Twice Was She Forsaken

Vionna returned to the tent she'd first been given when she arrived.

A single cot, the sharp stench of herbs, and bloodied bandages heaped in the corners.

She remembered how she'd loathed it once—how she'd begged Theron for days before he let her move closer to him.

Now, standing in it again, her feelings had changed.

It was still small. Still miserable.

But better than the place she died last time.

At least here, she wouldn't freeze alone in the snow.

***

In the days that followed, Vionna began handing off her patients. Each morning, she left with the herb cart. Each night, she returned late.

Waiting. Just waiting for Elsha to come and take her home.

The camp buzzed with joy.

Everywhere she turned, someone was praising Theron's devotion. How he'd chosen the nearest auspicious date—just a month away—to marry Marzella.

Still, the wedding would be grand.

Whispers spread fast: House Morwynne's dowry was lacking, so Theron had opened his vault. Sent 108 treasure chests to her family, they said. Added a bride token himself, sealing a match fit for legend.

Vionna listened.

She smiled when others smiled. Gave blessings like everyone else. Wished them love that would last a lifetime.

***

That morning, as always, Vionna followed the herb cart out of camp.

She stepped onto the stool—then pain flared through her wrist.

Theron's hand clamped around her arm, yanking her back. "You've been avoiding me, haven't you?"

"I haven't." Her head shook before she could think.

His eyes darkened. He stepped closer.

She kept retreating until there was nowhere left to go.

"You expect me to believe that? You're my physician, yet you vanish every day with the herb cart. You barely look at me. If that's not avoidance, what is? Because I'm marrying Marzella?"

"No," she said quickly. "You've found your match. I'm happy for you. I wish you both a long, joyful life. When you return to Crownspire with her, I'll have a gift prepared."

She steadied her voice. "Uncle Theron, there's no need to worry. I know my place. I understand now—you'll never love me. I've let you go. I won't be a burden."

The words were calm. Measured. True.

But Theron's expression only darkened.

Let him go?

That was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard.

"Vionna, I'm not falling for some cheap game of push and pull."

"I'm not—"

"Aren't you?" he snapped, yanking her into the tent and shoving her toward the table.

A wooden box sat there.

Vionna froze.

"You say you've let go," Theron said, voice cold, "yet you leave this in Marzella's tent to provoke her? Letters. Sketches. You've chased me from Crownspire to Stormrest for years—and now I'm meant to believe you've suddenly moved on?"

Her gaze locked on the box, eyes burning.

Inside were the letters she'd written him in secret. Sketches drawn in quiet, stolen moments.

She'd forgotten them after she came back to life.

And now he'd flung them at her feet.

She knew how it looked. Knew how hollow her words must have sounded. In her first life, she had schemed—just to stay close.

And Theron, who didn't know she had already died once, could only see another ploy.

But this time... she truly didn't dare love him.

"I did love you. For a long time. But you're betrothed now. And I may be a princess, but I'm not shameless enough to ruin someone's wedding."

Her eyes reddened. She met his gaze one last time.

Then she reached into the box.

One by one, she pulled out the letters. The sketches.

And fed them to the brazier.

"Vionna!"

His voice cracked the air, furious.

The fire caught fast. Flames rising.