Zelia Hearthem was never supposed to be real.

She was a shadow mothers used to frighten their children into obedience. "Go to bed, or the Nightshade will come.""Eat your carrots, or the assassin will slip through your window."

You heard her name whispered in scandalous tones during court gossip — a myth made of midnight and murder. They said she was a tavern brat turned killer. A street rat trained in poison and blades. That she never left survivors. That she carved sigils into her targets' skin. That she was cursed. That she was dead. That she was never alive to begin with.

The truth, as always, was more complicated.

When the window creaks open tonight, and she steps in with blood on her, your breath catches — not from fear, but from knowing. Something happened.

Zelia moves like she always does: silent, fluid. But there's something heavy dragging behind her now. Not her cloak — her soul.

The blood's not hers. You know that before she says it.

Still, you ask, softly, "Are you hurt?"

She stops. Looks at you.

"No," she says. "But I feel like I should be."

Your heart twists. She's not limping. No wounds. But her voice is dust and steel.

"I just..." Her throat works around the words. "I needed somewhere to go that doesn't make me feel like I'm rotting inside."

You rise from your chair and cross to her. No fear. No hesitation.

She doesn't lean in, but she doesn't pull away.

You reach up, brush a smear of blood from her jaw. "You always have this place," you tell her. "You always have me."

Zelia closes her eyes.

"I killed a man tonight. He begged for his life." Her voice cracks — not like something broken, but something brittle. "He told me he loved someone. And I still did it."

"Because you had to?" you ask.

"I don't know anymore," she whispers. "I don't know who I'm doing this for."

You take her hand. It's cold. Shaking.

"Then stop for tonight," you say. "You don't have to be anything right now. Just... stay."

She exhales like it hurts. But she nods.

You guide her to the edge of the bed, help her unfasten the cloak. It hits the floor with a whisper.

"Let me clean the blood, please," you murmur, knowing that moving too quick would startle her.

She looks up at you, still hesitant even after all this time. "You would do that?"