Hera tried to steel herself.

  This was it. The moment she'd been waiting for, hoping for, dreading. Her chance to explain, to apologize, to somehow make Duvan understand.

  But her hands were shaking.

  Not just trembling—full tremors that she couldn't control, no matter how hard she tried to steady them. She clasped them together in her lap, pressing so hard her knuckles went white, but the shaking continued.

  Her heart was pounding too hard. Too fast. Like it was trying to beat its way out of her chest.

  Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. Say something. Anything.

  But her vision was starting to blur at the edges, dark spots dancing across her sight like ash in the wind.

  Duvan watched her with those cold, empty eyes, waiting. Patient in a way that made everything worse, because his patience now wasn't kindness—it was indifference. He'd wait because he had nowhere else to be, not because he cared about her answer.

  Hera opened her mouth.

  "I—"

  The word came out strangled, barely audible.

  Her vision blurred more. The room tilted sideways.

  Something warm dripped from her nose.

  Duvan noticed the shaking hands first.

  Nervous, he thought distantly. Too nervous to speak, or—

  Then he saw the blood.

  A thin crimson line trailing from Hera's nose, stark against her pale skin.

  Her eyes rolled back.

  And she fell.

  Duvan's body moved before his conscious mind caught up. Time slowed—not frozen, just dilated, stretched into manageable increments—and he accelerated. His Chrono ability kicked in automatically, his perception and movement speed ramping up to superhuman levels.

  He crossed the distance between them in what felt like normal movement to him but would appear as a blur to anyone watching. Caught her before she hit the floor, arms sliding under her shoulders and knees.

  The moment he held her, his analytical mind noted something wrong.

  She weighed almost nothing.

  Not in the hyperbolic sense. Actually, genuinely, alarmingly light. Like holding a bundle of sticks wrapped in cloth rather than a full-grown woman.

  He'd thought she looked thin. Noticed she'd lost weight. But this—

  This was starvation.

  "Shit," Duvan said quietly, his cold detachment cracking for the first time in weeks.

  He needed a healer. Now.

  No—not a healer. Hera was a healer, and if she'd let herself get to this state, conventional healing wouldn't be enough. He needed someone who could diagnose the underlying problem, who could see what was happening beyond the physical symptoms.

  He needed Silvia.

  Duvan pulled out his communication crystal with his free hand, still cradling Hera's unconscious form. He channeled magic into it, connecting to Silvia's frequency.

  She answered on the first pulse.

  "I'm on my way," she said, and disconnected before he could even speak.

  Any other time, Duvan would have been irritated by her presumptuous omniscience.

  Right now, he was just grateful.

  He looked down at Hera—truly looked at her for the first time in weeks—and saw what he'd been deliberately ignoring. The sunken cheeks. The dark circles that cosmetics couldn't quite hide. The way her breathing was too shallow, too rapid.

  How long had she been like this?

  How long have I been not looking?

  He pushed the thought away. No time for self-recrimination. She needed help now.

  Duvan carried her toward the stairs, then paused. Her room was closer, and he'd never—in six years of marriage—actually entered her private space.

  There'd been rules. Boundaries. Separate rooms, separate lives.

  All of it suddenly seemed incredibly stupid.

  He adjusted his grip and headed for her door, pushing it open with his shoulder.

  The room was sparse. Almost austere. A bed, a small desk, religious texts on the shelves. More like a monk's cell than a bedroom. No personal touches, no decorations, nothing that suggested anyone actually lived here.

  Six years in this room, and she'd never made it home.

  Just like him with the house.

  They'd both been living in temporary spaces, pretending permanence while maintaining escape routes.

  Duvan laid her down on the bed with as much gentleness as his emotionally numb state could manage, arranging her limbs carefully, making sure her head was elevated slightly in case the nosebleed resumed.

  Then he stood there, staring at her unconscious form, and realized he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

  His training was in combat, in innovation, in strategy. Not in caring for someone who'd collapsed from— from what? Exhaustion? Malnutrition? Something worse?

  He felt useless. Helpless in a way that time manipulation couldn't fix.

  Where the hell is Silvia?

  As if summoned by his thought, he heard the front door open downstairs.

  Footsteps on the stairs—measured, unhurried, the pace of someone who knew exactly how much time they had.

  The bedroom door opened, and Silvia walked in like she owned the place.

  She took one look at Hera and made a small sound—something between a sigh and a tsk.

  "How long has she been like this?" Silvia asked, moving to the bedside.

  "I don't know. She just collapsed a few minutes ago."

  "No, Duvan. How long has she been like this?" Silvia gestured at Hera's form. "Deteriorating. Starving. Breaking."

  "I..." Duvan paused. "I haven't been home much."

  "Evidently."

  Silvia's hands began to glow with soft diagnostic magic—not healing, just examination. She placed them on Hera's forehead, her chest, reading the body's story through mystical means.

  Her expression grew more serious with each passing second.

  "Her body is at the brink of collapse," Silvia said quietly. "And her mind isn't far behind. She hasn't been eating properly—probably hasn't eaten more than a few bites a day for weeks. Add to that the emotional stress, the guilt, the constant mental strain of maintaining multiple personas..."

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  Silvia pulled up Hera's upper robe, and Duvan's breath caught.

  Ribs. He could see her ribs. Every single one of them defined against skin that seemed paper-thin. Her stomach was concave, hollowed out. This wasn't just weight loss—this was active destruction.

  "The nosebleed," Silvia continued, lowering the robe back down with surprising gentleness, "was caused by magical overexertion. She's been using her Holy Heal ability beyond her body's capacity to sustain it. Healing others while her own body starves."

  Silence filled the room.

  Duvan stared at Hera's unconscious face, and for the first time in weeks, felt something other than numbness.

  What have you done to yourself?

  What have I let you do to yourself?

  "Duvan," Silvia's voice cut through his thoughts. "We need to talk. Outside."

  The hallway was quiet, just the two of them standing in the dim light of evening.

  Duvan expected Silvia to launch into one of her cryptic prophecies, some mystical wisdom delivered in riddles that would only make sense three months from now when it was too late to matter.

  Instead, she let out the most exhausted sigh he'd ever heard.

  Then she said, in a perfectly normal, completely un-mystical voice:

  "You know what? Fuck it. I'm tired of this cryptic bullshit."

  Duvan blinked.

  Had Silvia—the Omniscient Priestess, ancient elf, mysterious seer of futures—just said "fuck it"?

  She leaned against the wall, suddenly looking less like an ethereal being of cosmic knowledge and more like an exhausted office worker who'd been dealing with incompetent coworkers for too long.

  "Do you have any idea," she said, "how exhausting it is to see every possible future? Every branching timeline? Every consequence of every action?" She rubbed her temples. "And then trying to figure out which parts I can mention without accidentally making things worse? Because yes, that's a thing. The moment I tell someone about a future, that future starts to change."

  "Silvia—"

  "I'm not done. Normally, I don't interfere with minor personal drama. People's relationship problems are their own business, and half the time they'll figure it out anyway. But you—" She pointed at him. "—are a Grand Protector. Your decisions ripple out in ways that affect thousands of people. Millions, potentially. So when I see you about to make catastrophically stupid choices, I have to step in."

  This was surreal. Like discovering your mysterious, all-knowing mentor was actually just a very stressed person trying their best.

  "Hence the cryptic advice?" Duvan asked.

  "Hence the cryptic advice. Because apparently, that's the only way to nudge you idiots in the right direction without breaking causality." She sighed again. "But at this point, I'm too tired to be subtle. So here's the deal, straight and simple:"

  Silvia looked him dead in the eye.

  "Take care of Hera first. Make sure she doesn't die. Then hear her out. In that order. Non-negotiable."

  "Why would she—"

  "Because there's a non-zero chance she dies from this, Duvan. Her body is shutting down. Her mind is fragmenting. And if she dies—" Silvia's expression became genuinely grave. "—the cascade of events that follows is spectacularly bad for everyone. Wars bad. Civilization-threatening bad. I-really-don't-want-to-see-that-timeline bad."

  Duvan felt something cold settle in his stomach.

  "If you'd told me this would happen," he said quietly, "if you'd told me that marrying Hera would lead to this kind of problem, I wouldn't have agreed. No matter what I felt."

  Silvia's expression softened. Not with pity, but with something like understanding.

  "Would you rather she suffered more than this?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "If you hadn't married her, what do you think would have happened to her?"

  Duvan opened his mouth, then closed it. He hadn't thought about it. Hadn't considered what Magism Unos's plan was beyond using the marriage for political gain.

  "Hera was already pregnant when Magism Unos arranged your marriage," Silvia said quietly.

  The world stopped.

  Not literally—Duvan wasn't using his ability. But everything inside him just... ceased. His thoughts, his breath, his heartbeat. All of it suspended in that moment of revelation.

  "She was—"

  "Pregnant with the Hero's child. Cyrene." Silvia's eyes were sad now. Ancient and sad. "And Magism Unos knew. They've always known. Do you understand what that means?"

  Duvan's mind was racing now, putting pieces together with horrifying clarity.

  "The child of the Hero and the Saintess," he said slowly. "Two powerful Ascenders. The potential for inherited abilities—"

  "Would make that child invaluable to Magism Unos's plans. They would have experimented on her, Duvan. On an unborn child. Pushed Hera's healing abilities to their limits trying to manipulate the fetus, to enhance it, to create a weapon before it was even born."

  Bile rose in Duvan's throat.

  "And if Hera refused?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

  "They would have taken the choice from her. One way or another." Silvia's voice was gentle now. "Your marriage gave her protection. Gave her child protection. A Grand Protector's wife can't be abused openly—too many political complications. They had to be subtler. More patient."

  "And the Hero—Kieran—"

  "Would have died three months after Cyrene's birth in a expedition that I saw go wrong in seventeen different timelines. Without your marriage creating the political pressure that changed the Guild's expedition schedules, he walks into a situation he can't break through. Even Limit Break has limits."

  Duvan leaned against the wall, trying to process this.

  "So I saved them," he said flatly. "By marrying Hera, I saved her from experimentation, saved her child from being used as a test subject, and saved the Hero from death. And all it cost me was six years of lies and emotional manipulation."

  "Yes."

  The simple confirmation hurt more than any elaborate explanation could have.

  "And you knew," Duvan continued. "You saw all of this. You knew she was pregnant, knew about Kieran, knew what would happen to me, and you still called it necessary."

  "I did."

  "Do you know how much I—" His voice cracked. "Do you have any idea how much that—"

  "Yes," Silvia said softly. "I know exactly how much it hurt you. I saw every sleepless night, every moment of hope crushed, every time you tried to connect and she shut you down. I saw all of it, Duvan. And I had to let it happen anyway."

  She stepped closer, and there was genuine pain in her ancient eyes.

  "Because the alternative was worse. So much worse. And I'm sorry—truly sorry—that you had to be the one to bear that cost. But someone had to. And you were the only one who could."

  Duvan wanted to be angry. Wanted to rage at her for playing puppet master with his life, for letting him fall in love with someone who could never love him back, for all of it.

  But he was too tired. Too emotionally wrung out.

  "She was already pregnant before we married," he said, just to confirm, to make absolutely sure he understood.

  Silvia just looked at him. "Listen to her story when she wakes up. Let her tell you in her own words. I've interfered enough."

  With that, she turned to leave.

  "Silvia?"

  She paused, looking back.

  "Thank you," Duvan said quietly. "For telling me. For being honest, even if it's three weeks too late."

  A small smile crossed her face. "You're welcome. And Duvan? For what it's worth, watching your future break in real-time is not something I enjoyed. Some threads are necessary to cut, but that doesn't mean cutting them doesn't hurt."

  Then she was gone, walking down the hallway like she hadn't just dropped multiple revelations that recontextualized his entire marriage.

  Duvan stood there, alone in the dim hallway, and thought about the woman lying unconscious in the room behind him.

  Hera, who'd been trapped by circumstances beyond her control.

  Who'd been pregnant and terrified and forced into a marriage with a stranger to protect her child.

  Who'd spent six years maintaining cold distance not because she didn't care, but because caring made the guilt worse.

  Who'd been slowly starving herself to death while he'd been too numb to notice.

  What a mess, he thought. What an absolute fucking mess.

  But Silvia's words echoed in his mind: Take care of Hera first. Make sure she doesn't die. Then hear her out.

  Fine.

  He could do that.

  The logical thing. The necessary thing.

  Even if part of him wanted to just walk away, let someone else deal with this catastrophe, protect himself from any more pain.

  But that would be Lucas's choice—to detach, to run, to let his heart shut down to protect himself.

  And Duvan had spent ten years trying to be better than Lucas.

  Might as well keep trying.

  Duvan walked back into Hera's room.

  She was still unconscious, her breathing shallow but steady. The nosebleed had stopped, at least. Small victories.

  He looked at her—really looked, without the filter of his hurt and anger—and saw someone who'd been barely surviving while he'd been deliberately not paying attention.

  When was the last time she ate a full meal?

  When was the last time she slept through the night?

  When was the last time anyone took care of her instead of demanding she take care of everyone else?

  The answer to all of those questions was probably "too long ago to remember."

  Duvan pulled out his communication crystal and sent messages. First to Future Tech, informing them he'd be taking a leave of absence—unprecedented, but his second-in-command could handle things. Then to Gawain, a brief note that he had a family emergency and would be unavailable for council meetings.

  Family emergency. The words felt strange. He'd never had a family, not really. The orphanage had been closest, and then the other Grand Protectors in a way.

  But a wife who was actually his family, who he had to take care of?

  This was new territory.

  Uncomfortable, complicated, emotionally fraught territory.

  But necessary, apparently.

  He looked down at Hera's unconscious form and made a decision.

  For the next however-many days it took, he'd stay home. He'd make sure she ate. Make sure she rested. Make sure she didn't literally work herself to death trying to heal the world while her own body collapsed.

  And then—then—he'd listen to her explanation.

  Not because he'd forgiven her. Not because the hurt was gone or because he'd suddenly stopped feeling betrayed.

  But because Silvia was right, damn her. Hera's story deserved to be heard. And if he didn't let her tell it, he'd never know the full truth of what had happened.

  Plus, apparently her dying would cause civilization-threatening consequences, and he'd rather avoid that if possible.

  Always thinking about the greater good, the Lucas part of his brain said mockingly. Never about what you actually want.

  What I want, Duvan thought back, is to not be the kind of person who lets someone die out of spite. So we're doing this.

  He settled into the chair by Hera's bedside, prepared for a long night of making sure she didn't stop breathing, and tried not to think too hard about how he'd ended up here.

  Taking care of the woman who'd betrayed him, because apparently that's what heroes did.

  Even when it hurt.

  Even when every instinct screamed at him to protect himself.

  Even when he wasn't sure he could survive any more emotional damage.

  Troublesome, he thought, echoing his earlier assessment of Silvia. All of this is so fucking troublesome.

  But he stayed anyway.

  Because for better or worse, that's who Duvan Excy had become.

  Someone who stayed.