The next few days passed in a strange, quiet routine.

  Duvan made soup.

  Not the fancy kind from expensive restaurants or the bland medicinal kind that healers prescribed. Just simple, hearty soup with vegetables and bone broth and enough nutrients to keep a body functioning.

  He'd learned the recipe from Sister Margret at the orphanage, years ago. "Good soup," she'd said, "can save a life when nothing else will."

  He'd thought she was being dramatic.

  Turns out she was right.

  He sat by Hera's bedside three times a day, carefully spooning the warm liquid into her mouth. She was still unconscious, but her body responded—swallowing reflexively, accepting the nourishment even if her mind was elsewhere.

  It was slow work. Tedious. Each spoonful had to be administered carefully to avoid choking. Each meal took nearly an hour.

  Duvan had all the time in the world.

  Between feedings, he changed her clothes. She was sweating profusely, her body fighting whatever internal battle was happening. He worked with clinical efficiency, keeping his thoughts professional, medical, detached.

  Just a patient, he told himself. Just someone who needs help.

  The fact that she was his wife—that he'd once loved her, might still love her despite everything—was irrelevant.

  She mumbled in her sleep sometimes. Fragments of words that didn't quite form sentences. Names he didn't recognize. Apologies to people who weren't there.

  Nightmares, probably.

  He didn't try to wake her. Sleep was healing, even troubled sleep.

  Three times a day, he administered liquid medicine—supplements and tonics designed to rebuild her depleted system. Carefully measured doses that he made her swallow with the same patience he used for the soup.

  On the second night, as he sat reading a book in the chair by her bed, Duvan allowed himself to actually look at her.

  Not with the cold analytical assessment of a caretaker checking a patient's condition. Not with the numb detachment he'd been using as armor.

  Just... looking.

  And he felt conflicted.

  Part of him—the hurt, angry part—didn't want to hear her explanation. Didn't want to give her the chance to justify six years of lies. Better to just maintain the numbness, keep the walls up, never let anyone hurt him like this again.

  But the logical part—the part that had been Lucas Smith before becoming Duvan Excy—needed to understand. Needed the complete picture. Needed to hear her side before making final judgments.

  Truth over comfort, he thought. Always truth, even when it hurts.

  That had been Lucas's one redeeming quality. He'd always wanted to know the truth, no matter how ugly.

  Looked like Duvan had inherited that particular character flaw.

  Hera's eyes opened slowly on the third day.

  Not suddenly, not dramatically—just a gradual return to consciousness, like someone surfacing from deep water.

  Duvan noticed immediately. He'd been reading—some technical manual about barrier reinforcement that didn't require much mental energy—when he caught the change in her breathing pattern.

  He set the book down and leaned forward slightly.

  "Duvan..." she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse.

  She was used to calling him "Lord Excy" and calling him by his name felt unfamiliar to her, strange on her tongue after six years of careful distance.

  The first time without his title. Without the distance. Just his name, soft and uncertain.

  "How are you feeling?" he asked, his tone neutral but not unkind.

  Hera's eyes focused on him slowly, confusion giving way to awareness. She opened her mouth, probably to apologize or explain or launch into whatever speech she'd been preparing.

  He held up a hand.

  "Save it," he said quietly. "Until you're better. For now, just tell me—how do you feel?"

  She paused, processing the question, probably thrown by his refusal to let her immediately dive into confession.

  "I... tired," she finally said. "Weak. But... better than before."

  "Good. That's good." He picked up the water glass from the bedside table. "Think you can drink this yourself?"

  She tried to sit up, moving with the kind of careful slowness that suggested every muscle ached. Duvan helped her—one hand on her back, supporting her weight until she was propped against the pillows.

  She took the glass with shaking hands and drank slowly.

  "Thank you," she whispered.

  He didn't respond. Just took the glass back when she finished and set it aside.

  Despite his words—despite saying she could wait to explain—Duvan wanted to ask right now. Wanted to demand answers, to hear her story, to finally understand what the hell had been happening for six years.

  But he'd told her to wait. And more importantly, she did need to be better first. Pushing her now would just lead to another collapse.

  So he swallowed his questions and became the caretaker again.

  Another week passed.

  Duvan made sure Hera ate three full meals a day. Made sure she took her vitamins and supplements. Made sure she rested, even when she protested that she was fine, that she had duties to attend to.

  "Magism Unos can survive without you for a few days," he'd said flatly. "Humanity managed before you became their Saintess. They'll manage now."

  He'd sent word to the organization that Hera was ill and recovering—a carefully worded message that made it clear she was under a Grand Protector's care and they should not disturb her.

  The veiled threat was unsubtle but effective.

  No one came calling.

  During the day, Duvan worked from home—reviewing documents, holding remote meetings via communication crystals, maintaining his responsibilities while keeping an eye on his patient.

  At night, he stood guard.

  Not literally standing—he wasn't that dramatic. But he kept his door open, his senses alert for any sign she was in distress. Ready to respond if her condition worsened.

  It was strange. Surreal, even.

  Because it reminded him of another time, years ago, when Hera had been sick.

  He'd wanted to help then too. Had paced outside her room while a female doctor attended to her inside, because the rules Hera had set up didn't allow him entry. He'd felt useless, frustrated, worried in a way that seemed excessive for someone who barely spoke to him.

  But he'd cared anyway.

  Now he was inside the room. Now he was the one taking care of her. Now there were no rules keeping him at a distance.

  And he still didn't know how to feel about any of it.

  What really happened? The question circled endlessly in his mind. What's the full story?

  But every time he was tempted to ask, he remembered his own words: Save it until you're better.

  So he waited.

  Patience had never been Lucas's strong suit. But Duvan had learned it over years of adventuring, of developing technology, of slowly building something lasting in a world that demanded quick solutions.

  He could wait a little longer.

  On the eighth day, Hera was moving around on her own again. Not at full strength, but functional. Color had returned to her cheeks. She'd gained back a little weight—not much, but enough that she no longer looked like she'd collapse if you breathed on her wrong.

  She'd cleaned up that morning, dressed in simple clothes rather than ceremonial robes, and Duvan could tell she was steeling herself for the conversation they'd been avoiding.

  He'd been preparing too. Had his questions organized, his emotions compartmentalized, his responses planned.

  But looking at her now—nervous and uncertain and ready to finally explain—he made a different decision.

  "I want to do something first," he said.

  She blinked. "What?"

  "Before we talk. I want to show you something." He stood, grabbing his coat. "Come with me."

  "I... okay?" She looked confused but didn't argue.

  As they headed for the door, Hera hesitated.

  "Duvan?"

  He paused, looking back.

  "Can I..." She swallowed. "Can I call you by your name? From now on?"

  The question hung in the air.

  For six years, it had been "Lord Excy." Always the title. Always the distance. And now she was asking permission to use his actual name, like it was some kind of privilege she'd lost the right to.

  Part of him wanted to say no. Wanted to keep that distance, maintain that formality, preserve the walls that kept him safe.

  But that would be petty. And whatever else he was, Duvan tried not to be petty.

  "Do what you want," he said finally.

  Not a yes. Not a no. Just... permission without commitment.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Hera nodded slowly, accepting the non-answer for what it was.

  The supermarket was busy—mid-morning rush of people stocking up for the week.

  Hera watched in confusion as Duvan grabbed a cart and started loading it with items. Fruits, vegetables, various snacks, dried goods. Way more than two people could reasonably eat.

  "What are you—" she started.

  "You'll see," he said simply, moving to the next aisle.

  People noticed them, of course. How could they not? The Time Prince, youngest Grand Protector, genius inventor. And the Saintess of Magism Unos, renowned healer, beautiful and graceful.

  Together. Shopping. Like normal people.

  A small crowd started to form—not mobbing them, but definitely hovering nearby with obvious interest.

  One brave woman approached. "Lord Excy! Is this—are you—"

  Duvan turned to her with a smile. His genuine smile, the one that made him look approachable rather than intimidating.

  "Just shopping with my wife," he said casually.

  The effect was immediate. Some people looked thrilled—the Time Prince and the Saintess, actually together, how romantic! Others looked distinctly jealous—both men and women who'd probably entertained fantasies about either Duvan or Hera.

  But they were good-natured about it, congratulating them, making friendly comments, asking how they were doing.

  Duvan handled it all with practiced ease, answering questions, deflecting the more invasive ones, gradually steering the conversation until people started dispersing.

  Hera stood there, slightly overwhelmed by the attention, by the way Duvan had just casually claimed her as his wife in public, by the whole surreal situation.

  They made it to the checkout counter, where an elderly woman was already smiling at them.

  "Well, well," the old lady said, her eyes twinkling. "Duvan finally brought his wife shopping. I was starting to think she didn't exist."

  Hera blinked. This woman knew him?

  "Hello, Mrs. Chen," Duvan said, his smile still genuine. "She exists. Just been busy."

  "Mm-hmm." Mrs. Chen started scanning their items with practiced efficiency. "Young lady, you better take good care of this boy. He's always in here buying ingredients, always cooking for someone. Never takes care of himself properly."

  "I... yes, I'll try," Hera managed, feeling strangely flustered by this glimpse into Duvan's life she'd never seen.

  "Polite too," Mrs. Chen approved, nodding. "Good match. About time you two acted like a proper married couple."

  Hera felt her face heat up, but she bowed slightly. "Thank you for always taking care of him."

  Mrs. Chen's expression softened. "Oh, I like her, Duvan. Much better than having you mope around here alone every week."

  As they loaded the bags into the car—Duvan had far too much for two people to carry—Hera couldn't help but ask:

  "Where are we going?"

  "You'll see," he repeated, starting the engine.

  The drive took them out of the city center, toward the outskirts where buildings became scarcer and trees more common.

  Hera had never been to this area. It wasn't dangerous—still well within the protected zone—but it wasn't somewhere the Saintess had reason to visit.

  Then she saw the building.

  Modest but well-maintained, surrounded by a large yard where children were playing. A wooden sign near the entrance read: Brighthollow Orphanage.

  "An orphanage?" she said, surprise clear in her voice.

  Duvan didn't answer. Just parked the car and got out.

  The moment the children saw the vehicle approaching, they erupted into excitement.

  "MISTER DUVAN!"

  "He's back!"

  "EVERYONE! MISTER DUVAN IS HERE!"

  Kids poured out of the building and yard, ranging from toddlers to teenagers, all converging on the car with obvious joy.

  Hera watched in amazement as they swarmed him.

  Duvan—the cold, detached Time Prince who'd been treating her with clinical efficiency for the past week—laughed. Actually laughed as children climbed on him, hugged his legs, grabbed his arms.

  He picked up two kids casually, balanced them on his hips, and started walking toward the building. All while carrying the shopping bags. Several children were literally hanging off his legs, and he just walked like it was nothing.

  Because he was an Ascender. The weight of a few children was trivial.

  A small boy—maybe five years old—stopped in front of Hera, looking up at her with wide, curious eyes.

  "Who are you?" he asked with childish bluntness.

  Hera hesitated. "I'm—"

  "She's Mister Duvan's wife!" another child declared, popping up from seemingly nowhere.

  "Ohhh," several kids said in unison, like this explained everything.

  Before Hera could respond, gentle hands grabbed hers—small children pulling her forward, including her in their excitement. She let herself be led, following Duvan's path, watching him interact with the kids with such natural ease.

  They entered the building, and immediately a voice cut through the chaos:

  "CHILDREN! LINE UP!"

  The effect was instantaneous.

  Kids who'd been climbing on Duvan scrambled down and formed a neat line. The ones clinging to his legs rushed to join them. Even the toddlers waddled into position, creating something resembling order.

  Duvan gently set down the two he'd been carrying, and they scurried to join the line.

  Standing at the front of the room was a young woman who looked strict despite her youthful appearance—probably mid-twenties, with sharp eyes that suggested she'd been dealing with chaotic children for too long.

  Duvan's entire demeanor shifted—his smile becoming warmer, more familiar.

  "I'm back again to pester you, Aunt Matilda," he said.

  The woman—Matilda—smirked. "Pester? Is that what we're calling 'showing up every week and spoiling them rotten'?"

  Duvan laughed. "I prefer 'educational enrichment through positive reinforcement.'"

  "That's a fancy way of saying you bring them too many sweets."

  "The sweets are for morale. Morale is essential for learning."

  "You're impossible."

  "And yet you keep letting me in."

  Their banter was easy, familiar—the kind that came from years of knowing each other.

  Then Matilda's eyes landed on Hera, and her expression shifted to open curiosity.

  "And who's this?" she asked, though her tone suggested she already knew.

  Duvan gestured to Hera. "Matilda, this is Hera. My wife."

  The children immediately erupted into whispers:

  "I told you so!"

  "I knew it!"

  "You owe me your dessert!"

  Matilda clapped her hands once. "Outside. All of you. Play."

  "Boooo! Meanie!"

  "We want to stay!"

  "Not fair!"

  Matilda made as if to chase them, and the children scattered with delighted shrieks, already running toward the door. Within seconds, the building was empty except for the three adults.

  Matilda let out a long-suffering sigh. "They're impossible."

  "Wonder where they learned that," Duvan said innocently.

  "Oh, definitely from you." She gestured toward a small sitting area. "Come on. I'll make drinks."

  They sat with their drinks—coffee for Duvan, tea for Hera—and Hera found herself listening more than speaking.

  Matilda and Duvan's conversation flowed naturally, covering everything from the children's progress to renovations the orphanage needed to funny stories about various mishaps.

  And through it all, Hera learned things about her husband she'd never known.

  He came here every week. Every week. Had been doing so for years, apparently.

  "I was starting to think your wife was imaginary," Matilda said at one point, giving Hera a warm smile. "We've heard about you, of course—the famous Saintess. But Duvan never brought you along."

  "I..." Hera tried to find words. "I'm sorry. I've been busy with my duties—"

  "Oh, I understand," Matilda interrupted gently. "Being a Saintess must be exhausting. Healing people all day, performing rituals, all that religious responsibility." She took a sip of her tea. "I'm just glad you're here now."

  Duvan was talking normally about their marriage. Not coldly, not bitterly—just matter-of-factly, like it was any other topic. Explaining that they both had busy schedules, that coordinating visits was difficult, that he was glad he could finally bring Hera along.

  Like they were a normal couple with normal problems.

  Hera felt something twist in her chest. Because this—this casual domesticity, this easy comfort with people who cared about him—this was a side of Duvan she'd never seen.

  Had never let herself see.

  After they finished their tea, Matilda stood. "Well, you know where everything is. The kids have been asking when you'd visit again."

  Duvan nodded, standing as well. "Ready?" he asked Hera.

  "For what?"

  His smile was slightly amused. "The hard part."

  The yard was full of children engaged in various activities. Some were playing games, others were reading, a few were helping tend to the small garden.

  The moment they saw Duvan, they converged again—but this time with more purpose.

  "Story time!" one shouted.

  "No, lessons!" another countered.

  "Can we show you what we learned?"

  Duvan settled on the grass, and immediately two small children—twins, Hera realized, both with milky-white eyes that suggested blindness—climbed into his arms. They clung to him with complete trust, like he was the safest place in the world.

  The other children arranged themselves in a semicircle, and Duvan began teaching.

  Not formally. Not like a strict instructor. He told stories that were actually lessons in disguise—about adventurers who succeeded through cleverness rather than strength, about magical principles explained through metaphor, about the importance of working together.

  The blind twins stayed in his arms the whole time, listening intently, occasionally asking questions that Duvan answered with patient detail.

  Hera stood to the side, watching, until she felt a gentle tug on her dress.

  A little girl—maybe four years old—looked up at her with big, hopeful eyes.

  "Uppies?" she asked.

  Hera's heart melted. She bent down and picked up the child, who immediately settled comfortably against her.

  "You're pretty," the little girl announced.

  "Thank you," Hera managed, feeling strangely emotional. "You're very cute."

  "I know." The child's confidence was adorable. "Are you really Mister Duvan's wife?"

  "Yes."

  "That's good. He's always sad when he comes alone. But today he's happy."

  Hera looked over at Duvan, who was laughing at something one of the children said, the blind twins still secure in his arms.

  Happy.

  When was the last time she'd seen him genuinely happy?

  The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity.

  Stories and lessons transitioned into games. Hera found herself pulled into various activities—helping the younger kids with crafts, supervising games that required adult oversight, being a climbing structure for the particularly bold toddlers.

  When lunchtime came, she helped in the kitchen. Not leading—Matilda was clearly the expert here—but assisting, learning the rhythms of feeding dozens of hungry children.

  Duvan was everywhere. Teaching one moment, playing the next, settling disputes, bandaging scraped knees, giving piggyback rides to children who'd gotten tired.

  The blind twins never strayed far from him. Whenever he sat down, they'd find him and claim his arms like it was their designated spot.

  "They're very attached to you," Hera observed quietly during a brief lull.

  Duvan looked down at the two small children in his arms. "When they first came here, they were terrified. Flinched at every sound. Held onto each other like the world was going to tear them apart." His voice was soft. "It took months before they'd let anyone else touch them. And even then, they only really trusted each other."

  "What changed?"

  "Time. Patience. Consistency." He smiled slightly. "I started coming every week. Same day, same time. After a while, they started recognizing my voice. Then they'd let me sit near them. Eventually, they let me hold them."

  "The other children don't seem jealous," Hera noted. Several kids had tried to climb on Duvan while the twins occupied his arms, and he'd somehow managed to accommodate everyone.

  "Oh, they were. Very jealous at first." His smile widened into something more amused. "There was a brief period where every child here was competing for lap space. But kids adapt fast. They figured out a rotation system all on their own."

  Hera watched him interact with the children—this man she'd been married to for six years but had never really known—and felt something crack inside her chest.

  Her hands trembled slightly where they rested on the little girl still in her arms. Her breath caught, and she had to blink rapidly against the sudden burning in her eyes.

  This warmth. This gentleness. This joy radiating from him as he answered questions, settled disputes, made the blind twins feel safe in a world they couldn't see.

  This was real.

  This was who Duvan actually was when he wasn't being the Time Prince, when he wasn't maintaining professional distance, when he wasn't protecting himself from being hurt.

  And she'd spent six years never letting herself see it. Six years keeping him at arm's length while he'd tried again and again to bridge the gap between them.

  The little girl in her arms patted her cheek gently. "Are you sad?"

  "No," Hera managed, her voice thick. "No, sweetheart. I'm not sad."

  I'm heartbroken, she thought. Because I finally see what I threw away. What I never let myself have.

  She'd thought she knew him. Thought he was just the cold, calculating genius who'd agreed to a political marriage. Distant and untouchable.

  But this—this warmth, this gentleness, this capacity for patience and care—this was who he really was underneath all the titles and responsibilities.

  And she'd never let herself see it.

  Never let herself believe she deserved to see it.

  Evening came too quickly.

  The children gathered at the gate as Duvan and Hera prepared to leave. Matilda stood with them, smiling as kids shouted their goodbyes.

  "Come back soon!"

  "Bring Miss Hera again!"

  "Tell us more stories next time!"

  "I love you, Mister Duvan!"

  Duvan waved, his expression genuinely warm. "I'll be back next week. Be good for Aunt Matilda."

  "We're always good!" several children chorused, which made Matilda snort.

  As they drove away, Hera watched the orphanage disappear in the side mirror. The children were still waving.

  She looked at Duvan, who was focused on driving, his expression more relaxed than she'd seen in... maybe ever.

  "You love it there," she said quietly.

  "I do."

  "I thought I knew you," Hera admitted. "But I didn't. Not really."

  Duvan was silent for a moment. Then:

  "I grew up in that orphanage."

  Hera turned to look at him fully.

  "The blind twins—Kai and Kira—they started out completely closed off. Wouldn't let anyone touch them except each other. Every sound made them flinch. They were so scared of everything." His hands were steady on the wheel, his voice even. "It took months of weekly visits before they'd even acknowledge I existed. Months more before they'd let me near them. And now..."

  "Now they claim your arms the moment you arrive," Hera finished softly.

  "Now they trust me. They feel safe." He paused. "Children shouldn't have to fight that hard to feel safe. Shouldn't have to be that scared just to exist. So I come back. Every week. Because consistency matters. Because showing up matters."

  Hera felt tears prick her eyes.

  "Other kids get jealous sometimes," Duvan continued. "Try to compete for attention. But they work it out. Kids are good at that—adapting, finding solutions, being kinder than adults give them credit for."

  He glanced at her briefly before returning his attention to the road.

  "You wanted to tell me something," he said quietly. "About what happened. About why everything is the way it is."

  Hera nodded, not trusting her voice.

  "So I wanted to tell you something first." His expression was unreadable now. "About who I am. About what matters to me. Because context matters, I think. Before we have that conversation."

  They pulled into the driveway of their house. Their home? Maybe. Perhaps it could be, someday.

  Duvan turned off the engine.

  Silence filled the car, heavy with everything unsaid, everything about to be said.

  They sat there for a moment, both preparing for the conversation they'd been avoiding for over a week.

  Then they got out of the car and walked inside together.

  It was time.

  Time to finally talk.

  Time for truth, however painful.

  Time to see if understanding could heal what had been broken, or if some damage went too deep to repair.

  Hera took a breath and followed Duvan into the living room, where this had all started with her collapse.

  Where it would now continue with her confession.