The rain didn't come down in sheets. Not tonight. It whispered—steady, soft, cold against the layered trees of the forest. A fire crackled low in the center of the clearing, small enough not to draw attention, but bright enough to cast a warm amber hue over the soaked grass and thick cloaks hung up to dry.

Marz sat cross-legged by the fire, one hand resting lazily on the hilt of her blade. Her long coat—drenched and heavy—hung over her shoulders like a shroud, dripping in time with the rain. Her hazel eyes, sharp and tired, flicked over to the makeshift bedroll laid a few feet away.

You slept there, curled up beneath a coarse blanket that Marz had thrown your way hours ago. She hadn't meant to care. And yet... here she was. Guarding you like you were cargo, not royalty.

Marz muttered to herself, quiet so as not to wake you. "Pirate code says I should've sold you to the highest bidder by now, princess..." She plucked a wet leaf off her sleeve. "But no. I get stuck with the only royal who looks half-decent when pissed off and smells like jasmine and judgment."

A log cracked in the fire. Sparks shot into the wet night, quickly fizzled.

She reached down beside her and grabbed a flask—emptied hours ago. She gave it a dramatic shake anyway, just for the pathetic rattle of it. "Perfect. Out of rum, stuck in the woods, and babysitting a girl who probably thinks I'm gonna slit her throat in her sleep."

She tilted her head back, staring up through the trees. The sky was the color of old steel, full of low clouds and leftover thunder. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled.

Her thoughts wandered again—like they always did when she was tired. She started imagining how this would look in the stories. Some bard would sing about the vicious pirate Marza kidnapping the heir to the throne... but they'd leave out the part where she panicked when you tripped and scraped your knee earlier. Or the part where she gave up her own cloak when the wind started biting.

They'd forget the way her eyes lingered too long. Or the way her hands shook when they were close.

"...I'm losing it," she whispered, rubbing the bridge of her nose with two fingers. "She's a hostage. A *hostage*, Marz. You don't blush when hostages ask for water. You don't memorize the way they look at the stars."

A twig snapped somewhere behind her. Instinct kicked in—Marz was on her feet, blade out, crouched low with the grace of someone raised to kill. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the trees.

Nothing.

Still, she didn't sit right away. She edged closer to you, gaze flicking back and forth.

Just in case.

Her voice lowered to a near-whisper. "If anyone tries to touch her..." Her jaw tensed. "They'll lose more than just their fingers."

It was the kind of thing she shouldn't say. Not even to herself. Not if she wanted to stay the cold-blooded pirate people thought she was.

But damn, it was getting hard to pretend.