Chapter 4: The Fragile Circle

The breath she’d been holding escaped in a soft, uncontrolled sigh. It wasn’t loud, but in the dense quiet of the shrine it might as well have been a shout. The wounded guard’s head snapped toward the darkness. His hand, which had been resting on his injured leg, moved to the hilt of a short sword lying beside him. The mother pulled her children closer, her own eyes wide and frightened as they searched the shadows.

Elinalise stood frozen behind the pillar. The moment for silent retreat had evaporated. Now she was just a lurking shape in the dark, which was arguably worse. To run now would confirm she was a threat or a Grenville scout. Her mind worked fast, discarding options. A lie about being a lost refugee might work, but her entrance hadn’t been through the main rubble pile. She’d come from the inner wall, which suggested she knew the city.

She stepped out from behind the pillar.

Five pairs of eyes locked onto her. The candlelight painted their faces in stark relief, highlighting the dirt and exhaustion. It did the same to her, she knew. She kept her hands visible, palms open at her sides.

“I mean no harm,” she said. Her voice sounded rough from dust and disuse. “I saw the light. I needed a place to hide.”

The guard’s fingers tightened on his sword hilt. He was maybe thirty, with a square jaw currently clenched against pain. “Who are you?” The question was blunt, edged with suspicion.

“Elina,” she said, plucking the first common servant’s name that came to mind. “I worked in the castle laundry.” It was a plausible lie. Laundry staff were numerous, anonymous, and would have been scattered during the attack.

“The castle fell two days ago,” the guard said. His eyes tracked over her—the filthy cloak, the tangled hair, the lack of any bundle or sack. “Where have you been since?”

“Hiding.” She let some of her real fatigue seep into her tone. “Like you.”

The elderly woman spoke then, her voice thin but clear. “Let her be, Tomas. She’s just a girl. Look at her.”

Tomas, the guard, didn’t look convinced. “Grenville’s been sending people in plain clothes to root out holdouts. They offer help, then report locations.”

“Do I look like I’m offering help?” Elinalise asked. The words came out sharper than she intended. The constant inner heat shortened her patience. She took a slower breath. “I have nothing to offer. Except maybe to look at that leg. It’s bleeding through the bandage.”

His eyes narrowed further. “You know medicine?”

“Enough to clean a wound and bind it. Better than letting it fester.” She took a cautious step forward, still moving slowly. “My grandmother was an herb-wife in our village before I came to the city.” Another layer of the lie, building a history that explained minor knowledge. Village herb-wives were often the only doctors common people knew.

The mother shifted slightly, looking from Elinalise to Tomas. “Please, Tomas. You’re no good to us if you die of rot.”

Tomas’s shoulders slumped a fraction. The fight seemed to drain out of him, replaced by a weary acceptance of his own vulnerability. He gave a short, pained nod and moved his hand away from his sword.

Elinalise approached the circle of light. The warmth from the single candle was negligible, but stepping into its glow felt significant anyway. It made her real to them, and them to her. The little boy stared up at her with unblinking curiosity. The girl kept her face hidden.

She knelt beside Tomas, careful to keep a respectful distance. The smell of the wound hit her then—a coppery, sickly-sweet odor that cut through the dust. Up close, the bandage was a torn strip of what looked like a linen shirt, already dark and stiff with old blood. A fresh, wet stain spread from its center.

“How did it happen?” she asked as she gently peeled back the edge of the cloth.

“Pike thrust,” Tomas grunted. “During the retreat from the merchant square. I got separated from my unit. Took this and kept running until I found this place yesterday.”

The wound was ugly. A deep puncture just above his knee, its edges ragged and inflamed. It hadn’t been cleaned properly, probably just wrapped in haste while he fled. Pus mingled with the blood.

“It needs to be washed,” Elinalise said. “With clean water. And the bandage needs to be boiled if you have another.”

The mother, whose name she learned was Anya, produced a small waterskin and a relatively clean strip of cloth from a meager pack. There was no pot for boiling anything. Elinalise took the waterskin and poured a careful stream over the wound, washing away the worst of the dried blood and matter. Tomas hissed through his teeth but didn’t cry out.

Her knowledge was basic, cobbled together from watching castle physicians treat guards after training accidents and from old Kella’s folk remedies for kitchen burns. Clean it, bind it tight, pray it doesn’t turn green. That was the extent of it.

As she worked, using the new cloth to pad the wound before retying the bandage more securely, she was acutely aware of their scrutiny. Anya watched her hands, maybe assessing her skill. The elderly couple, introduced as Bertram and Maren, observed with a quiet sadness. The children just stared.

And Tomas watched her face.

“You move like you’re used to giving orders,” he said quietly while she tightened the knot.

Elinalise kept her eyes on her work. “Laundry overseers are tyrants. You learn to speak firmly or your linens come back wrinkled.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position against the wall. “Your hands aren’t rough enough for laundry work that would give you those kinds of calluses.”

She glanced down at her own hands automatically. They were dirty now, but under the grime they were relatively smooth across the palms except for telltale ridges on her fingers and thumb from years of holding a quill and practicing with small blades. Not a laundress’s hands at all.

A cold knot formed in her stomach alongside the curse’s heat.

“My family were scribes before they fell on hard times,” she said, layering another lie on top of the crumbling first one. “I only took the laundry work last year.” It was weak.

Tomas didn’t press it immediately. He just watched her finish tying off the bandage.

“Thank you,” he said finally. The words sounded genuine, though his eyes remained guarded.

Anya passed Elinalise the waterskin after she was done. “Drink. You look parched.”

The water was warm and tasted of leather, but it was clean. Elinalise took two small sips, fighting the urge to gulp it all down. She handed it back with a nod of thanks.

Anya then broke a small piece of hard travel bread from a loaf and offered it to her as well. It was stale and dense, but Elinalise accepted it as if it were a royal delicacy. She ate it slowly, making it last, feeling each bite settle into her hollow stomach.

This was the fragile trust she’d stepped into. A shared waterskin and a piece of bread given freely were more binding than any oath in this place.

With the immediate task done, a tense silence descended over the group again, punctuated only by the drip of water somewhere in the dark and Tomas’s labored breathing.

Bertram was the one who broke it this time. “Have you seen any patrols today?” he asked Elinalise. His voice trembled slightly. He seemed like a man who had spent his life in a quiet shop somewhere. This ruin was beyond his comprehension.

Elinalise shook her head. “Not since yesterday. They seem concentrated around the castle and main gates still. They’re processing refugees out the South Gate. Checking people at random.” She relayed what she’d seen as simple fact. It felt strange to share information. For two days her thoughts had been a closed loop of survival and vengeance. Speaking them aloud made them feel less like weapons and more like just… news.

“They took my son,” Maren whispered suddenly. She wasn’t looking at anyone. She stared at the candle flame as if it held answers. “He was in the city watch. They rounded them up after the surrender. We don’t know where.”

No one had anything to say to that. What comfort existed in this place? Elinalise found herself searching for words and coming up empty. She wasn’t a princess here who could offer promises. She was just another person who had lost everything. Her silence seemed to be answer enough. Maren gave a tiny nod as if she’d expected nothing different.

Tomas shifted again. His face was pale. “They’re not just rounding up soldiers. They’re looking for anyone with connections to the old court. Minor officials. Treasury clerks. Anyone who might know where valuables were stored or… other things.” His gaze drifted back to Elinalise. “You said you worked in the castle. Did you see anything? Hear anything before it fell?”

This was the subtle interrogation. Wrapped in casual conversation. It wasn’t aggressive. It was just… probing. A wounded man trying to understand what he was sharing his shelter with.

Elinalise chose her words with care. She needed to be believable but uninteresting. “There was shouting from the great hall. Then explosions outside. Everyone in the laundry panicked. We ran for the service tunnels.” All true so far. “It was chaos. I got separated. I hid in a linen closet for hours until things quieted down.” That part was fiction. “When I came out… everything was burning. I just ran.” She shrugged as if that was all there was to tell.

Tomas absorbed this. His eyes lingered on her face. “You were lucky.”

“Was I?” The question slipped out before she could stop it. It hung in the air between them. She looked down at her hands again. She couldn’t explain what she meant. That luck would have been a quick death maybe. Not this lingering half-life with a fire in her veins.

Anya misinterpreted her tone as simple grief. “We all were,” she said softly. “We’re still breathing.”

For another hour they sat in that uneasy truce. The children eventually fell asleep leaning against their mother. Bertram and Maren dozed fitfully. Tomas tried to rest but pain kept his eyes open and alert.

Elinalise sat slightly apart from their circle, her back against the cold stone of the central pillar. The curse-warmth maintained its steady simmer. It was easier to ignore when she wasn’t moving. It just existed as part of her now like an extra heartbeat or an organ she never knew she had that only caused discomfort.

But Tomas noticed.

He had been watching her on and off since she sat down. She could feel his eyes on her every few minutes. Studying.

“You’re flushed,” he said eventually when their eyes met again across the dim space. His voice was low so as not to wake others fully. “You sick?”

Elinalise felt a jolt of alarm prickle up her spine. She kept her expression neutral. “Just tired. And it’s close in here.”

“It’s not that warm though.” Tomas pushed himself up straighter using his arms for leverage while trying not to jostle his leg too much. His focus sharpened on her face like he was examining something he couldn't quite identify yet "I saw you wipe your brow twice since you sat down." His gaze dropped pointedly to where her cloak had fallen open slightly at her collar revealing part of her throat "You look feverish."

The internal heat seemed to pulse in response as if acknowledging its discovery Elinalise resisted pulling her cloak tighter That would look defensive "Maybe I'm coming down with something." She forced a weary smile that probably looked more like a grimace "The air outside is full of ash and worse things."

"Maybe." Tomas didn't sound convinced His soldier's instincts were piqued A fever could mean illness which could spread especially in close quarters Or it could mean something else entirely like an infection from a wound But she had no visible wounds Or like exhaustion But he looked exhausted too and wasn't sweating

"What village did you say you were from?" he asked changing tack

"The northern marches near Lake Tarren," she said naming an actual region known for scribes and small villages It was far enough away that its specific customs would be unknown here

"Tarren folk have an accent," Tomas stated flatly "A lilt on their vowels You don't have it"

Elinalise's mind blanked for one terrifying second She had spent her whole life surrounded by courtiers who spoke High Royal Her diction was precise and clear She'd never had to mimic a regional dialect

"My mother was from here," she improvised quickly "She raised me speaking city-tongue My father had the accent"

Tomas just nodded slowly It wasn't acceptance It was filing away another discrepancy

The silence stretched again but this time it was charged with unspoken suspicion Elinalise could see him turning pieces over in his mind A girl with scribe's hands claiming to be a laundress No regional accent Knowledge of basic wound care but no supplies of her own And now a persistent unexplained fever days after escaping catastrophe

He wasn't seeing a princess He might not even guess at that But he was seeing someone hiding something significant

And in this new world where hiding something could get everyone killed that made her dangerous

Anya stirred sensing tension even in her half-sleep "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Tomas said his eyes still on Elinalise "Just thinking"

Elinalise knew what he was thinking about risk calculation She had done it herself moments before stepping into the light He had two children here an elderly couple and a wounded leg He needed this shelter How much risk did this strange feverish girl with lies on her tongue bring? Was whatever aid she could provide worth potentially drawing Grenville attention if she was being hunted for reasons he didn't know?

She wanted to say something To reassure him But any more words would just be more lies piling up He would see through them She stayed quiet

The decision hung between them unspoken He hadn't asked her to leave Not yet But his body language had shifted subtly He no longer looked at her with wary gratitude He looked at her like a problem he hadn't solved

Time passed The candle burned lower its flame shrinking and casting longer dancing shadows across the ancient carvings on the walls The children slept on Bertram snored softly

Then a sound cut through the muffled quiet of their tomb

Not from inside Not from their own movements

From outside

The distinct crunch of booted feet on loose rubble

Then another

And another

A rhythmic cadence Moving slowly Deliberately

Someone was walking over the debris pile that sealed their shrine

Everyone went rigid at once The children woke sensing their mother's sudden tension Their eyes went wide with instinctive fear Anya clamped a hand over each of their mouths holding them silent

Bertram and Maren froze their faces etched with pure terror

Tomas's hand crept slowly silently back to grip his short sword His knuckles were white His eyes were locked on the low ceiling as if he could see through stone

Elinalise held perfectly still Her own heart hammered against her ribs so loud she feared it might be audible The curse-heat flared with her spike of adrenaline sending a fresh wave of uncomfortable warmth across her skin She felt exposed visible as if the fever marked her for discovery

The footsteps stopped directly above them

A voice filtered down muffled by layers of stone and wood but clear enough to understand It was male rough with authority

"Check this pile Could be hollow under there Good place for rats to hide"

Another voice younger answered "Looks solid sarge"

"Kick some of that timber see if it shifts"

A series of heavy thuds followed as someone presumably kicked at debris Dust sifted down from cracks in the vaulted ceiling landing like grey snow on their heads and shoulders Elinalise watched one mote land on Maren's trembling hand Neither woman moved to brush it away

The timber blocking their entrance groaned under sudden pressure It was already bearing tons of weight One wrong shift and it could collapse inward burying them all or worse opening a hole right into their sanctuary

Tomas looked from Elinalise to his family His wife's terrified face His children's wide eyes His jaw worked His grip on his sword tightened then loosened The calculation happening behind his eyes was almost visible What if they were found? What if they weren't? What if this girl whoever she really was brought this patrol here somehow? What if they found him a wounded city guardsman? What if they found her?

His gaze settled on Elinalise In that flickering candlelight his expression wasn't hostile It wasn't even accusatory It was just grimly practical weighing survival odds

The footsteps shifted overhead The timber groaned again