He trained harder.
Harder than any of them.
Before dawn kissed the edge of the sky, Alden was already soaked in sweat, fists raw, knuckles split. He moved like a man who didn't care if his body shattered—because something inside him already had.
The others watched him from a distance. Recruits, nobles, old champions returning like ghosts to the bloodstained sands. He wasn't the strongest, or the fastest, or the flashiest—but he never stopped. And that terrified them more than any sword.
There was something in his eyes.
A promise.
Or a curse.
By midday, bruises colored his ribs like spilled wine. His left wrist was bound tight, and his breath came in short, shallow bursts. But still—he stayed. Drilled. Sparred. Broke practice blades and training dummies and the patience of every instructor who tried to send him home.
And Sylvie?
She started bringing two trays in the morning. Bandages tucked between the apple slices. Salves hidden beneath warm rolls. She never asked what he was doing out there. She didn't need to.
But one evening, when the sun was sinking and his tunic was soaked through with blood, she found him leaning against a post, teeth clenched, trying to pop his shoulder back into place.
He didn't see her until she spoke.
"You're going to die before the Tournament even begins."
He didn't answer.
Just looked at her with eyes too tired to lie.
She crossed the training yard slowly, every step deliberate. She knelt in front of him, cool hands reaching for his arm. He flinched—but didn't pull away.
"Let me," she said.
And he did.
The shoulder slipped back into place with a sharp pop. Alden hissed, jaw tight.
"Gods," she whispered. "You're shaking."
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing," she snapped. "You think I haven't seen what this place does to people? You think I don't know the look of someone trying to outrun something they can't even name?"
His silence said everything.
Sylvie leaned back, exhaling slow. She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She just looked at him, really looked at him, and said:
"You don't have to punish yourself forever, Alden."
But he did.
Because guilt doesn't fade with time. It calcifies. Becomes bone. Becomes breath.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the training and the scars and the half-healed soul, Alden knew he wasn't fighting to win the Tournament.
He was fighting to die in it.
Or at least, that's what he believed—
—until he saw her standing in the rain, coat forgotten, hair clinging to her cheeks, waiting for him outside the stables after another brutal day.
She didn't speak.
Didn't scold.
Just opened her arms and let him fall into them.
Sylvie heard the gossip before she even stepped into the kitchen.
It was in the way the maids glanced at her, eyes sharp and gleaming. In the way flour-dusted hands paused mid-knead just to smirk in her direction. The way Clara, the youngest one, elbowed Mira and whispered something behind a ladle that made them both snort into their aprons.
She tried to ignore it.
Tried to focus on the bread, the tea, the warm weight of the tray in her hands. But when she reached for the honey jar, Mira gave her a look—arched brow, lips pursed, mischief practically radiating off her.
"So," Mira said, voice light as whipped cream. "He say anything sweet yet?"
Sylvie blinked. "Who?"
"Oh, don't play dumb, love. You know who. Tall, brooding, jaw carved from marble and eyes like they've seen the end of the world."
Clara grinned. "He carried your basket, Sylvie. That's practically a proposal around here."
Sylvie's ears burned. "He just... offered. That's all."
Mira leaned in with a wicked grin. "He offered. He offered. The last time a man offered to carry my basket, he was kneeling in front of the magistrate two weeks later with a ring and a stammer."
Clara burst into giggles. "So when's the wedding?"
Sylvie rolled her eyes, trying to laugh it off, but something fluttered in her chest. Something small and unsure.
Because she'd felt it too—the shift in Alden. The way he lingered a little longer when she spoke. The way he listened, really listened, as if her words were more than sound. The way his eyes softened around the edges when he thought she wasn't looking.
And gods help her, she liked it.
Liked him.
But Sylvie was no fool. She saw the weight he carried in his eyes, the haunted silences, the way he disappeared inside himself when the world got too bright.
Still, she brought his tray that evening.
Still, she found him sitting beneath the old willow near the training field, hands raw, arms crossed, face turned toward the dying light.
"Busy day?" she asked, setting the tray beside him.
"Always," he said.
He didn't look at her right away, but she sat anyway, tucking her legs beneath her.
They watched the wind stir the branches above them in silence for a long time.
Then, softly, Alden said, "They talk about us."
Sylvie didn't flinch. "Let them."
His eyes turned to her, and this time he really looked—like he was trying to memorize her before the world took her away again.
"I don't want them to be right," he said. "Not if it means dragging you into something you didn't choose."
Sylvie frowned. "You think I don't know what I'm choosing?"
He hesitated, then spoke like it hurt to say: "I've done terrible things. I've made mistakes that can't be unmade."
"And I've lived through terrible things," she replied, her voice firm but kind. "I've seen how the world breaks people. But I've also seen you try to hold it together. Every day. Even when it hurts."
Alden swallowed hard.
"I ran once," he said. "Left someone behind. It cost everything."
She didn't ask who. She didn't need to.
Instead, she reached out, fingers brushing his knuckles.
"You're here now," she said. "That matters."
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then—slowly, like testing the weight of the air—he turned his hand and laced his fingers through hers.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
"I don't know how to be anything else," he whispered.
"Then be this," Sylvie said, leaning her head gently against his shoulder. "Be here. With me."
And in that quiet moment beneath the willow, with dusk falling and ghosts circling just beyond the edge of the light, Alden did something he was reluctant to do.
He stayed.