Dante's voice was quiet, but it held a sharp edge. "You can keep pretending you don't notice if you like. But she's going to make herself sick out here, bound to you or not."
The balcony wind cut straight through his coat. Alistair barely noticed. His eyes stayed on Elissa, small and pale in the wooden chair, shawl dusted white with snow.
Dante's words still hung between them.
Fourth night.
Alistair didn't answer that. Couldn't. Instead, without looking away from her, he said quietly, "You should go and sleep, Dante. It's too late for both of us to be wandering the halls."
Dante studied him, then shifted his gaze to Elissa—her bare ankles pulled up onto the chair, the faint bluish tinge to her lips.
"Fine," he said. "But this doesn't stop because we ignore it."
Alistair's jaw ticked. He stayed silent.
Dante blew out a slow breath, the puffed air white in the cold. "Wake her soon, or you'll be explaining to Kestrel why her guest froze herself solid."
He gave Elissa one last look, then turned and slipped back inside. His footsteps faded down the corridor.
The balcony went quiet again, except for the wind and the soft whine from the pup.
Alistair stepped closer.
Up close, Elissa looked even smaller. Her hands were clenched lightly around the edge of her shawl, but her fingers had gone pale and stiff. Frost clung to the ends of her lashes. Her shoulders rose and fell in tiny, shallow breaths.
The pup pressed himself against her bare feet, trying to cover them, letting out a miserable little sound.
Alistair reached down and carefully tugged the shawl higher around her neck, tucking it in at the sides so the wind couldn't cut through as easily. His fingers brushed the side of her throat.
Cold. Too cold.
As if she felt even that slight touch of warmth, she shifted in her sleep, her head tipping toward him. Before he could move away, she leaned lightly into his side, her temple resting against his coat.
He went still.
His whole body locked for a second—breath, muscles, thoughts.
The pup huffed once, as if urging him on.
Slowly, reluctantly, Alistair sat on the edge of the chair beside her. The wood was biting through his clothes, but where their shoulders touched, there was the faintest exchange of heat.
The moment his body warmth enfolded her, she moved again, unconsciously seeking more. She slumped against him, that small, trusting weight settling against his arm. One of her hands slipped from the shawl and fell against his side.
He looked down at her face. Even in sleep, lines of tension clung to her brow. But as she curled closer, they eased a fraction.
He let out a quiet, annoyed breath.
"This is ridiculous," he muttered under his breath. "You shouldn't be out here."
He drew his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tighter into his side. She tucked herself without resistance into the warmth he offered, pressing her cheek just under his collarbone. Her fingers flexed weakly in the fabric of his coat.
Not enough. Not out here.
His decision made, he shifted, sliding one arm behind her back, the other under her knees. She was light in his arms, all bones and softness and chill. As he lifted her, she made a faint sound, but didn't wake—only burrowed closer, turning her face into his chest like a sleepy child seeking heat.
The pup scrambled after them as Alistair carried her back through the balcony door and into the corridor. The difference hit him immediately: the castle's air was still cold, but not cruel. Warmth clung to the stone here.
He walked on instinct.
His boots took him down the familiar turns toward the room—left at the niche with the old spear, past the tapestry of the winter hunt. The weight in his arms felt almost…right. She fit there too easily, head tucked under his chin, breath warm against his breastbone.
By the time he reached the door, his hand went automatically to the latch.
His fingers closed around it and stilled.
Realization hit him all at once.
This was not her room.... This was his own room. He cursed himself.
The part of himself that was too aware of the girl in his arms. Not just a symbol or a duty-- A person. Too Close. Too Warm, when she wasn't supposed to be.
He clenched his jaw. Irritation flared—at himself, at her, at the entire ridiculous situation.
Idiot, he told himself. What do you think you're doing?
An irritated sigh slipped out of him. He released the latch, turned sharply, and started back the way he'd come.
The pup hurried to keep up, nails clicking on stone.
They reached Elissa's corridor in a few strides. Her door was still ajar from earlier when he'd checked her room. He nudged it open with his foot and stepped inside.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of banked embers in the hearth. The bed lay rumpled and empty, exactly as she'd left it. The little rug was still crooked from where the pup had paced.
Alistair went straight to the bed and lowered her onto the mattress with careful hands. For a moment, her fingers tightened in his coat as if unwilling to let go. He had to gently peel them away, one by one.
"Let go," he murmured, voice low and rough. "You're safe. You're home."
She sighed in her sleep and relaxed back into the pillow. Her hair fanned out, dark against the sheets, still faintly damp at the ends from melted snow.
He drew the blankets up over her, tucking them snug around her shoulders and sides the way he'd seen Martha do. The shawl stayed wrapped close beneath, adding another layer.
His hand lingered for a second over her arm, feeling the slow, steady warmth beginning to seep back.
He pulled away and crossed to the fireplace. The embers were low, no more than a dull orange glow. Not nearly enough heat for how chilled she'd made herself.
He crouched, added two more logs from the nearby basket, and coaxed them into position with the poker. Sparks jumped and caught; the flames climbed higher, spreading a stronger warmth into the room.
Behind him, the pup let out a soft sound.
Alistair glanced over his shoulder. The little wolf stood by the bed, front paws on the edge, nose just nudging the blanket, as if checking she was really there.
"You too," Alistair muttered, setting the poker aside. "You should sleep as well."
He scooped the pup up with one hand—earning a surprised squeak—and placed him gently on the bed near Elissa's feet. The pup circled twice, then flopped down, back pressed against her ankle through the blankets.
She didn't stir.
Alistair dragged a chair from the small writing desk and set it near the side of the bed. He sat, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped, and watched.
Her color was already better than it had been on the balcony. The shaky edge of her breathing was smoothing out, turning slow and deep. The faint tremor in her fingers eased as the warmth from the fire and blankets sank in.
One of her hands, pale against the wool, twitched and then settled, palm open, no longer clenched around unseen fears.
He told himself he was only waiting to make sure she didn't start shivering again. That this was practical, even cold: the Sun-Princess bound to him couldn't afford to make herself sick before the ball. Before Hollow. Before everything.
But the longer he sat, the quieter the room became, the more that excuse rang thin.
After a while, when the shadows on her face had softened and the blue at her lips had completely faded, he let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"You're not allowed," he said under his breath, almost irritated, "to keep doing this. Freezing yourself. Wandering."
She didn't move. Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks. The pup gave a tiny snuffling sigh and nudged closer to her foot.
He sat there a little longer, just to be sure. Just to watch the steady rise and fall of her chest.
When he was finally satisfied that warmth had fully returned to her skin, that her sleep was easy instead of strained, he rose from the chair as quietly as he could.
He took one last look at her—at the girl who had stood on a balcony alone in the freezing dark rather than stay in her bed with her dreams—and at the little white pup guarding her toes like a soldier half his size.
Then he turned, slipped out of the room, and pulled the door gently closed behind him.
The corridor felt colder than her room now.