dreamlike quiet. Her limbs felt too heavy to move, like she’d been anchored to the mattress beneath her.
A dull ache pulsed in her thigh.
She inhaled—and immediately coughed. The smoke stung her throat and forced her to turn her head, a jolt of pain shooting through her leg in protest. A low groan escaped her lips.
“Easy,” came a soft, feminine voice.
Giselle blinked toward the sound, her vision sharpening enough to see the dark silhouette perched at the edge of a nearby armchair. A woman—tall and slender, wrapped in loose fabrics of ash and midnight, with hair braided with feathers and silver thread. Eyes like stormclouds watched her from across the room.
Avella. The witch.
“What happened…” Giselle rasped, her voice barely there.
Avella rose and moved toward her, pouring water from a clay pitcher into a cup. “You were hit by an arrow. It was dipped in poison that was meant for someone else.”
Giselle’s brows drew together. “Elia…”
“She is alive,” Avella said before Giselle could ask. “Wounded, but already healed.”
Giselle forced herself to sit up slightly, groaning again as her leg throbbed violently. Her fingers reached instinctively for the spot, but Avella was at her side in an instant, placing the cup of water in her hand and guiding her back against the pillows with a firm hand.
“Drink. Slowly.”
Giselle obeyed, her throat grateful for the cool water. When she was done, she looked around, finally realizing where she was. The space was familiar in a way that made her chest tighten—it smelled of pine and leather and Rowan. Her gaze landed on a heavy wardrobe near the far wall, boots lined neatly beside it. A wool coat draped over a nearby chair. His space. His scent.
“Rowan brought you here after the battle,” Avella confirmed, reading her thoughts easily. “You were fading quickly. The poison had already begun corrupting the bond.”
That pulled Giselle up straighter despite the pain. “The bond… is it still there?”
Avella’s eyes softened just slightly. “It’s still there. Weak, but intact. You must rest if you want it to stay that way.”
Giselle’s heart raced in her chest. The idea of losing Rowan—it settled a cold panic in her bones. She clenched the blankets around her legs. “How long?”
“You’ve been unconscious nearly a day.”
The air felt thicker suddenly, the weight of everything pressing in. “Elia,” Giselle whispered. “Why would someone try to sever a bond with *her*?”
Avella didn’t answer right away. She stood slowly, eyes drifting toward the fireplace where a small cauldron bubbled. “That’s what Rowan is trying to uncover.”
Giselle sank back against the pillows, exhaustion pulling at her again.
“Rest now,” Avella said, turning back toward her. “There is more coming. You’ll need your strength.”
—
She drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the low crackle of the fireplace and the quiet murmur of voices outside the door. Time lost meaning. Dreams came and went—some warm, others terrifying—but through them all, there was one constant: the steady pull of her bond, like a golden thread tying her soul to his.
When she finally stirred again, the incense had faded into something more subtle—lavender and pine. The room was dimmer now, lit by the soft rays of early evening sun filtering through the curtains. The pain in her leg was still there, but dulled, muted beneath layers of healing salves and exhaustion.
She blinked blearily, shifting slightly, and that’s when she saw him.
Rowan sat beside her on the edge of the bed, legs braced wide, a stack of documents and worn parchment spread across his lap. His brows were drawn low in focus, the firelight flickering across his strong features. He hadn't shaved—dark stubble shadowed his jaw—and his normally composed expression was pulled tight with worry.
Her heart clenched at the sight of him.
“You’re frowning too hard,” she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper.
His head snapped toward her immediately, papers forgotten. “Giselle.”
The tension in his shoulders dropped all at once as he shifted closer, a hand immediately reaching for hers where it lay limply on the blanket. His touch was warm, grounding.
“You’re awake,” he breathed, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “Thank the Moon.”
She smiled faintly. “Still here.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. His gaze dipped to her leg beneath the blankets, then back up to her face. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I think I scared myself,” she murmured. “How bad is it?”
“The arrow was poisoned. Avella said it was meant to sever a bond—maybe not even ours. But it nearly worked.” His eyes searched hers as if trying to reassure himself she was really there. “I carried you back myself. I couldn’t risk losing you.”
Giselle squeezed his hand weakly. “I felt you. Even when everything was dark... I still felt you.”
Rowan leaned forward, pressing his forehead gently against hers. “I thought I’d lost you, mate,” he whispered. “But you came back to me.”
A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but it wasn’t from pain. “Of course I did. You’re my home, Rowan.”
He exhaled a shaky breath and kissed her forehead tenderly. “You’re not leaving me again. Not now. Not ever.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she murmured, her lips curving into the smallest smile.
They stayed like that for a long moment—forehead to forehead, hands intertwined, their bond quiet but steady between them.
The war outside their room could wait. For now, they had each other.
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