Chapter 7: Hana and Thorn linger in the hallway, her knowing smirk contrasting with his discomfort as the unmistakable sounds of passion seep through the heavy oak door.
The heavy oak door to the private dining room clicked shut behind Thorn, muffling the low murmur of voices within. The hallway of the Dero Inn plunged back into near-silence, broken only by the distant clatter of the main hall and the creak of ancient floorboards. Faded tapestries, depicting scenes of dubious historical accuracy, hung limply on the stone walls, absorbing sound and light. The air hung thick with the scent of aged oak, dust, stale beer, and the faint, clinging aroma of roasted venison seeping from under the door.
Hana leaned against the cool stone wall opposite the door, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her sharp eyes, the color of dark honey, tracked Thorn’s every twitch as he practically vibrated with awkward energy near the doorframe. He’d gone rigid the moment he’d backed out after delivering his question, his face flushed a shade that rivaled Orchid’s earlier embarrassment. He stared fixedly at a particularly threadbare spot on a tapestry showing a one-eyed boar hunt.
A low, muffled burst of laughter, distinctly Sekiro’s deep rumble, filtered through the thick wood. It was followed by a softer, melodic sound – Orchid. Then silence, thick and charged even through the barrier.
Hana didn’t move, but a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips. "See?" she murmured, her voice pitched low, barely disturbing the quiet of the corridor. "Told you."
Thorn flinched as if stung. He finally tore his gaze from the tapestry boar, scowling at her. "Told me what?" he muttered, shifting his weight, his hand unconsciously rubbing the healing knife wound on his bicep through his tunic.
"That," Hana nodded towards the door. "That sound. That… atmosphere you could bottle and sell." Her smile turned wry. "They’ve always been like that. Even back in the village, before any of this." She gestured vaguely, encompassing the inn, the secrets, the imminent royal hurricane. "Sneaking off during harvest festivals. Passing notes written in godawful poetry." She shook her head, a strand of dark hair escaping her practical braid. "Making moon eyes at each other over lesson plans. It was nauseatingly sweet. And intense." She paused, her gaze drifting back to the heavy door, the faintest flicker of something complex in her eyes. "Still is."
Thorn grunted, unconvinced. He took an unnecessary step away from the door. "Intense? More like… inconvenient. Especially now. We’ve got a kingdom potentially upside down, spies crawling out of the woodwork, an Emperor and a Marquis about to spontaneously combust, and they’re…" He trailed off, gesturing helplessly at the door, the flush creeping back up his neck. "Cuddling? Kissing? Gods know what else in there!"
Another ripple of sound came from the dining room – a shifting, a sigh, impossibly intimate in its muffled softness. Thorn looked like he wanted to bolt down the hallway.
Hana’s smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful, almost pensive expression. She pushed herself off the wall and took a single step closer to Thorn, invading his personal space just enough to make him tense further. The scent of dried herbs and something sharper, like crushed willow bark, clung to her. "Inconvenient?" she repeated softly, her dark eyes locking onto his. "Try being surrounded by it." She tilted her head. "Try seeing it every day."
Thorn blinked, confused. "What?"
"Jealous, Thorn," Hana said bluntly, the word dropping like a pebble into the quiet. There was no coyness, just a stark, unsettling honesty. "I’m deeply, profoundly, unreasonably jealous."
Thorn stared at her, his mouth slightly open. This was a direction he hadn't anticipated. "Jealous? Of them? Of the… the…" He waved his hand towards the door again, struggling for words beyond 'lovey-dovey nonsense'.
"Of that," Hana clarified, her voice low and intense. She pointed a finger, not at the door, but seemingly at the feeling emanating from it. "Of the way he looks at her. Like she hung every star. Like the world starts and ends with her breath. Of the way she lets him look at her like that, trusts him with it." Her gaze flickered past Thorn, towards the unseen room, a fleeting shadow crossing her face. "Of the heat. The certainty. The way you just know they’d burn the whole damn world down for each other without blinking." She swallowed, the admission seeming to cost her. "It’s… visceral. Primal. Yes, inconvenient. Probably reckless. But gods, Thorn," she met his bewildered gaze again, her own fierce and challenging, "admit it. It’s hot."
Thorn’s flush deepened. He looked away, then back, then down at his boots. He shifted from foot to foot, a soldier suddenly on unstable ground. "Hana," he started, his voice tight. "Get a hold of yourself. This isn't… it’s not appropriate. He’s your Prince. She’s your friend. And we’re standing guard duty!"
"Appropriate?" Hana snorted, a harsh, humorless sound. "Since when did that ever matter? And since when did acknowledging a basic truth become inappropriate? I’m not propositioning anyone, Thorn. I’m stating a fact." She stepped even closer, forcing him to meet her eyes. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper laced with challenge. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t feel it radiating through that door. Tell me you didn’t see them on that bench, tangled together, looking like they wanted to devour each other right there in front of the fire? Tell me that doesn’t stir anything in you? Not even a little… heat?" She raised an eyebrow. "Admit it."
Thorn felt trapped. By her proximity, by her intensity, by the undeniable truth humming through the thick oak. He remembered the image burned into his brain: Sekiro leaning over Orchid, his hand possessive on her waist, their foreheads touching, the air crackling with an energy that had nothing to do with the fireplace. He remembered the raw devotion in Orchid’s eyes when she’d looked at Sekiro, the way the Prince’s entire formidable presence seemed to soften and focus solely on her. He remembered the sheer, electric tension when Thorn had interrupted – not resentment, but a united front of pure, defiant intimacy.
He couldn’t lie to those dark honey eyes boring into his.
His shoulders slumped, defeated. He dragged a hand over his face, rough calluses scraping against stubble. He glanced furtively over his shoulder at the door, then back at Hana. A reluctant, almost pained expression tightened his features. He lowered his voice to a near-growl.
"Fine," he muttered, the word scraping out. He gave a sharp, jerky nod. "Yeah. Alright. It’s…" He cleared his throat, unable to say it outright. "...Intense. Okay? Satisfied? It’s… intense." His flush deepened, reaching the tips of his ears. "Now can we please focus on the potential royal assassins or political meltdowns instead of… whatever this is?"
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Hana’s face, erasing the shadow of jealousy, replaced by pure, sharp satisfaction. She didn’t gloat, but her eyes sparkled with it. She took a deliberate step back, giving him space, her posture relaxing infinitesimally. "Intense," she repeated, the word rich with meaning. "Good. Awareness is the first step, Thorn." She leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms again, her gaze drifting back to the door, now holding a different, more watchful quality. "Now, about those potential assassins…"
The heavy oak door remained stubbornly shut. Thorn shifted his weight, the worn floorboard beneath his boot groaning in protest. He stared hard at the tapestry boar, willing its threadbare menace to distract him from Hana’s unsettling confession and the charged silence beyond the wood. "Potential assassins," he echoed, forcing his voice flat, professional. "Right. Perimeter sweep. Again. You take east corridor, I’ll loop west." He didn’t wait for agreement, turning sharply on his heel, boots thudding purposefully against the stone floor as he retreated down the dim hallway, desperate for space and cold air.
Hana watched him go, a flicker of amusement softening the intensity in her eyes. She lingered a moment longer, her ear tilted towards the door. Another low murmur, indistinct but warm, seeped through. She sighed, a soft exhalation lost in the dusty air. Jealous, she admitted silently to the faded tapestry. Stupidly, pointlessly jealous. Pushing off the wall, she moved silently in the opposite direction Thorn had taken, her own senses sharpening, scanning shadows, listening for anything that wasn’t the inn’s familiar creaks or the muffled intimacy behind the prince’s door. Duty, at least, was a familiar anchor.
Sunlight, bright and unexpectedly warm for the season, drenched the rolling hills outside the village the next morning. Dew glittered on tall grasses like scattered diamonds. Orchid knelt amidst a riot of wildflowers – cornflowers, poppies, delicate white daisies – her blush-pink hair catching the light, strands escaping her loose braid. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, carefully snipping stems near the base. Sekiro watched her, leaning against a gnarled oak, arms crossed. He wasn't helping; he was absorbing. The tension that had lined his face yesterday was smoothed away, replaced by a quiet focus solely on her movements. A small, woven basket already held a modest collection of blooms beside her.
"Not that one," Sekiro murmured, pointing to a vibrant purple thistle near her hand. His voice was soft, barely disturbing the buzzing insects. "Pricks like fury. Ruins the bouquet." He pushed off the tree, crouching beside her. His hand brushed hers as he reached past, plucking a perfect, sky-blue forget-me-not instead. He tucked it gently behind her ear, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat against her temple. "This one. Suits you." Orchid’s answering smile was pure, unguarded sunlight, her shifting eyes catching the blue of the flower and the gold of the morning. She leaned into his touch for a fleeting second before returning to her task, the simple joy radiating from her palpable.
Hana crouched low behind a thicket of hawthorn fifty paces away, Thorn a silent shadow beside her. She watched Sekiro’s tender gesture, the way Orchid’s entire posture softened. "See?" Hana whispered, her voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves. Thorn grunted, shifting position. He kept his gaze fixed past the couple, scanning the tree line, the distant path. "Focus, Hana. Perimeter." But his eyes flickered back, just once, drawn irresistibly to the quiet tableau. The Prince’s hand, known for wielding a sword with lethal precision, adjusting a wildflower behind his wife’s ear with infinite care. Thorn looked away quickly, jaw tightening.
The scent of baking sugar and warm butter filled the cramped interior of ‘Marta’s Morsels’, a tiny bakery wedged between a blacksmith and a chandler. Orchid’s eyes widened as Sekiro presented her with a small, flaky pastry dusted with powdered sugar, its center oozing dark cherry jam. "Try this," he urged, his own pastry already half-devoured. "Marta’s grandmother’s recipe. Supposedly won over a duke." Orchid took a careful bite. A soft sound of pure delight escaped her – a hum deep in her throat. Jam smudged her lower lip. Sekiro chuckled, reaching out instinctively with his thumb to wipe it away. His touch lingered, his gaze locked on her mouth as she savored the explosion of tart sweetness. "Good?" he asked, his voice suddenly lower, rougher. Orchid nodded, licking her lip where his thumb had been, her eyes holding his. "Perfect," she breathed.
Outside, pressed against the sun-warmed brick wall of the chandler’s shop, Thorn cleared his throat loudly. He stared fixedly at a rusty horseshoe nailed above the blacksmith’s door. "Public thoroughfare," he muttered, more to himself than Hana. "Utterly exposed." Hana, peering around the corner through the bakery’s smudged window, snorted softly. "He wiped jam off her face, Thorn. Hardly scandalous." She pulled back, leaning against the brick beside him. "Though the look in his eyes afterward…" She fanned herself dramatically with a hand. Thorn shot her a glare. "Stop it. They’re eating pastries." Hana just grinned, popping a piece of dried apple into her mouth from her own pouch. "Eating pastries intensely."
The air inside the glass conservatory hung thick and humid, smelling of damp earth and exotic blooms. Towering, bizarre plants with leaves like green spears and flowers resembling startled birds filled the space. Sekiro guided Orchid towards the far end, where a curtain of trailing vines partially obscured a stone plinth. Beneath a carefully angled shaft of sunlight grew a single, breathtaking flower. Its petals were a deep, velvety indigo, almost black at the center, fading to an ethereal violet at the ruffled edges. Tiny, luminous silver veins traced across its surface, catching the light like captured stardust. "Midnight Sapphire," Sekiro murmured, his voice hushed with reverence. "Only blooms once every seven years. For a single day." Orchid stood transfixed, her lilac-blue-gold eyes wide, reflecting the flower’s impossible beauty. She didn’t speak, only reached out slowly, her fingers hovering just above the fragile petals without touching. Her breath caught.
Hana lingered near the conservatory entrance, pretending interest in a carnivorous plant snapping lazily at flies. Thorn stood rigidly beside her, scanning the few other visitors – a studious-looking botanist, an elderly couple murmuring appreciatively. His gaze kept drifting back to the secluded corner. He saw Sekiro lean close to Orchid’s ear, whispering something that made her smile soften into something profoundly intimate. He saw Sekiro’s hand settle lightly on the small of her back, a possessive anchor. Thorn looked away sharply, focusing on the snapping plant. "Rare," he muttered, his voice tight. "Supposed to be guarding it, not…" He trailed off. Hana nudged him gently with her elbow. "Look at her face," she whispered. Orchid’s expression was one of pure, unadulterated wonder, lit from within. Thorn risked another glance. He saw it. The fierce protectiveness in Sekiro’s posture, shielding her moment of awe. Thorn swallowed. "Yeah," he conceded quietly. "Alright."
The afternoon dissolved into a blur of savory aromas and shared bites. Sekiro led Orchid through the bustling market square, a man on a mission. He bought skewers of spiced, grilled river fish wrapped in vine leaves, the charred scent mingling with woodsmoke. He procured tiny, steaming bowls of rich wild mushroom stew topped with tangy goat cheese. He found crispy fritters bursting with sweet corn and herbs, dusted with fiery red pepper. At each stall, he’d get one portion, insisting Orchid take the first bite, watching her reactions with rapt attention. Her laughter rang out, bright and clear, as spicy heat made her gasp for water he’d procured instantly. Grease smudged her fingers; a stray herb clung to her pink hair. She looked gloriously dishevelled, utterly absorbed in the sensory feast, her earlier anxieties momentarily forgotten in the simple joy of discovery. Sekiro’s smile never wavered, a quiet pride warming his diamond-edged eyes as he watched her experience each new taste.
Hana and Thorn moved like wraiths through the crowd, maintaining distance, blending seamlessly. Thorn intercepted a pickpocket’s wandering hand near Orchid’s pouch with a silent, bone-crunching grip and a look that sent the man scurrying. Hana subtly sniffed samples offered to the couple from a dubious-looking vendor, giving a minute shake of her head that Sekiro caught. They were efficient, invisible. Yet, Thorn found himself pausing, watching Orchid lick spicy sauce from her thumb, her eyes crinkling with delight as Sekiro laughed beside her. The Prince’s hand rested casually on her waist, guiding her through the throng. "She’s… happy," Thorn observed quietly to Hana as they lingered near a spice stall. Hana nodded, her gaze tracking a potential tail that turned out to be just a harried mother. "Deeply," she murmured. "He’s giving her a day. Just a day. Before the storm hits." Thorn watched Sekiro gently wipe a smudge of stew from Orchid’s chin with his thumb. "Costly day," Thorn muttered, thinking of the security nightmare, the delayed return. Hana’s smile was thin. "Worth every coin to him. Every risk."
The hilltop offered a panoramic view of the valley below, painted in the molten golds and deepening purples of sunset. Orchid sat nestled between Sekiro’s legs, her back resting against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around her waist. Their shared warmth was a buffer against the cooling evening air. Below, the village lights began to twinkle like scattered fireflies. They spoke in low murmurs, their voices blending with the chirping crickets. Sekiro rested his chin lightly on top of Orchid’s head, his breath stirring her pink hair. Her hand covered his where they lay clasped over her stomach. The conversation wasn’t animated; it was deep, meandering, punctuated by long stretches of comfortable silence where they simply watched the sky bleed color. Hours seemed to dissolve in the fading light, the world narrowing to the feel of his heartbeat against her back, the shared rhythm of their breathing, the vast, silent understanding flowing between them.
Further down the slope, concealed within the deepening shadows of a copse of pine trees, Hana sat with her back against a trunk, sharpening a small knife with rhythmic strokes against a whetstone. Thorn stood nearby, leaning against another pine, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the silhouetted couple against the dying sun. The intimacy was profound, a quiet bubble of connection that seemed to push back the encroaching dusk. It wasn't passionate like the night before; it was deeper, more settled, terrifyingly solid. Thorn found he couldn’t look away. The Prince, usually radiating contained power, seemed softened, vulnerable even, his head bowed over hers. Orchid looked utterly at peace, safe.
"It’s hard," Thorn finally murmured, the words escaping almost against his will, rough in the quiet. Hana paused her sharpening. She didn’t look up. "What is?"
"Looking away," Thorn admitted, his voice low, strained. He gestured vaguely towards the hilltop with his chin. "From that. It feels… intrusive. Like witnessing something sacred." He shifted his weight, the pine bark rough against his shoulder. "You see him hold her like that… whisper like that…" He trailed off, struggling. "And then you remember."
Hana’s hand stilled completely on the whetstone. The only sound was the sigh of the wind through the pines. She knew exactly what he meant. The unspoken shift hung heavy in the cooling air. She lifted her head slowly, her dark eyes meeting Thorn’s in the gloom. They held a shared history written in blood and shadow. "The River Gate," she stated flatly, the name dropping like a stone.
Thorn flinched, his gaze snapping back to Sekiro’s silhouette, then away, as if burned. "Yeah." His voice was a harsh whisper. He saw it instantly: Sekiro standing amidst the carnage after the traitorous garrison commander’s forces were routed. Not triumphant. Empty. Cold. The diamond-edge grey in his green eyes had been glacial, reflecting the flickering fires consuming the bodies. He’d walked slowly across the muddy, blood-soaked ground towards the captured commander, who was begging, blubbering promises. Sekiro hadn’t spoken. He’d simply drawn the dagger – the same hand now gently carding through Orchid’s hair – and slit the man’s throat with a single, efficient, brutal motion. The spray had arced crimson in the torchlight. Sekiro had wiped the blade clean on the dead man’s tunic, his expression unchanging, utterly devoid of mercy or hesitation. Necessary. Utilitarian. Brutal.
"And the Silverspur Mines," Hana added, her voice devoid of inflection now. She stared at her knife, not seeing it. She saw the collapsed tunnel entrance, heard the muffled screams of miners trapped inside by the greedy overseer who’d ignored safety warnings. Sekiro arriving amidst the panic. His orders clipped, precise. They’d dug frantically. When they finally broke through to the small pocket where a dozen men clung to life, Sekiro was the first through the gap. He’d hauled men out himself, covered in rock dust and sweat. Then he’d found the overseer hiding in his plush office. Sekiro hadn’t hauled him before a magistrate. He’d dragged the screaming man back into the unstable tunnel they’d just cleared, deep into the darkness where the screams were abruptly cut off by a sound like a melon hitting stone. Sekiro emerged alone minutes later, his face a mask of stone, dustier than before. Justice delivered. Instantly. Brutally.
Thorn nodded stiffly, the memories vivid, visceral. He saw Sekiro kneeling beside a mortally wounded young scout after an ambush, holding the boy’s hand as the light faded, promising his family would want for nothing. Then, hours later, tracking the ambushers to their den. The Prince hadn't ordered an assault. He’d gone in alone. The sounds that emerged from that cave… Thorn had seen the aftermath. It hadn't been combat. It had been annihilation. Efficient. Cold. Brutal. Necessary for the safety of the border villages. But brutal.
They stood in silence, the scent of pine sap sharp in their nostrils, the last embers of the sunset casting long, distorted shadows. Above them, on the hilltop, Sekiro gently tilted Orchid’s face up towards his. They kissed, slow and deep, silhouetted against the twilight sky, a picture of tender devotion. Thorn watched, a profound dissonance twisting inside him. The hand tracing Orchid’s jawline with infinite gentleness was the same hand that could enact such terrifying, final justice. The man who planned flower-picking excursions and wiped pastry crumbs from his wife’s lips was the same mind that orchestrated ruthless military campaigns and delivered brutal, necessary death. The Prince who cherished her above all things possessed a capacity for violence that was… elemental. Thorn finally tore his gaze away, looking down at his own hands, calloused from sword and shield. The chill of the coming night seeped into his bones. He understood the necessity. He served it willingly. But witnessing the Prince’s duality – the fierce, consuming love beside the chilling, utilitarian brutality – was a stark, unsettling truth that lingered long after the last light faded from the sky.