Light Breathing

The first thing Lia noticed was warmth.

Not the gentle kind of morning warmth that seeps through old shutters, but the steady, living sort: heat pressed close, rhythmic, breathing. It took her a few seconds to realize it wasn’t the blankets.

It was Kate.

Somehow, during the night, they had gravitated toward each other, tangled together in the single bed that had seemed much larger before falling asleep. Lia’s head rested against Kate’s shoulder; Kate’s arm had found its way around her waist. One of Lia’s legs was… Definitely not where propriety would approve.

For a moment, she simply froze. The sound of rain from the night before had faded, replaced by birdsong and the quiet hum of morning. The cabin smelled of pine, herbs, and the faint trace of Kate’s soap, like amber and steel.

Then the realization hit in full.

“Oh gods,” Lia whispered under her breath. She froze for a second, wondering what she should do before trying to extract herself from the situation.

Kate stirred, her grip on Lia tightening.

“What-?” Her voice was still thick with sleep, low and rough, and somehow that only made it worse.

Lia jerked upright so fast she nearly fell off the bed.

“We- you- I- you were on my side!”

Kate blinked at her, clearly still half-dreaming.

“You move in your sleep.”

“I do not!”

A slow, utterly treacherous smile curved across Kate’s lips, her sleepiness blocking her usual emotions barrier.

“You do now.”

Lia’s blush could’ve lit the room on its own. She grabbed her pillow and smacked Kate with it before she could say anything else.

“Don’t make me regret saving your life!” She exclaimed, flustered beyond recovery.

Kate laughed, a quiet, real laugh that filled the small room more warmly than sunlight. She stretched carefully, grimacing when her side pulled and Lia’s pillow hit her again.

“Easy there. You’ll bruise me worse than the Shadow Knights.”

“You’re impossible!” Lia said, but her voice softened at the edges. She turned away, tying her hair up, pretending not to notice the way Kate’s laughter still echoed.

The light filtering through the shutters shifted, pale gold and dust-speckled. Lia inhaled, slow and deep: the air still carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and growing things, and that helped to make her brain forget Kate’s scent just a little bit.

“Breakfast?” She offered, still refusing to look directly at her.

Kate leaned back on the pillow, smiling faintly.

“If it means you’ll stop hitting me, sure.”

And just like that, the morning settled into an easy rhythm - the kind that belonged to people who had started living, if only for a little while.

Kate tried to stand a little later, but the moment she put weight on her leg, she winced.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Lia said, crossing her arms.

Kate scowled.

“I can walk.”

“Barely.” Lia countered. “You’ll rest. I’ll go to the village, see what Maren needs in return for the materials.”

Kate hesitated, jaw tightening.

“I don’t like you walking alone. We don’t know these people.”

“They’ve helped us. And someone has to earn our keep.”

“That someone doesn’t have to be you.”

Lia smiled, a small, stubborn curve of her lips.

“You’re starting to sound like my brother.”

Kate sighed, defeated.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been told.”

Lia grabbed her basket and cloak, pausing by the door.

“I’ll be fine, Kate. Try not to fix the roof without me.”

“I’ll try.” Kate said dryly, but the faintest smile tugged at her mouth as Lia stepped into the light.

By late morning, the village was already alive with motion: the clatter of carts on the dirt road and the buzz of voices filled the air, while the smell of bread and sun-warmed fruit made people flock to the bakery as flies to a trap. Lia found Maren through the narrow lanes of the market, clutching a basket full of herbs like a shield.

“Don’t just stand there gawking.” Maren barked, though her tone carried more fondness than bite. “Set those on the stall. The thyme goes here - no, not next to the sweetroot, unless you want someone’s stew tasting like a medicine cabinet.”

Lia flushed.

“Right. Sorry.”

She hurried to rearrange the bundles, clumsily, and promptly mixed up the mint and the feverleaf.

“Light above,” Maren sighed, rubbing her temples. “You’re not trying to kill anyone, are you?”

Lia bit her lip, then broke into a laugh.

“Not on purpose?”

That earned her a chuckle from one of the nearby merchants.

The day unfolded in small, clumsy victories. Lia dropped a few coins trying to make change, nearly burned a loaf of bread she’d been helping watch over (Luckly, it was for Thalen. “It’s fine, just call it extra golden,” he said), and startled herself when a group of children tugged at her skirts, asking where her accent was from.

“It’s not an accent…?” she said, half defensive, half amused.

“Then why do you talk like you swallowed a library?” One of the boys asked, dead serious.

Lia blinked, stunned, and then laughed so hard she had to lean against the stall for support.

By noon, the sun hung high and soft, and the herbs she’d arranged finally looked somewhat organized. A woman passing by paused to admire them, touching one of the pots where tiny white blossoms swayed.

“These are lovely,” she said. “They look almost… Awake.”

Lia smiled, brushing her fingers lightly against the petals.

“They’re good listeners.”

The woman tilted her head, confused, but smiled back before moving on.

As the crowd thinned, Lia leaned against the table, the ache in her legs unfamiliar but pleasant. The laughter, the smell of spice and baked bread, the chatter - it all wrapped around her like a blanket she hadn’t realized she’d missed.

For the first time… Forever, she guessed, she was just living. Not the princess. Not the youngest child. Just… Clumsy, imperfect, human Lia.

When Maren came back, she found Lia humming softly as she bundled the last of the mint.

“Not bad,” the older woman said, pretending not to smile. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

Lia grinned, sunlight catching on the faint gold of her hair.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day.”

“Don’t get used to it.” Maren replied, already turning away.

But Lia saw the way the old healer shoulders eased, with the same quiet rhythm that now filled her own chest.

By the time the sun dipped behind the glass cliffs, the valley was painted in copper and rose. Lia followed the path back to the cabin, basket full of herbs, bread, and a faint sense of pride having managed to earn her keep that day.

When she pushed the door open, the smell of smoke - good smoke - drifted out to meet her.

“Kate?” The knight looked up from near the hearth, stunned, sleeves rolled up, a small fire crackling before her. Something skewered over it hissed in the flames, and she quickly turned to tend to it.

“You went hunting?” Lia asked, incredulous. “You were supposed to be resting!”

Kate didn’t even flinch.

“I rested while I waited for the rabbit.”

Lia gaped.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.” Kate said, completely unbothered, turning the spit. “And before you scold me, I didn’t go far. The valley practically threw the thing at me.”

“You’re impossible.” Lia sighed, setting her basket down. “And reckless. You could’ve reopened your wound!”

Kate gave her a sideways glance, faint amusement in her eyes.

“Then you’d get to practice your healing again. Think of it as… Continuing education.”

Lia groaned, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

“You’re lucky I brought bread. Otherwise, I’d be hitting you and taking you to bed all in the same breath.”

Kate’s smirk widened.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Lia blushed hard, choking on air.

“Katherine!”

After that, they cooked together - or tried to. Lia took over halfway through, horrified by the state of Kate’s seasoning choices.

“Why would you put honey on meat?”

“It was there,” Kate said simply.

“That’s not a reason!”

“Worked out fine so far.”

Lia tasted the stew, frowned, then hesitated.

“…Actually, it’s not bad.”

“Told you.” Kate said, far too smug for someone who had nearly burned half the pot.

The light from the fire painted the cabin gold, soft and flickering. The sounds outside faded into the steady pulse of the night: crickets, water, the occasional sigh of wind through the trees.

They sat at the small table, eating quietly for a while. It wasn’t until the plates were nearly empty that Lia spoke again.

“If the war never happened, and we were normal people,” she said, voice low, “what would you be doing?”

Kate blinked, caught off guard.

“…I don’t know. Never thought about it.”

“Try.”

The knight stared into the fire, thoughtful.

“Maybe I’d have a forge. Or a stable. Something that makes sense.” She smiled faintly. “Something that doesn’t require killing people to feel useful.”

Lia’s gaze softened.

“That would suit you. You like fixing things.”

Kate shrugged.

“What about you?” She asked, leaning back.

Lia hesitated.

“I’d have a garden. A real one. Not behind palace walls. Just… Open air and dirt, and nothing to guard it but sunlight.”

Kate’s expression gentled, something unspoken passing between them.

“You’d make it beautiful.”

For a moment, the silence that followed wasn’t awkward at all. It was full of warmth, of something fragile and real. Their hands brushed as Lia reached for a bowl, fingers lingering just long enough to make the air shift.

Outside, the night deepened, and the valley’s lights shimmered through the window like constellations caught in glass.

The night grew quiet, save for the soft hum of lanterns glowing in the garden. Their light shimmered against the leaves, tracing faint halos around the herbs Lia had planted earlier. As the princess went outside for some fresh air, the air around her carried the smell of damp soil and smoke: clean, familiar, alive.

Lia knelt near the doorway, brushing her fingers over a sprig of mint that had somehow taken root between the stones. Its tiny leaves trembled in the cool breeze.

She smiled.

“You’re tougher than you look.” She whispered.

Behind her, footsteps creaked against the wooden porch. Kate leaned against the frame, hair damp from washing, sleeves rolled up, looking for once at ease.

“You’re talking to plants again.” She said, voice softer than teasing.

“They listen better than most people,” Lia replied, glancing over her shoulder. “And they don’t argue. Or go hunting when they are supposed to be resting.”

Kate walked closer, gaze sweeping over the small patch of green glowing faintly in the lantern light.

“It’s strange.” The knightess murmured. “This place… It’s starting to feel like home.”

Lia looked up at her, caught off guard by the honesty in her tone.

“Yeah,” the princess said quietly. “It is.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The night stretched wide around them, filled with the chirp of crickets and the far-off whisper of water running through the canals. The stars above shimmered against the valley’s glass cliffs, scattering silver light across their faces.

Lia sat back, resting her hands on her knees. Kate settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

They didn’t need words - only the shared rhythm of their breathing, the faint warmth between them, the steady beat of something unspoken growing roots beneath the quiet.

For the first time in days, the world felt small enough to fit inside their laughter.