A slow blink. Nothing more. Kaelen’s gaze, flat as the grey stone of the manor walls, offered no comfort, no hint of recognition beyond the primal. Her carefully constructed narrative, a fragile bridge over the chasm of his amnesia, swayed precariously. “You just… you couldn’t bring yourself to truly harm me,” Elara insisted, her voice tight, a thin wire stretching taut. Every word felt like a lie, even as she willed it to be true. He watched her, silent as a predator gauging its prey. No flicker of belief softened his eyes. He didn’t buy an inch of her desperate plea. Forward, he stepped. A hand, rough and calloused, rose. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, traced the line of her neck. Elara’s breath hitched, trapped somewhere in her throat. The unexpected touch sent a jolt through her, unsettling her composure. “Why?” he rumbled, his voice a low thrum that vibrated against her skin. “Why can’t I?” Her mind reeled. His touch was doing something to her, twisting her carefully constructed calm into a knot of raw panic. “Huh?” “Why can’t I do anything bad to you?” “Because… it’s because…” Every brush of his skin, every faint pressure of his thumb on her pulse point, accelerated her heart. It hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She bit her lip, tasting copper. Memory flashed, sharp and unwelcome: the biting cold of the Gloomwood Peaks, the scent of his blood mingling with pine, the chilling glint of his blade as she’d fled. The amulet at her neck, the one he’d claimed in that deadly encounter, felt heavy, burning now with a suspicious heat. His soft touch, so potent, began to feel like a snare. Elara spoke, the words a desperate gamble, born of instinct. “It’s because ancient custom forbids it!” “Custom?” Kaelen’s brows, dark and thick, furrowed slightly. It was the first true change in his expression. “Yes, so, it’s…” She bit her lip harder, anxiety coiling in her gut. She remembered the whispered fears of the Vance matriarchs – *Destiny may guide, but foresight alone binds a partner.* Her family’s lore, usually a comfort, now felt like a curse. Then, a sudden, cold gleam appeared in her eyes, a spark of dangerous cunning. A way out. A shield. “If you… if you were to kill me, it would be a kinslaying. A sacrilege against the House.” She had found it. The anchor she needed to bind him. For the first time since he’d woken, some kind of color bleached from his face. His frown deepened, outright, and the tension in his hand released. He lowered it slowly. Her conscience pricked, a tiny needle-stab of guilt. Elara immediately smothered it, replacing it with a poker face as cool and unyielding as polished obsidian. This was her way of declaring her grim determination. “Because I am… I am your wife.” That night, within the shadowed halls of the Vance manor, Elara Vance germinated a deadly seed. --- The unexpected always happens. Predicting such occurrences, Elara knew, was a fool’s errand. Yet, one could prepare. One could adapt. The accident unfolding before her eyes, however, was a case study in unpredictable chaos. It was the kind of thing recounted in hushed tones around hearth fires, attributed to curses or the whims of untamed magic. She wrestled with the right words, her mind sifting through ancient texts and herbalist’s remedies. “Are you certain it was struck by lightning, Lyra? Last night?” Elara asked, her voice calm despite the internal disquiet. “Yes, Lady Vance. A fierce storm. We heard the crack from the servants’ quarters.” Lyra, her dedicated apprentice, wrung her hands. Her youthful face was pale with worry. Elara hardened her expression, gazing at the massive oak. It had stood sentinel on the manor grounds for centuries. Now, its mighty trunk was split into two jagged halves, blackened and smoking slightly even in the morning light. The raw, splintered wood looked like bone. Lady Theron, the elderly mistress of the estate, clasped Elara’s hands tightly, her eyes red-rimmed. She wiped fresh tears with a lace handkerchief. “This is the tree I planted when my son, Garen, was born. He’s grown now, serving with the Marcher Guard, but… I’m overcome with a terrible premonition.” “I’ll examine it first, Lady Theron.” Elara gently disengaged her hands. The tree presented a truly unsightly appearance. Severely damaged, its very essence seemed to bleed into the chilled air. Elara frowned, as if she could feel the oak’s pain, and began her diagnosis. She ran her hands along the scorch marks, feeling for residual energy, scanning for the tell-tale signs of blight or lingering corrupt magic often associated with sudden, violent elemental strikes. “Lyra, this requires intensive care. A careful cleansing of the burn and the application of restorative poultices. We’ll need to bind the largest split with reinforced ironwood chains for now. Set a date for the full restoration ritual.” Lyra, who had followed her with a heavy herbalist’s kit, whispered, her brow furrowed, “What if they hold you responsible, Lady Vance, should it truly die?” “Fortunately, its root system appears mostly intact, drawing sustenance. It can recover. Besides,” Elara knelt, examining the deeper split, “it holds immense sentimental value for Lady Theron.” She looked up at Lyra. “Is there enough rich, vital soil in the conservatory’s stores?” Lyra sat beside her, her gaze falling on Elara’s face. She was surprised. Somehow, under the bright, unforgiving morning light, Elara looked even more drained than usual. Dark circles, like smudges of ash, shadowed her eyes, deep and unsettling. “Lyra, these days I’m…” Elara’s personal comm-stone buzzed, a low hum against her hip. She checked the caller, a flash of recognition, then excused herself with a curt nod to Lady Theron. She moved to a quieter, more secluded part of the grounds, near the crumbling wall of the old stable house. She answered the call, pressing the warm stone to her ear. “Yes, Master Solus?” The mature, calm focus Elara maintained even after witnessing the tragic state of the ancient oak shattered instantly. She bit her nails, a nervous habit long suppressed, and began to pace. She resembled a gambler who had just lost everything, fleeing an enraged creditor. “What do you mean?” Her voice, usually so steady, cracked. Her eyes, hidden partially by the wide brim of her straw hat, trembled uncontrollably. It had been a month since Kaelen, that vegetative, dangerous man, had stirred. The Healers had taken him for thorough examination, reporting back only that he was indeed amnesiac. Now, this phone call, so long anticipated, delivered something utterly absurd. “I cannot precisely say when he will wake again,” Master Solus, the head Healer, answered, his voice a professional monotone. Elara was at a complete loss for words, unable to comprehend the Healer’s intent. Then she shook her head, trying to clear the fog of confusion. “I don’t understand. Don’t jest with me, Master Solus. I conversed with him. He even… engaged with me.” She mentally censored the part where he’d nearly strangled her. She could hear him clear his throat over the comm-stone. “Indeed, Lady Vance. It is a peculiar situation.” That night, when Kaelen had heard her desperate confession, “I am your wife,” he had collapsed. Not with violence, but as if every last shred of his formidable energy had simply drained away. Elara had immediately contacted the Healers, and this was the bewildering result. She had been on tenterhooks, awaiting news of his condition. Her heart had pounded relentlessly for days, and she’d found herself plucking at her hair, a frantic, paroxysmal urge. After those many sleepless nights, Elara was now realizing the terrible implications of her hasty declaration. *Wife! A potential kinslayer’s wife!* Out of all the plausible lies, why that one? It was a self-inflicted wound. “No. That’s not what I’m implying. It’s… a bit different.” Master Solus continued. “What is it, then?” “According to the brain scans and magi-lore assessments, it has been confirmed that his conscious mind has indeed returned. It is remarkable he woke from such a deep, protracted vegetative state. The reaction tests also show fine neurological function. However…” Elara held her breath. She braced herself, expecting another shock to hit her. “I cannot predict when he will wake again.” “But you just said he woke up!” She frowned, feeling a phantom hand around her neck again. “I cannot give you a definitive answer because the patient is exhibiting rare symptoms.” “Rare symptoms?” Master Solus answered, “The Long Sleep. Or, as the common folk call it, the Slumbering Affliction.” She touched her lips, utterly confused. “The Long Sleep?” “It’s also known in some circles as the Sleeping Beauty Syndrome, a rare affliction of the magical centers. We’ve run every test we can, but cannot pinpoint the cause. There’s nothing structurally wrong with the brain or the flow of vital essence, so this is merely our educated guess.” Elara’s face went blank. She quietly blinked her eyes. With Kaelen, and this fractured world, she was, in some strange way, getting used to unexpected turns of events. “We’ll have to wait and see. But if it truly is this syndrome…” The Healer’s voice trailed off, a subtle pause pregnant with unspoken meaning. “Then?” Elara prompted, her voice barely a whisper. “Once he falls asleep, he may not be able to wake for a week, ten days, or even significantly longer.” Hearing no response from Elara, he continued, “Currently, the patient has been sleeping for twelve days.” Elara wasn’t aware of how to react in such a situation. It felt unreal. “For now, Lady Vance, we will keep him under close observation here, but you will be informed should there be any change.” Just as Master Solus was about to end the call, Elara hurriedly called out, “M-Master Solus, wait!” She took a deep, shuddering breath, then lifted her hat. The cool morning wind brushed against her sweaty forehead. “So, you mean… although Kaelen is not in a vegetative state right now, no one knows when he’ll truly wake up again, correct?” “Yes, Lady Vance. For now, we cannot expect anything from him. He is simply… sleeping.” “Huff.” Elara breathed out, a sound akin to a sob, yet utterly devoid of sorrow. The crushing anxiety she had carried in her chest, a lead weight for days, vanished all at once. Her tightly closed eyelids trembled. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Master Solus.” “Pardon, Lady Vance?” He sounded genuinely perplexed. She sighed in profound relief, unable to thank the forgotten gods enough. *Because I’m, I’m your wife.* The declaration had been a desperate lie. But now… now she could simply pretend not to know anything. When he *did* eventually wake, she could easily tell him it had all been a fevered dream, a delusion born of his injury. He was the one with amnesia, after all. Who was to say what was real? “Thank you, Master Solus. Thank you!” Elara, returning to the scene of the damaged oak, addressed Lady Theron, who had not yet erased the face of despair. Her voice, now light and filled with an almost manic optimism, rang out. “Do not fear, Lady Theron. I shall do my absolute utmost to revive this tree!” She felt lighter than she had in weeks. The threat, for now, had receded. Kaelen was no longer a living, breathing danger. He was just… sleeping. And she was free. For a little while, at least.

A Seed Sown in Desperation